Page 166 of Wingwoman
I stomped over to the front doors and flung them open. Dozens of paparazzi came rushing at us snapping photos, flashbulbs going off. They’d been out there for hours. I always had one or two tailing me when I was out and about in Austin… the crappy parting gift of Josh’s newest hit song.
But with Josh coming to the wedding today to sing? The number of paparazzi had tripled.
“It’s about them, isn’t it? Getting your face out there? Getting seen?”
Brent was immediately posing, smiling for the cameras and gliding his hand around my waist. Through his gritted-teeth smile, he said, “Babe, we can talk about this later.”
“Actually, we can’t. Consider yourself uninvited to the wedding.”
I turned to walk back inside, but Brent grabbed my hand and with more force than I was used to, he pulled me in for a kiss.
“Mmph!”
As hard as I pressed the heels of my hands into his shoulders, I couldn’t push him off of me. It wasn’t like the movies. It wasn't as easy to break a damned kiss as you might think.
Finally, I pried him off of me, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was successful in stopping the kiss or if Brent had pulled back at the same time.
That’s when I saw Josh. Standing in the sea of paparazzi, holding his guitar case.
I saw the moment Josh’s eyes connected with Brent. It was like invisible brass knuckles socked him in the gut. He took a step back, like he was preparing to retreat.
I shook my head and mouthed, “It’s not what you think.”
He turned around, starting to walk away. Panicked, I did the only thing I could think of and yelled, “That’s Josh Gabriel there! Stop him!”
The paparazzi abandoned Brent and me for the main event and swarmed Josh, snapping constant pictures.
From over the heads of all the photographers, he slowly turned back to face me, his brows lifted.
“I was just going to get my amp out of the truck,” he said, hitching his thumb over his shoulder.
I nibbled my bottom lip, mostly to stop myself from laughing or crying, I wasn’t sure which. He pushed through the photographers, making his way up the stairs to me. “I know what you look like when you want to be kissed, Hope Marcoux-Evans. And that sad excuse for a kiss wasn’t it. In fact, I wrote a whole song about that face.”
“Did you?” I asked, breathless. Because this was what I’d been reduced to. A breathless wisp who could only just barely repeat his words back as questions.
“This face,” he said, cupping my jaw. I whimpered at the feel of his touch on my skin. I’d missed it so much. Missed him so much.
“You really hurt me, Josh. You chose your image… your brand over me. And even though I know it wasn’t the same thing, it felt like Brent all over again. Choosing fame, someone who could get him more seen—”
“Um,” Brent said, stepping forward, “that’s not quite true—”
“Shut up, Brent!” we both growled at the same time.
“I know I hurt you,” Josh said. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to spend the rest of our lives proving to you that you can trust me. You’ve changed me for good.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in us.
But I was also terrified.
“How do I know?”
“You don’t,” he whispered. “And I know that’s scary. But I’m asking you to give me a second chance. Because you may not know my heart… butIknow my heart. Let me prove it to you.”
I sniffled against the moisture in my eyes.
“I left my label,” he said quickly.
My gaze snapped to his and suddenly the pressure of everyone watching us weighed a thousand pounds on my shoulders. “You what?”
