Page 89 of No More Billionaires

Surrounded by the flurry of activity in the booth, the hour-long show flew by, seeming more like fifteen minutes than fifty.

Deb kept up a steady commentary on everything she was doing, checking with me frequently to make sure I was following. With five minutes left to go, she turned to me.

“I just sent an updated kicker script to the printer. Can you run it into the studio for Larson?”

“Oh. Yeah sure, if you need me to.”

I wasn’t exactly eager to face Larson again, now that my humiliation was complete, but the job was the job. If he needed the script, someone had to take it to him.

Might as well be his former not-quite-girlfriend who he’d made it clear he had no further interest in.

I left the director’s booth and went to the printer room, grabbed the new script, and took it to the studio where Overstreet Live was broadcast.

The on-air light was dark, so I walked right in and directly to the news set where Larson sat at a desk.

“Here you go.” I slid the script across the desktop to him and turned to leave without even making eye contact.

“Kenley, wait.”

Shivers ran across my skin. Would that damned sexy-smooth voice of his ever stop affecting me like this? Ireallyneeded to get off of his show—being near him and not beingwithhim was going to kill me.

Slowly, I turned to face him. “Need something else?”

“I do. Could you come up here a minute? I have a question.”

Larson kept his eyes down as he sorted through his remaining scripts, adding the new one to the pile.

Was there some sort of problem with the script?

“You mean… up on the set? The commercial break’s almost over. You’re back on in thirty seconds.”

“Better be quick about it then.” Finally, he looked up at me and held my gaze.

After another second’s hesitation, I did as he asked, climbing the two low steps to the raised set and approaching the news desk quickly.

“What do you need?”

He turned his swivel chair toward me and lifted a piece of paper, holding it up between us and ripping it in half with a loud tearing noise.

“You,” he said.

The two halves of the page drifted to the set floor, and as they landed, I spotted my own signature on one half. He hadn’t ripped the new script. He’d torn up the prenup I gave him.

My heart rate took off as if someone had fired a starter pistol.

“Larson…” I whispered, looking over my shoulder and checking the monitors.

The show was seconds away from coming back on live. I attempted to step backward so I wouldn’t be seen on camera, but Larson caught my fingertips and pulled me back toward him.

He stayed seated and looked up with a smile as the on-air lights clicked red and the floor director pointed at Larson to indicate he was on live—wewere on live.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. I was already crying because I had a suspicion, a brand new thread of hope.

“I’m asking you to marry me.” The words came out loud and clear.

“Marry? But… I thought you—”

Larson held a shushing finger up to my lips and turned to the camera that connected him with viewers all over the world, night after night.

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