Page 118 of Love Me Tomorrow

Oh, how I love humanity.

With thePut A Ring On Itreunion show due to air this coming Wednesday, I’ll be back with a recap and all the tea. I have your best interests at heart, Dear Reader, never fear.

Till next time,

Celebrity Tea.

37

Savannah

Los Angeles, California

If looks could kill, then I’d be dead.

The Hollywood studio, where the reunion show is being aired live, is bustling with men. Men in suits. Men in bow ties. Men all wearing identicalI-hate-you-so-much-my-nostril-hairs-also-feel-the-burnexpressions. All of whom, if you want to get technical about it, are my ex-boyfriends.

Twenty-six in total.

Twenty-seven if you count Owen, which I don’t.

I have never dreaded something so much in my life.

“Drink this,” he tells me now, standing at my side and looking just as powerful, just as savage, as he did on the first night of filming. Black suit. Black tie. Black dress shirt. It’s possible he chose it because going with all black is an easy decision for him to make, but secretly I think he enjoys the way I look like I might start drooling at any moment.

Our fingers brush as I take the proffered wine. As though we’ve stripped naked and started having wild sex on top of the bar, at least five pairs of eyes swing in our direction and don’t move on to something bigger and better.

Honestly, it’s starting to creep me out.

“It’s not like you weren’t on the show to begin with,” I mutter to Owen after a sip of my wine. “You were a contestant. If we’re looking at technicalities here, I did end up with one of the guys who came on the show.”

“You knew me beforehand, sweetheart. These guys aren’t gonna be looking at technicalities once we hit that stage.”

Not one to be put off by nosy, beady eyes, Owen lowers a hand to the small of my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he levels a look on the group of guys that might as well come with aFuck Offlabel. Viktor, an Instagrammer out of San Francisco, stiffens before strutting away. The rest follow him, one by one, until it’s only me and Owen left in the green room.

I haven’t seen Nick or Dom once since we arrived, but I have a gut feeling production is holding them captive—well, until we’re all on stage, anyway. Then, I’m sure, they’ll be hoping for some major drama to unfold. Jokes on them, though. Nick and Dom may not be my soulmates, either of them, but I like to think we’re friends. If there’s any drama at all tonight, it won’t be coming from those two.

I take another sip from my glass.

Fifteen minutes until showtime.

“They’re going to rip me to pieces out there.”

Owen’s hand moves north, to the center of my back. “Beyou, out there. For the first time since you started this, there won’t be any editing and splicing in post-production. No extra takes because you said something they didn’t like; no pretending you give a shit about something that you don’t.”

I tilt my chin so I skate my gaze up from his broad chest to his face. Dark, messy hair. Dark, heated eyes that see so much and, now, reveal it all too. I raise my wineglass in a subtle toast. “If I hadn’t booted you off, you would have put all these men to shame.”

He grasps the stem of my wineglass, fingers curling over mine, and raises the glass to his lips for a deep drink. Then, over the rim, his mouth curls in a smirk. “If you hadn’t booted me off, I would have had you quitting within the week. Resisting me is your one weakness.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is.”

I bite my lip, playing coy. “Then how’d you feel if I told you I decided to go without underwear with this dress?” Withdrawing the wineglass from his grip, I match him, pose for pose, smirking at him over the rim. “I just couldn’t afford hundreds of thousands of people catching sight of my panty lines.”

“Fuck,” he growls, raking me over with his gaze, “you play dirty.”

“I think the phrase you’re actually looking for is,I play even.”

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