Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Beautiful as always.”
I freeze at the sound of Van’s voice and slowly turn my head to find him standing in the doorway, looking as sexy as ever in his leather pants, combat boots, and ripped T-shirt that probably cost a few hundred dollars.
The young girl who fell in love with him wants to run to him and collapse in his arms, but the woman he scorned has a stronger voice. Van takes two steps into the dressing room, and I shake my head while taking steps toward him. We’re almost torso-to-torso with him looking down at me.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“You’re still my wife.” He casually points out.
“The day you stuck your dick into someone else is the day you stopped being my husband.” I side-step him and rush out the door, not watching where I’m walking and run smack into a man and his hot cup of coffee. “Ow, mother fu. . .” I let my f-bomb trail off as I jam the part of my burnt hand into my mouth. Tears begin to form, but I refuse to cry knowing that Van is right behind me.
“Z are you okay?” he asks, pulling on my hand while the man in front of me looks on with larger than life eyes at the scene that is playing out in front of him. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say he’s an extra for the shoot, but he’s dressed wrong in his trucker hat, plaid shirt, tight jeans, and from the looks of it, cowboy boots.
“Don’t touch me,” I mumble and step away from him.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the man who burnt my hand says in the nicest southern drawl I have ever heard. Not that I’ve heard many, but a few.
“I am. . . sort of.” My hand is burnt, and for some dumb reason, I show him where. He softly takes my hand over to the craft services tables and puts together a napkin with some ice.
“I am very sorry. I should’ve been watchin' where I was walking,” he tells me as he holds my hand gently in his.
I am completely dumbfounded by this man, and for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on as to why.
“It’s okay. I should’ve signaled before I left the room.” My joke is corny, and I don’t expect him to laugh, but he does, and soon I find myself laughing right along with him until someone steps next to me and takes my injured hand out of his and applies cream and a bandage. Before I can thank him, he’s disappeared, but Van is there to continue to ruin my day.
levi
Eight
I am as smooth as they come. Of course, I would be the one to spill my coffee on the lead singer of Reverend Sister, burning her hand in the process. With how my luck has been going this month, it’s likely the hand that she holds her microphone with and for all I know I’ve ruined the video shoot today.
That’s the reason I’m here, drinking coffee and trying to ease the pain of the beautiful woman who has cautiously given me her damaged hand. If it wasn’t for Stormy, who spent days gushing about the lead singer and her epically cool hair, I wouldn’t have a clue as to whose hand I’m currently holding and trying to ice.
Weeks ago, I held onto the promise that I made Stormy and made sure that she was at every single audition that had been set up for her. Some of them—mind you—made my skin crawl and we promptly walked out, but others seemed legit. At the end of each night, I wanted to dig Iris up and strangle her for committing our daughter to some of these auditions. My feelings toward Iris only worsened when Stormy told me that most of the time her mother didn’t even bring her, that she took an Uber or asked her dance teacher to accompany her. I wanted to ask Stormy why she didn’t tell me but knew that nothing could change what happened in the months prior so why even bring it up?
I apologize to the woman, whose name I can’t remember as I place a makeshift ice pack on the burn. Her hand, in comparison to mine, is tiny.
“It’s okay. I should’ve signaled before I left the room,” she says, trying to hold back laughter. I can’t and bark out so loudly that others are staring at me. She, in turn, does the same and ends up snorting.
She quickly covers her mouth in total embarrassment. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she says.
“I thought it was cute.” The words are out of my mouth and to her ears before I realize that I’ve said the dumbest thing ever. Here I am, holding this uniquely beautiful woman’s hand and I tell her that her snorting was cute. And Barbara wonders why I’m single.