Page 89 of Love Me Tomorrow

Narrowed eyes flit in my direction before Jordan angles the computer so he can get a good look at the email. His mouth is straight up gaping open by the time he finishes reading. “She dumped me.”

He says it like the thought alone is completely unfathomable, and I swallow a laugh. “Probably serves you right—you gave her ouremail, you douchebag. What? Your number wasn’t good enough?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

“I was hoping it would make me look like I’m a catch. You know,Hey, here’s my email. Oh, look! I’m employed even though I have the humor of a teenager and just moved out of my parents’ house!”

I blink, then find myself asking, “You just moved out of your parents’? Seriously?”

Jordan hooks a finger under the collar of his T-shirt, his expression strained. “It’s perfectly normal for my generation. Studies show that millennials are often living at home longer than previous generations. Student loans are a bitch.”

“You didn’t go to college.”

“Dammit, man, why am I gonna live in a shoebox when I can live in a mansion?”

“But you don’t live in a mansion. I’ve seen your place—yourparents’place—which now makes so much sense. What almost thirty-year-old man regularly sets his porcelain China out in the dining room like he’s prepared for a dinner party at all times? I didn’t want to say anything but you had me worried.”

“Bite me, Harvey.”

I hold my hands up. “Do I need to put on my Dr. Phil hat again? Like last time, when you were trying to decide between buying a motorcycle or a car and it took you six months to figure out your life?”

“No comment,” Jordan clips out.

“I’d do it for free, but I’m worried I’d just be enabling you even more. Poor Jane.” I cluck my tongue, not even feeling the least bit bad about giving my buddy hell. Turnaround is fair play, and all that. “Is that what happened? Did she wake up one morning, only to find Mama Knight collecting her underthings off your bedroom floor?”

“I seriously hate you.”

I cock a brow. “Are you quitting? Am I finally free?”

Jordan’s fist collides halfheartedly with my shoulder, and I throw back my head with a bark of laughter. Moving the mouse, I delete Jane’s email. “No more handing out Inked’s info so you can feel better about your life.”

“Yes, Mom.”

I flash him the bird, then return to sorting through Inked on Bourbon’s inbox. Most days, it’s a mixture of junk and clients seeking appointments, but ever sinceCelebrity Tea Presentsput Savannah and me on blast last week—along with all of my dirty laundry—we’ve been slammed with media requests too.

There’s not a chance in hell that I’m putting myself out there like that.

In rapid succession, I delete interview requests fromLife & Style, In Touch,andThe National Enquirer. Every day is more of the same, and not for the first time, I catch myself wondering how much longer this can possibly go on for.

Unlike what a lot of these reporters seem to think, I’m not interested in capitalizing on my newfound “fame” by revamping my lifestyle into that of a social media influencer. I’ve made it a personal ambition to always look for new ways to prove to myself that having Deuteranopia—or being green-blind—is not a fatal setback, but rather a unique way of innovating the old standard into something new. But that doesn’t mean that hamming it up for the millions online who want to see me pose and flex my muscles for the camera is ever going to be on my agenda.

Not today. Not tomorrow either.

I pause when I spot a subject line that readsReaching Out,from a Nick Stamos. The name sounds familiar—crazily so—and I find myself clicking on the email instead of immediately deleting it. Quickly, I skim the single paragraph:

Hey man, you probably don’t remember me, but we were onPut A Ring On Ittogether. Before you delete this email faster than I can say HOLD UP, just wanted to let you know that I’ve got your back. You don’t know me, and I don’t expect you to trust me, but I saw the article from The Asshole Named CTP, and I’d like to think that Savannah and I became friends while we were on the show. (For the record, she never once looked at another contestant the way she looked at you in that photo from the ball.) I’m not attempting to get in your business. I’m not even trying to overstep boundaries and make things awkward between you two. But if the last eight months have taught me anything, it’s that the paparazzi are vultures and we’re not much more than enticing roadkill that they can’t wait to feast on. Been there, bought the T-shirt, threw the T-shirt in the trash, and set that shit on fire. Let me know if you need to talk. Door is open. Also, for what it’s worth, you guys make a cute couple. Even my fiancée thinks so.

Well, damn.

Before I can stop myself, I open the internet browser and type the guy’s name into the search bar. Almost immediately, thousands of articles populate the results. Everything from stories mentioning a so-called “mystery woman” to others highlighting leaked footage from filming, where Stamos was one of the last two contestants remaining on the show—only to be shut down by Savannah in the end.

That information should send my walls careening into place, but it doesn’t. I know with every ounce of my being that Savannah cares for me. If she really wanted this Nick dude, she wouldn’t have dumped him when he proposed.

And she certainly wouldn’t have had sex with me.

Like it’s a train wreck that I can’t turn away from, I find myself reading one report after another.

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