Page 47 of Love Me Tomorrow

I don’t heed the rigid warning in his voice. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to, because the champagne has loosened my tongue and the crisp memory of Owen teasing me about my lack of athletic prowess has strangely emboldened me—if you can’t accept your failures, then how in the world can you even begin to succeed?

“Have you called her like you promised you would?” I demand.

A small pause. “No.”

Of course not. Because why would the all-powerful Edgar RoseIVbother to fix his own mistakes? Mistakes that include lying to his youngest daughter foryearsabout who she really is. Amelie doesn’t look like me—doesn’t look like him—because she doesn’t have a single trace of Rose blood in her. Something neither of us discovered until two weeks beforePut A Ring On Itwas due to start filming.

She’d told the world that a business opportunity led her to Europe. Good timing, I suppose, because that wasn’t a lie. But the reason she’s stayed gone for so long—why I chased after her as soon as my contractual obligations ended with the network—has everything to do with having my sister’s back.

Loyalty, it seems, is not something my dad has figured out real well, despite the millions he’s worth.

A harsh laugh leaves my throat. “Only you would have the nerve to drop a bomb like that on your daughter and then expect her to fall dutifully in line.”

“She’s a Rose,” he says, almost stubbornly. “She’ll come home when she’s ready.”

“She’shuman,” I reply sharply, “and she’s reeling from the fact that you aren’t her father. At least Mom tried to apologize and explain, whereas you’ve just . . .” Anger tangles my words and I inhale sharply. One deep breath. Then another, for good measure. I step toward him. “For her entire life, you’ve made it out to seem like she’s the odd duck out, the one who disappoints you even though you should beproudof her for all that she’s accomplished. And then she actually learns that sheisn’ta Rose, not by blood, because you flung that fact in her face. Suddenly everything you’ve ever said to her takes on a new meaning. You killed her, Pops. Maybe not physically, but emotionally, you slaughtered her and then had the gall to tell her to stop being childish and do the family proud by going onPut A Ring On It.”

For the first time, Dad’s expression fractures. His hand comes up to rub his chest in small circles. I want to believe that he feels bad. My father is not a horrible man. He’s fair to his employees. He believes in helping those less fortunate reach for their dreams. He isgood, the sort of father who never shied away from playing with dolls or wrapping me up in a tight hug the first time a boy broke my heart.

Unfortunately, he’s also blinded by his own ambitions.

America may believe that I’m too sweet, too passive, but I know better: I’ve spent the last decade with the weight of ERRG on my back. I did so because it was expected of me. But I did itwellso Amelie could reach for her own dreams and thrive the way she deserves. My spine is made of steel, and anyone who says differently knows jack shit.

What I’m not, however—and what Amelie certainly isn’t—is a robot. At some point, even the strongest break. Something my father has clearly never realized until this moment.

“I’ll call her,” he says quietly, running a hand over his shorn hair.

“I’ll believe it when she tells me herself that you have.”

Desperately needing air, I turn to leave but don’t get more than a few steps when Dad’s voice stops me in my tracks: “We agreed that you’d stop seeing Harvey. It was part of the deal.”

“Turns out you haven’t been upholding your end of the bargain.” I look back at my father over my shoulder. “If I want to see Owen, I will.”And I absolutely do.

“Savannah—”

“Have a good rest of your night, Pops.” I toss back the rest of my champagne and leave the empty glass on the table. “There’s a seven-hour time difference between N’Orleans and Italy, just in case you weren’t aware.”

15

Owen

“Two hundred and thirty-seven butterflies.”

I lift my gaze from the tattoo mockup I’ve been sketching for the last hour and watch Lizzie plop down awkwardly on the leather sofa opposite mine. With the window overlooking Bourbon Street behind her, the sun hugs my sister-in-law’s silhouette as she frames her pregnant belly with her hands, like she’s debating whether or not to try physically pushing the kid out of her, two months ahead of schedule.

I may play Dr. Phil twenty-four-seven, but I’m sure as shit not about to play midwife as Dr. Oz. That kid isn’t going anywhere, not on my watch.

“You’ve seriously been counting?” I ask, flipping my sketch pad closed. I’ve got a few more hours before I need to email it to my client to make sure he’s good with it before our session tomorrow.

“Haven’t missed a single one.” Fumbling for her phone in what I’m pretty sure are a pair of maternity jeans, she taps the screen and turns it around so I can get a good look. Pointing at what is clearly a tally system, she says, “If you break down the average, that means I’ve done approximately one-point-three butterfly tattoos for every one of my shifts.”

“I know you didn’t do that math on your own.”

She flashes me a crooked grin. “Of course I didn’t. Do I look like a math wizard to you?”

“I’d say yes, but I also know you flunked out of calculus.”

Holding up a finger, Lizzie clucks her tongue. “I’ll have you know that I failedgeometry. I actually managed to pass calc—you know, with a D-minus.”

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