Page 9 of The Proposal
“Sure.”
“That man issointo you, Blake.”
I fight a smile. “That man is intoeveryone, El.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You know it’s true,” I say, venturing to the window.
“Okay, he’s a bit of a playboy. I’ll give you that. But I highly doubt he looks at every woman like he looks at you.”
“It’s just his vibe, Ella. It’s a part of his charm.”
“He doesn’t look atmelike that.”
I laugh. “Because Brock would kill him.”
“And he wouldn’t kill him over you?”
Point taken. I don’t look at her, or else she’ll see the dopey grin on my face.
It’s an ego boost to pretend that Renn is seriously into me.Who wouldn’t want to think that the man who could have any woman he wants chose them? His face sells magazines. His body sells apparel. He carries such confidence, such swagger, thatthe idea of himsells cologne. But pretending is a trap—one I can’t fall into.
Even if I was his type and Brock somehow got on board with it, Renn can’t give me the things I need in this stage of life.Love. Stability. A family.
And I deserve those things. I’m determined for my thirties to be my self-care era.Screwing around with Renn Brewer would certainly be self-sabotage.
The door creaks open.
“Come on, Ella. Let’s get the fuck out of here before we’re pinned down,” Brock says as Renn strides past him.
She gets up and dashes for the door. It slams behind her.
“Are we going to have a fan club out there when we leave?” I ask Renn.
“We mentioned that we aren’t staying on this floor. So I hope not.”
“The downfalls of fame.”
He grins. “It can’t be as bad as over the weekend.”
“How was Miami, anyway?” I ask.
“Aside from getting a police escort to leave the concert, we had a good time. Met up with Tate and Ripley—my otherboringbrother.”
I look at him and laugh. “How many brothers do you have again?”
“Too fucking many.”
“Are they all boring?”
“They’re all overrated.” He shoves off the wall and takes his phone out of his pocket. “Can you excuse me for a second? Or I can take it in the hall?”
I shrug. “Take it here. It’s fine.”
“Thanks.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad,” he says, then pauses. “No,I did not say that. Ask Tate.” His forehead wrinkles as he listens. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information—wait. I do. Gannon told you that, and he can fuck right off.”
Yikes. I go into the bathroom to give him some privacy.
