Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I could have ended everything.
Broke it off and continued on—tried to find another love, a different happy ending.
Instead, I stalled. I went back and forth over the line of indecision, even while turning down his proposal. I waffled, I moped, I drank. And then … finally? I squared my shoulders and stayed.
I didn’t let on that I knew his secret. But that day in Belize, when my fairy tale died? I lost my trust in him and in our relationship. And a few months later, I met Lee.
Part Two
Lies. A mountain of them between us.
Chapter 22
TWO YEARS AGO
A few months after Belize, I was in a convenience store in the bad section of 82, examining colorful rows of candy and trying to decide which one was worth my change when he walked in. I was out of my normal neighborhood, having driven down to Palo Alto to drop off a package at Brant’s office.
He walked behind me and then paused, his presence uncomfortably close, and I turned my head to see who it was.
His stare was like a baby’s, so direct you wanted to break contact but I didn't. The aggressive eye contact was so unlike Brant's that I mentally stuttered, caught in this moment in time where we both held the stare, and then he smiled.
Wow. Cocky. Confident. Sexual. Again, so different from the fixed intensity I was used to with Brant. I was drawn to it, and my own mouth curved in response.
"Hard decision," he said, nodding his chin to the shelves.
"Yeah." I nodded like a marionette doll; my goofy expression still painted in place.
“Wait, I know you..." he said slowly, genuine recognition dawning in his eyes.
I stiffened, dreading yet curious about whatever words would come next.
There was an 'aha' moment when he made the connection. "Brant Sharp's girlfriend, right?" He spun to the left and scanned the magazine rack behind us, his hand skimming over the glossy covers and then grabbing one. A groan vibrated through my clenched jaw at the selection.
It was Wired Magazine—the go-to for geeks in America—which had just crowned me Tech Hottie of the Year, an “honor” that should have gone to someone actually in the tech industry, not just a girlfriend of this century's brainchild. They'd plastered my image on the cover—a provocative shot where I was naked, covered in artfully arranged wires, a keyboard held over my breasts. And there, in giant letters across my midsection, my photo's validation: "Lucky Layana: where Brant Sharp gets his creative inspiration."
I snatched the magazine from his hands, took four steps to the side and stuffed it behind a few issues of Martha Stewart Living.
"Well now, that just answered my question," he said with a smile, putting a hand on the rack and leaning in just enough that I could smell the scent of fresh grass coming off him.
It was a good smell. I stole a discreet sniff and then stepped back. So ... he didn't really know me. He’d just recognized me from the magazine, either the Wired cover or another one. Over the last few months, Brant's media machine had gone into overdrive and put me on seven of them, the PR campaign headlined by Jillian, a woman who had jumped fully onto Team Layana. On the night I found out Brant’s secret, we mended fences in our common goal to keep it. The stiffness was still there, but with the secret now shared between us, she had moved her energy onto things other than ending our union. Her recent efforts centered on pushing me into the spotlight. I knew what she was doing. She wanted the focus off Brant; his privacy left intact while the vultures feasted on me. It'd been working. I’d done five feature interviews so far. In a decade, Brant hadn't done one.
The media machine had coined me Lucky Layana, due to my supposed inspiration for Brant's last creation: the Paya. The Paya had doubled BSX's bottom line that quarter, all thanks to me, according to the media's mind. Ridiculous.
"So are you?"
My candy selection was looking like a lost cause. "Am I what?"
"Lucky." His voice grated with intentions, desire, and dropyourpanties sex.
Our eyes met, and I inhaled at the heat in the contact and the draw I felt to him. This was nothing like how it was with Brant. This was electricity and danger and raw need. I should have looked away. I should have turned and left. Instead, I stepped closer, until we were almost touching, and looked up into his face. "Why don't you try me and find out?"
He chuckled and stepped back, the yellow suede of his work boots creaking on the linoleum floor. "You're not that kind of girl."
I swallowed the apprehension that rose in my throat. This was wrong. This was bad. I should run home, wait for Brant, and forget this had ever happened. My voice disobeyed, coming out cool, confident. Exactly as I'd always wished a flirtation to sound, yet this was the time when I finally nailed it. “I’m not that kind of girl? Then you really don't know me."