Page 76 of Love Me Tomorrow

My Humble Opinion: It figures that a girl like Savannah Rose would go for the ultimate bad boy instead of the various contestants from the show who went above and beyond to romantically woo her. My only question is this . . . will she even be able to keep up with a man like Owen Harvey? Or, better yet, will she manage to snag his attention for longer than a lay or two? Doubtful, Dear Reader. Very, very doubtful.

23

Savannah

The minute I walk into ERRG’s office on Friday morning, it’s mayhem.

I’m talkingutterinsanity.

Phones are ringing off the hook, Georgie looks like she’s on the verge of hurling her computer across the room, and even Jorge grimaces when I catch his eye as he scurries past me, cell phone clasped to his ear and his voice sharp enough to cut glass when he growls, “No, we arenotavailable for comment on the matter. Now please, lose this goddamn number before I—”

The rest of his sentence is swallowed by the door swinging shut.

What the hell is going on?

Bending, I unlink the leash from Pablo’s cat harness. Immediately he slinks off, probably to cause mischief in someone’s office. Balancing the coffee tray in my other hand, I set it down on Georgie’s desk. My gut twists when I hear curses exploding from down the length of the hall—Heather, if I’m not mistaken.

A seed of panic floods my veins as I turn back to Georgie. “Catch me up to speed,” I demand, the coffees abandoned as I grab my cell from my purse, already prepared to handle damage control. “Did one of the managers say something to a customer? Please tell me that the contractors didn’t screw something up at the hotel site. Our projected deadline is so tight, there’s no time for mistakes.”

Looking a little dead behind the eyes, Georgie only taps, taps, taps, on her keyboard, then turns her desktop monitor so I can see the screen, along with the article she’s pulled up.

Oh,hell.

Celebrity Tea Presents’headline is bolded at the top, and it is damning in every single way:America’s Sweetheart Spotted in the Arms of the Inked God!

Shit. Shit, shit,shit.

“It went live twenty minutes before I walked in the door,” Georgie says, sparing me a quick glance before clearing her throat. “Entertainment Weeklyhas called.Peoplewants an exclusive. Poor Jorge is slammed with calls from all the late-night TV shows—Corden, Fallon, Graham Norton. The works. It, ah, looks like they’re banging on ERRG’s door since you switched your social media profiles to private.”

I did it the minutePut A Ring On Itstarted airing two months ago. The producers from the show got pissy, especially Joe Devonsson, the host and creator, but that’s their problem and not mine. I fulfilled the terms of my contract. I did everything they asked for, and if I want some aspects of my life to be chained and bolted for the sake of personal privacy, then I’m in the right to take those measures.

But now . . .

“Fuck,” I whisper, my grip on my cell going slack as I let it fall to the desk. I spear my fingers through my hair, thumbs digging into my temples, and try to think.Come up with a game plan. I’ve spent almost fifteen years managing worst-case scenarios every day for the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group, but never anything of this magnitude.

“Sounds about right,” Georgie says idly, even though her honey eyes are panicked. She snags the coffee cup marked with her initials from the tray, then downs it like it’s straight vodka. “We’re fucked.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, we aren’t fucked. I’ll handle it.”Somehow.“We can fend off the crowd. I’ve got this.”

“They want a tell-all, Sav. They want all the dirty little details that went down between you and Owen. Is that what you’re really going to give them?”

Georgie doesn’t even know all those “dirty little details,” but the instant she says Owen’s name, my heart threatens to burst out of my chest.Owen. Oh, God. If I’m dealing with this, then—

I reach for the monitor, practically sprawling halfway across the desk so I can skim my gaze down the length of the tabloid article.Please tell me they didn’t spill his information. Please tell me they didn’t. . .

My hopes are dashed the minute I spot the last section of the article, titledOwen Harvey: The Details. Below the headline,Celebrity Tea Presentshas listed everything from Owen’s birthday to the fact that he owns Inked and even—and even . . . Oh,Owen.

I think of the way he always seems to favor his left arm, as though handling it with care. I never realized—never even thought—that the reasonwhymight be a horrible reality: a permanent, scarring memory that he’ll never be able to purge from his time in jail.

I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my stilettos. “I have to go.”

Georgie’s honey-brown eyes go wide. “You just got here! It’s a disaster, Sav. You can’t leave.”

“Forward the calls to me.” I snatch my phone off the desk. “All of them.”

“Are youinsane?” Georgie’s high-pitched, flustered voice trails me as I search for Pablo. “You’re going to give them your cell phone number?” When I don’t answer, she mutters, “You are so going to regret this decision. All of it. Every bit. And when you call me crying because the calls won’t stop, I’m not going to be the bigger person. No, ma’am, I’m going to straight up tell youI told you so, and you better not even think of firing me for giving you lip.”

“I’m not going to fire you, Georgie.”

---