Page 133 of Kiss Me Tonight

Tuckingthe phone between my ear and shoulder, I stare at the article on my laptop as I wait for the click of the call to signal it being picked up. I expected to be a hell of a lot more nervous than I am. It’s not every day that I call an ex—is she really an ex? Tough call—to say thank you after she gave me permission to blast her name in a public forum likeTheAthlete’s Reckoning.

“Hello?”

Eight months. That’s how long it’s been since I leftPut A Ring On Itand heard Savannah Rose’s voice for the last time. She doesn’t sound a damn bit different.

“Savannah, hey.” I tap my fingers on the top of my laptop. “It’s me, Dom.”

“Oh! Dom.” She sounds short of breath in my ear, like I’ve caught her mid-workout. “I didn’t expect you to call.”

There’s an audible bang on the other end of the line, then what sounds like a door slamming closed.What the hell is going on over there?Ishake my head to clear it, even though she can’t see me. “I know. Sorry, this is”—awkward, slightly uncomfortable, all of the above?—“probably bad timing. You might be busy.”

“No! No, of course not. Not busy at all.”

“Are you sure? You sound like . . .”

“I’m on the treadmill,” she quips, perkier than I’ve ever heard her before. “Yep, totally on the treadmill. What’s going on? Did the article go live?”

I cast a quick glance back to my laptop. “It’s live and rolling. I just wanted to say thank you again, for giving me the go-ahead with this. I don’t want to make things harder for you, but I—”

“You’re looking out for Aspen.” Her voice gentles. “And Topher. How are they—okay?”

Savannah Rose may not have been the woman for me, but she’s a damn good person. I screwed her over. Lied to her for most of the show about why I was there, and here she is . . . doing me a solid. There aren’t many people like her out there in the world, and the familiar razor edge of guilt slices through me.

She put her life on hold to go onPut A Ring On Itand she walked away from it with nothing but scandal and heartbreak.

“They’re good, yeah. Thank you for asking. And I’m sorry, again, for being that asshole no one wants on the show. I know you said before that it’s okay—I just really want you to know how sorry I am. It was a shit thing for me to do. I regret it, taking the money . . . and going on the show in the first place.”

“It’s all water under the bridge, I promise! Listen, Dom, I have to—”

Did she justgiggle?

“Savannah, you good over there?”

“Yes, totally good!” Then a hushed, “Owen, stop!”

Owen? My brows draw together. “Wait, wasn’t there an Owen on the show?” I ask, cutting over the sounds of what has got to be whispering. “The one you kicked off on the first night?”

“Dom, I’m so sorry. This isn’t a good time. The treadmill, it’s”—an unmistakable whimper cuts through the line—“it’s really giving me a hard time today. Gotta go! It was great talking to you!”

The line goes dead.

Staring at the blinking numbers at the top of my screen—forty-five seconds, that’s how long we talked—I mutter, “What the ever-loving fuck just happened?”

Owen . . . Owen, I don’t remember his last name but there was no forgetting Savannah’s epic throw down on the show—the one and only time she ever lost her cool, including when I came clean.

Clicking out of my article onThe Athlete’s Reckoning, I type “Put A Ring On It Owen Savannah” into the search-engine bar.

Thank you, Google.

The first thing to pop up is a YouTube video. Immediately, I tap on it, my phone tossed on the coffee table, and watch a clip from the first episode of the season. For the sake of my own sanity, I’ve stayed away from all the aired episodes. But this . . . I swear I’m not making shit up.

How many Owens can Savannah Rose possibly know?

“Dominic?”

I glance over my shoulder to watch Levi sail in through my back door. Holding out my arm for her, she doesn’t miss a beat. She parks her sweet ass on my lap, her arm looped around the back of my neck, and kisses my forehead.

Is it manly if I admit that my heart fucking melts whenever she does that?

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