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“I’m going to.” I reach for her phone on the nightstand, and she yanks me back. “Hey!”
“What are you doing?”
“I just told you.”
“You’re not actually going to message them from my phone!”
“Why not? You afraid they’ll tell me five-year-old Larinda didn’t actually want to ride the bull on Wall Street?”
“No. Because I did. But if you start that conversation, we’ll be forced to talk to them for the rest of the night, and I have other plans.”
“Really…” I draw out with a slow grin. “Tell me more about these plans.”
She hits me again.
“Ow,” I say through another laugh.
“No. Not until you earn it. You owe me more tattoo stories.”
“Wait, that was it for your secret? I pour out my tragic life story and you tell me you wanted to trade stocks twenty years ago?”
She parks a hand on her hip. “What, my career aspirations aren’t important?”
“Not when you were five.”
“Fine. I’ll give you a bonus secret, but only because I’m sick of listening to you whine.”
“I accept that. Spill it.”
She returns a defiant look. “How about this? I was so nervous the first time I sang a solo that I threw up on the stage.”
“Oh shit,” I say, eyes wide.
She lifts her brows. “Good enough?”
“Heck yeah. Tell me more.”
“About throwing up? Ew.”
“Not the process. Set the scene. Who, what, when, where… all the details.”
She grunts and throws herself back on the pillow in an adorable pout.
“Hey, this entire thing was your idea.”
Her glare is just as cute, and I can’t help but sneak a quick kiss. She tugs me back to deepen it, and for a split second her deflection works. Then I remember she claims she had big dreams of shaking up Wall Street while drinking chocolate milk and coloring baby unicorns.
“Nope,” I say, breaking away from the kiss. “I want to hear more about this epic stage collapse.”
“Ugh. Fine! I was seven and it was Mrs. Cleggs’ junior recital.”
“And Mrs. Cleggs is…?”
“My first vocal coach. I started on violin, but I was terrible, so we tried singing instead. I was better at that. Or so we thought until the recital.”
I bite back a snort at her warning look. “Sorry. Continue,” I force out.
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, the recital was at the community center and there were, like, fifty thousand people there.”
