He didn’t know.
Palming his jaw, he drops the phone onto the table and pushes it away. “Michael and my PR team want the media to stop circulating bullshit because it’s taking away from their promotional efforts for the upcoming album. It’s less about what Violet Wonders will come up with and more about what Zayne or the others are going to produce if we split. They think if we clear things up, the people will move on.”
“You don’t think they will though.” It’s not a question, I can see it on his face—hear it in his tone. He’s doubtful.
It’s a few moments of him staring at the phone a few inches away from him before he looks at me. “We’re older now. I’m 32, Zayne will be 31 soon, and the others are right behind us. The public is expecting us to settle down and stop living the lives we used to. They want us to grow up.”
I can’t really argue with him there. It’s why child stars get so much flack in the press once they step out of whatever roll they made it big in. They can make one little mistake and suddenly everybody is accusing them of being out of control. Some of my favorite actors growing up are always under the microscope with the public wondering when they’ll settle and marry or have children of their own. And I can’t say I haven’t been part of the problem, waiting for the day they announce they’re getting married or having their first child.
He murmurs something under his breath before chuckling dryly. “That would certainly create a buzz, wouldn’t it?”
I go to answer but stop myself, unsure of what he means. “I’m not following.”
“If the infamous playboy settled down.”
“Like…dated?”
“I’ve dated plenty, Rylee.”
My eyes widen. “Marriage?”
He grins.
I fidget with my thumbs. “I mean…yeah. That would definitely change the narrative. But that wouldn’t really solve all your problems. The people are going to think whatever they want to about your band. I mean, you split once. That’s why the plausible chance you guys will break up again riles people.”
The way he stares at me makes me squirm. There’s an intensity in those blue eyes that makes me wonder what’s building behind the depths. “But the people always believe in what the majority does no matter what the truth is. It’s why media outlets have such a huge following. The bigger the story, the more gullible the viewers.”
I blink.
Part my lips.
Close them.
And blink again.
Eventually, I get out, “Okaaay…”
He laughs lightly as if my confusion is funny to him. “I think I can help both of us.”
This should be good. “And how is that?”
“You’re going to write a story.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. Isn’t that the problem that started this whole thing? “About what?”
His eyes twinkle with mischief. “My marriage. Your boss wants to know who I’m dating, but anyone can report on that even if it’s bull. Instead, you can write about the day Garrick Matthews got hitched.”
I tap my fingers against the table anxiously. “You want me to write about you getting married to some random girl?”
That idea doesn’t sit well with me, and I don’t let myself think about why.
“No.”
I wait, even more confused.
He reaches froward again and captures my hand, his palm draped over my overheated skin. One of his fingertips taps my ring finger. “I want you to write about us getting married. Two birds, one stone, love.”
I doubt the first reaction he expected was the loud burst of laughter that shot past my lips, but that’s what he gets.
I wait for him to join me.
But it never comes.
Then he says, “Marry me, Rylee.”
9 Garrick
Rylee is pacing in front of me, hands twisting into fists at her sides. She stops, glances at me for a few moments as if she’s waiting for someone to tell her she’s being punked, and then begins all over again.
I watch silently, partially amused by her reaction. Sure, it wasn’t a romantic proposal, but I wasn’t expecting her to look like I’d told her the cops were here for her.
“Rylee,” I finally say after watching her wear the floor down.
She doesn’t stop moving.
“Rylee.” I laugh when she ignores me and stand from my seat at the table when I can’t take it anymore. Walking in front of her until she has no option but to halt her frantic movements, I place my hands on her shoulders and say, “You need to breathe, love. I’m not asking you to give me a kidney or a child.”
The high-pitched sound that rises from her throat makes me snort. “A child?”
I grin pointedly. “See? Could be worse.”
Her unblinking eyes penetrate mine. I compose myself, trying to hide the entertainment she’s unknowingly giving me. I could think of every other reaction I’d be given if I suggested this to another woman—happy squealing, tears of joy, then probably great sex. Nothing like this.
Lowering my hands back to my sides slowly, I offer her an explanation. “You need a good story to give your boss so she gets off your back, and you need the money for your medicine. Right?”
“Among other things,” she agrees hesitantly, voice hoarse.
I nod in reassurance. “I need a story to break apart all the bad press we’re getting from these vultures. No offense.” She shrugs, indifferent to the fair term. “If we do this, we’ll both be set. You’d get a story printed and get your money, and I’d get people off my back about Zayne splitting.”
Well, not completely off my back. Then the press would be digging into who my bride is, if it’s a shotgun wedding, and who knows what else. But it’s better than putting pressure on the guys to act certain ways so nobody thinks there’s a rift. It’s put a strain on all of us, especially Zayne and me with the new polls being created on social media to see whose side
