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This is what I lived for.
“Make me,” I tease her.
“You said we have to wait til Saturday.”
“Fucking isn’t the only way to make me talk, Detective.”
Her eyes narrow while her gorgeous smile grows. “Oh yeah?” She knows my spot and goes for it. “How about this?”
When she starts tickling my armpit, I’m done for. I laugh like I’m fucking nine again, and if she doesn’t stop, I swear I’ll piss myself.
“Take it back.” She’s way too happy torturing me.
“Nope.” I could flip her over. I could overcome her power, but why? This is too damn fun.
“Say it.” And she’s way too happy, and I can’t stop smiling up at her.
“I love you, Candy Cade.”
Because that always makes her stop and kiss me. And it always makes it better, and it’s so damn true.
And it will be.
Till the day I die.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Get a calculator and multiply “Pissed as hell” by a billion.
That total is less than what I feel right now.
Because it’s my thirtieth birthday. And it’s a Saturday. And Redix got called into an “important meeting” with the head of the studio and Daniel Pierce, of all people.
So we had to cancel my birthday plans. Whatever the hell they were.
“We’ll do dinner tonight.” He kissed me this morning. “And I promise I’ll make it up to you soon.”
“Who the fuck calls a Saturday afternoon meeting in Savannah?”
This Hollywood life on my shores is bullshit. Normal people have weekends off—especially my birthday weekend.
“When the head of the studio wants to turn his fishing vacation into a meeting, you go.” Redix slid his jean jacket on. “Besides, this is for Lorraine. She really wants this show.”
“Fine.” I really wanted to throw a fit on the bed. Instead, I threw a pillow at him. “Just go. And good luck.”
I can’t be mad at him. But I can punch the balls of the studio president if I ever meet him.
So now I’m staring at a holiday ham and some potatoes in my grocery cart. Apparently, I gotta cook my own birthday dinner, so I grab a carrot cake for our vegetable.
The whole damn day, I fume, so I go for a run on the beach. That way, I won’t bite Redix’s head off when he gets home. He texted he’s an hour away. He’s super sorry and added a line of red heart emojis.
Maybe I won’t kill him. Some of my pissed-off washes down the drain with my long shower. Then, like a cherry on my shitpie of a birthday, the doorbell rings while I’m dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.
I ignore it. It’s delivery boxes.
But the motherfucker keeps ringing the bell, so whoever’s on the other side of this front door is about to get a new asshole.
“What the fuck?” I’m so mad I throw it open without checking.
