Page 123 of Love Me Tomorrow

Because I want Savannah to see all of me.

I want her to know that when she steps into our house next, that every move I make to strip another plank from my shield, is because of her trust in me.

If I’ve bartered off anything at all, it’s my heart.

I’ve given it to her, and I don’t want it back.

Low murmurings pick up behind me, but I never tear my gaze away from the woman on the stage. Ignoring all protocol, she slips off the couch and snatches the notecard from Devonsson.

“Savannah, give that back.”

Producers fly into motion all around the studio, but I’m already on my feet and moving toward the back wall so I can get closer without anyone noticing me. If Devonsson touches her, he’s a dead man walking.

Savannah evades his grasp by ducking under his arm. Her high heels puncture the stage floor with a quick staccato as she stumbles back. “Where did you get this?” she demands, her voice clear, sharp. Her hand, I note, is trembling as she waves that card in the air.

Hold on, sweetheart. I’m coming for you.

From my periphery, I see DaSilva and Stamos launch to their feet.

“Savannah, I think it’s safe to say that you’re overreacting.” Devonsson throws a panicked glance at the cameras, which are angled toward the stage from all areas of the room. He makes a slashing motion across his neck, but I don’t see a single person move to stop the cameras from recording. “That email was leaked with all the others.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She takes another step backward, the toes of her shoe feeling around for the edge of the stage. “I read every single email that was leaked. Every. Single. One. But this one wasn’t, Joe. Want to know why? Because I wrote it onMonday. This past Monday, and I hoped that whoever the hacker was, would be so desperate for more gossip that I didn’t even change my account password. Just left the door wide open for him to screw himself over.” A satisfied grin curves her bottom lip. “I only have one question for you . . . are we still live?”

39

Savannah

Chaos explodes in the studio.

There are producers yelling to “shut the fucking cameras down!” and the audience is talking a mile a minute in a confused uproar, and me—I’m being driven backward by a pair of toned arms that smell like coconut lotion and feel like anger.

Joe—Celebrity Tea Presentsin the flesh—shoves me out of the way like I’m nothing but a rag doll. I trip, trying to catch my weight on something stable, and go crashing down instead. My back smashes against the corner of the stage, turning my vision blurry when pain supersedes the shock.

Don’t black out, don’t black out, don’t black out.

“Get everyoneout!” someone screams. Matilda, I think. Maybe another crew member who didn’t anticipate the blow of their boss—the guy who friggin’createdthe show after working onThe Bachelorfranchise for years—stooping so low as this.

To be honest, I didn’t suspect Joe either.

The scent of coconut infiltrates my senses a second before fingers grasp the back of my dress. “You fucking bitch,” he snaps, hauling me up to my knees, “you think you’re just going to,what? Rat me out on national television?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that hadn’t been the plan at all. Timestamping an email back to November had required me promising Jorge at least two dozen of Dufrene’s crawfish dumplings, an extra week of vacation time, and a pay bonus, since he viewed the whole thing as a little illegal. I’d expected the culprit to out themselves behind-the-scenes or at least to leave a trail that the FBI could hook their teeth into while Owen and I traveled to California.

Having that email read out loud byPut A Ring On It’sdirector, host, and creator, on the other hand, in front of the entire world? Nowthatis the scandal of the century.

Breathing sharply through my nose, I focus on not crying out.

Instinct would have me begging him to let me go.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He’s dragged me through the mud formonths. He’s made me question my own self-worth. He’s made me the butt of every sly joke and every derogatory comment online. And then, he put the cherry right on top by dealing out my innermost feelings to the world like they were nothing but cheap tickets to a rock show.

Are you dead?I hear my dad’s voice in my head, that stern but affectionate look in his eyes,then get back up.

“You’re making a scene, Joe.” I jab an elbow back, hoping to hit soft flesh. Disappointment slams into me when I collide with nothing but air. I squirm in his grip, trying to find leverage. “The whole world already knows what you did. Why make it worse when you’re already looking at an orange jumpsuit in your near future?”

For the merest second, that hand lets go. I take the opportunity for what it is: an opening. In a move that my dad taught me when I was thirteen, I snap my head back and make a little prayer.Crack!Stars explode in front of me. My teeth crash together, sending a shockwave of agony through my body. I feel the tingle in my toes, in my fingertips.

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