Page 94 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Think about it,” she says, hands spreading through the air like she’s one of those Hollywood producers trying to pitch a movie. “You’ll be huge. You’ll get all sorts of new readers. Gray is a household name and if you use that?—”
Use him.
“No,” I say.
“We might even be able to get a TV or movie?—”
“Fuck no,” I say more loudly.
“I can go back to the publisher, pitch a couple more books, see about getting a bigger advance?—”
“Marie!”
She stops, mouth half open, eyes wide.
And I know it’s partly because her brain is mid-exciting new book opportunity. But it’s also partly because I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice with her.
“No,” I say. “And I don’t mean no, as in you’ll be able to bring this up a dozen more times and wear me down,” I add when it looks as though she’s going to interject. “I mean no, as in no I will never ever use Gray that way. He saved my life and I know if I asked him to do this for me, he would?—”
She inhales, eyes lighting up with publicist glee.
“But I will never—ever—ask him to do this for me. I care about him too much to ask that of him, and I’m warning you that if ‘someone’”—I make air quotes as I fix her in place with my stare—“lets what happened slip then I’ll be looking for a new publicist.”
“Faye,” she murmurs, horror drifting across her face.
I don’t relent. “We’ve been working together a long time and I can’t imagine not having you at my side…but there will be no using Gray—not for this book, not if we’re going viral, not fucking ever.” A beat. “Do you understand me?”
She nods.
“Good,” I say. “I’ll send you the stuff on my list as soon as possible and will send you a couple of dates and times for our next check-in.”
“Faye,” she begins.
I pause, lift my brows.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t ever fuck with my man again.”
Thirty-One
Gray
My heart is pounding as Faye slams her laptop closed and pauses, dropping her head into her hands, her exhale sharp.
“What the fuck?” she whispers. “What the actual fuck?”
“Red,” I murmur.
She whips around in her chair with a gasp. “Gray.”
Fuck, but I love the sound of my name on her tongue.
“Shit,” she says, jumping up to her feet. “I don’t know how much you heard?—”
“I heard enough.”
Her face changes, expression falling, but I’m already moving toward her, taking her in my arms, smoothing back her hair. “I heard enough, baby. Fuck,” I rasp, dragging her more tightly against me. “I heard enough.”
