Me included.
“And you guys have a really great story.”
“Aw, thanks Clay,” Riley said, giving Zeke googly eyes as she leaned into him.
“But ours is better.”
My heart stumbled, stopping altogether for a long breath as Clay’s eyes snapped to mine.
“Wait… ours?” someone asked, and there was a brief pause before the madness, before every camera turned toward Clay and reporters struggled to find mics they could hold out toward him, since all the press ones were focused on Riley and Zeke at the podium.
“Yes, ours,” Clay confirmed. “Mine and Giana Jones’ story.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, covering my mouth with shaking hands.
“Oh, my God,” Charlotte repeated, though her voice was firmer, and filled with the disdain of a PR agent whose client had gone rogue.
“You probably don’t know Giana Jones, at least — not by name. But she’s the gorgeous girl who’s always wrangling us, who gets you your interviews and podcast exclusives and commercial spots.” The side of his mouth tilted up as he faced each camera. “And she’s my girlfriend. At least, she was — before I screwed it all up.”
Charlotte snapped her fingers, waking me from my haze. “Go fix this,” she hissed.
I nodded, bolting from behind the stage and squeezing through the crowd that grew thicker and thicker around Clay.
Clay, who was now holding up a small book for everyone to see.
“Blind Side,” he said, showcasing the simple black cover. “The story of how I fakedated the girl of my dreams and then lost her from being an idiot.”
There was a mixture of laughter and the buzz of questions as the crowd leaned in, making it even harder for me to shove through.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I muttered, shoving as politely as I could.
Clay opened the book, holding it up and showing the godawful stick figures drawn inside it along with the large text like it was a children’s book.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful PR princess named Giana,” he said, showing the stick figure with glasses and curly hair with a headpiece on. He licked his thumb and flipped the page. “And a dumb safety named Clay.”
The crowd laughed at the next drawing, which was a stick figure with beefy arms in a too-tight jersey.
“Excuse me,” I said, shoving through the last bit of the crowd. When they parted, someone murmured, “I think that’s her,” and before I could stop them, cameras turned.
Toward me.
Panic zipped through me as I finally reached Clay just as he turned the next page.
“Clay and Giana made a deal — he would help her get the attention of the Prince of Rum & Roasters, and she would help him make his ex-girlfriend jealous. How? By agreeing to fake date each other.” He turned the page, showing the two stick figures locked in a hug as people watched. “Except, there was nothing fake about what they felt for each other.”
My heart squeezed, and as much as I wanted to hear the rest of whatever was in that poor excuse for a book, I reached out for his jersey and tugged.
“Clay, stop.”
He looked down at me. “No.”
“Clay,” I whisper-threatened through my teeth, trying to remain as professional as I could. I turned toward the crowd. “If you all want to take a quick break, we’ll have Holden Moore in here in ten minutes to answer more questions,” I tried.
No one budged.
Least of all Clay.
“No,” he said again, hopping off the chair and down to the floor in front of me. My breath caught as his scent enveloped me, as he stepped closer and closer until we were chest to chest.
Or rather, chest to abdomen.
“No, I won’t stop. I can’t stop, Giana. I can’t hide or pretend anymore. I can’t let my pride keep me from being honest and admitting that I fuuu—”
He paused, an awkward smile on his lips as he amended his language.
“Messed up. Bad.”
I swallowed, ribs squeezing painfully tight around my lungs.
“I hurt you. I know I did. And I also know that I don’t deserve the chance to explain everything to you, to admit my wrongs and ask for your forgiveness.” His brows folded together. “But I’m going to anyway. Because I love you, Giana Jones.”
The room was aflutter, cameras flashing and microphones being shoved as close to us as they could manage as Clay moved in closer, one hand moving up to sweep my hair out of my face.
“I love you,” he repeated, quieter this time, as if he only wanted me to hear. “I love your smutty books, and your weird documentaries, and your obsession with orange, processed snacks.”