Page 91 of Love Me Tomorrow

And that . . . Well, disappointment in myself cuts deep.

One by one, I skim the headlines, never once clicking to read more—because I honestly don’t need to. The titles say everything there is to know:

“America’s Sweetheart Can Do No Wrong Except When It Comes to Picking a Man.”

“Boring or Self-Absorbed: We’re Diving Deep to Understand Why Choosing Savannah Rose asPut A Ring On It’sFirst Bachelorette Was the Wrong Move for the Show.”

“Will Savannah Rose Ever Find Love? Or Will She Sabotage Her Own Chances By Friend-Zoning Every Man She’s Met? New Source Reveals Insight into A Younger Savannah . . . And How Not Much Has Changed Since High School.”

And then one uploaded fromCelebrity Tea Presentsjust this morning:“Recapping Last Night’sPut A Ring On Itepisode: How One Date With Savannah Rose Led to This Contestant Walking off the Set.”

I don’t click on any of it.

Can’t, not without losing my temper.

Savannah doesn’t deserve this. No one does, but hell, Savannah deserves it the least among everyone that I know. She is so damn good—down to her core—and to see her being ripped apart online because of her love life seriously makes me see red.

Or not red.

A brownish hue.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that not a single one of these news sources have bothered to comment on how much of a badass she is. Whether she likes her job or not, she manages ERRG like a boss. She’s the first female vice president the company has ever seen—somethingThe New Orleans Dailyreported on last month—and she’s done it all so competently, so seamlessly, that watching her in her element is like watching an Olympian perform.

She kills it, each and every time, and yet none of those accomplishmentshave ever hit the tabloids.

Instead, she’s been stripped down to the basics: her looks, her TV persona, and whether or not she’s successful in bagging a man.

Hands balling into a fist, I force myself to take a deep breath before I pick up my phone and pull up her contact. I fire off a single text:

How do you feel about doing something crazy? Just you and me?

27

Savannah

Seated on my front-porch swing, I watch the street for Owen’s truck.

When I said yes (rather enthusiastically, I might add) to doing something crazy with him, he didn’t give me anything more than the basics: wear a bathing suit, bring sunscreen, don’t bring the harbinger of death.

Pretty sure he meant Pablo by the last one.

Currently, the little furry demon is sitting in my bay window, pawing the glass like we’ve been separated for decades instead of a whopping five minutes. Trying not to draw attention to the fact that I’m seeking him out, I slide a surreptitious glance his way, and yup, there he is.

One paw pressed to the windowpane, his little mouth popping open wide in a soundlessmeow.

I shake my head. “You can’t come with me, Pabs.”

When his paw slides down the glass in the most pitiful, slow-motion glide that there ever was, regret pierces me right in the gut. Considering that I take the little guy almost everywhere, I know he’s ticked at being cooped up while I have fun without him.

Owen was right: I am the very definition of a cat lady.

I steel my spine against Pablo’s begging blue eyes. “We’re going swimming,” I tell him, even though he can’t 1) hear me, and 2) understand a lick of what I’m saying. “And you don’t do water.”

He tilts his little cat head to the side, whiskers flicking, as though to say,I do whatever I want, and get me out of this house.

Dammit.

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