Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I groan. “Not another musician,” I say.
“Fine. An actor then.”
The last thing I want to do is relive the death of my relationship in every interview on the publicity tour. Tommy is right about that. “Could I just be pictured out to dinner with a couple different guys? And then be coy in the interviews and just say I’m dating.”
“You could.” He says it like he’s thought of that and it’s an option, but not a good one. “But you know how sexist the media is. If you’re spotted out with different guys, the narrative is going to turn quickly into you being a slut.”
“I’ve slept with one guy my entire life, Tommy. I’m not a slut.”
“I know that. You know that. And even if that wasn’t the case, it shouldn’t matter. But like I said, the media is sexist. It’s your decision. I’ll support that if it’s what you want to do. But I don’t think it will steer people’s attention away from you and Matt sufficiently. The story will be ‘Vivian Cross dates x, y and z after breakup with high school sweetheart. What went wrong?’ Whereas if you’re in love, if you’re dating someone seriously and you’re writing music about them…that’s where the focus will be.”
I slump back on the sofa. I can’t argue with him. Whether I like it or not, he’s right. My options are fake-date a celebrity where we’re both using each other or answer incessant questions about my failed relationship. Or don’t promote the album, break my contract with the record company and have them sue me. I’m between a rock and a hard place and somewhere really shitty.
“Send me the list of names,” I say. “No musicians.”
“You’ll have it by close of business.”
We say our goodbyes and I head back to the piano, but instead of the new melody, I revert back to Bach. I can’t write after that conversation. I love to write songs and have people listen to them and connect to them. And to make that happen, I’m going to have to make sacrifices, which is probably going to include dating some hot actor for convenience.
A match made in heaven.
SEVEN
Vivian
It’s ridiculous because I’m supposed to be heartbroken about Matt—and I am genuinely heartbroken about Matt—but there’s a spark in my step as I leave Chester Terrace today. I’m excited to see if Beau will be at Coffee Confidential. I enjoyed his attention yesterday. I liked that when I took my hat off, he didn’t know who I was right away and when I told him, he didn’t start asking me for concert tickets or to name the famous people in my phone. He seemed…normal. He treated me like I’m normal, which ironically made me feel incredibly special.
When I found out about Matt leaking information to the tabloids, it wasn’t just the personal betrayal that was devastating. It was the thought that I’d never have anyone treat me like I’m not, well, Vivian Cross. Matt had known me before all that.
As I approach the coffee shop, through the glass front, I scan the heads of the customers to see if he’s arrived. The line isn’t very long. It wouldn’t have taken him long to order his coffee, pick it up and split. I glance at my phone. It’s exactly the same time as I got here yesterday. I really hope I haven’t missed him.
I glance around and see Beau coming up the street behind me. We maintain eye contact as he approaches and I have to bite back a smile.
I’m almost giddy.
I didn’t miss him. He’s right here. His smile is wide and I’m momentarily shocked at how handsome he is. I’m not blind—I checked him out yesterday. But today? He seems taller. And broader. His jaw a little more chiseled.
The butterflies in my stomach have added energy to their choreography.
“Hey,” he says, bending to place a kiss on my cheek. “You look beautiful.” He holds my gaze for a beat and the heat rises in my body. I have to look away. “Ready for coffee and a walk?”
I nod, pretending I’m not flustered at all, and we head into the store. We don’t say much as we order our coffees and wait for them to arrive. We exchange glances and smiles. I don’t want to speak just in case people overhear or recognize my voice and it feels like he gets it without me having to say anything.
“Ready?” he says as he hands me my drink.
I nod and we head out.
“New cap,” he says as we cross the road. This one is plain navy with red trim. “Is it a kind of uniform? Dark colors, no brands, nothing that might stand out.”
“You’re starting to see all my tricks.”
“Things are slotting into place.” He grins and I pretend not to feel it between my thighs. “Do you miss not being able to do normal stuff?”