I mean,why?
Whycouldn’t it be with another lame-assnobodypublication so I wouldn’t feel bad turning itdown?
But it’s Lauren’smagazine.
And now I’m stuck, between saying no to rehashing the stupid fucked-up-shit Dixie Lane put me through, or saying yes to help ensure the successful launch of a magazine run by the woman I’m falling in lovewith.
Yep. I just wentthere.
Ryan tried to sugarcoat it with fortune and fame, yet I am so over that shit. However, I told him I would think about it. Give him an answer in a fewdays.
An hour later, I head to HC to pick up Lauren. I haven’t decided how to bring up the topic, and I wonder how much she even knows? I trust if she knew about it she would have toldme.
I park, and wait for her by the elevator, eager to see her and holdher.
The elevator doors slide open and out she hops, into myarms.
Where shebelongs.
Of course I kiss her tender lips, then ask, “Are you hungry?” I hold her hand as we walk to mycar.
“Yes, I am. But can we just cook at thevilla?”
“More omelets?” I deliver a cockygrin.
“Yup.”
About a half block before we reach my villa, I pull over and stop thecar.
Lauren looks at me, her furrowed brows show her curiosity. “Why are you stoppinghere?”
I grab her hand and kiss it. “Baby, I want you to try to drive. I offered to be with you the next time you’re behind the wheel of the car.” I lift my chin toward the distance ahead. “The villa is just ahead. Drive Lauren, baby. I’ll be right in the seat next toyou.”
Tears pool in her eyes. “Okay.” She fans her eyes. “Okay.”
“Alright, on the count of three, we hop out and switchplaces.”
She nods, placing her hand on the car door handle, ready to openit.
“One, two,three!”
We both hop out, run around the car, stopping to kiss once, before she ends up on the driver side, and I end up on the passengerside.
I explain how to adjust the mirrors, and the seat since the Porsche is kind of intricate. And after she makes the adjustments, we both buckle our seatbelts as she places her left hand on the steering wheel and the right hand on thegearshift.
I reach over, rub her shoulder and neck. “Breathe, Lauren. JustBreathe.”
Taking a deep breath, she shifts the gear into drive, eases off of the break and onto the gas, gripping the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles turnpale.
She takes off, slowly, slowly. Then a little faster, confidence building, building. Now, she’s driving about fifteen miles per hour, breathing in and out until we reach the villa’s driveway, turning in, and up the driveway before easing to astop.
Shifting the car into Park, she turns and looks at me and says, “Jaxson Malone, you’re my freakinghero.”
