His head falls back to the pillow with a sigh.“I played, rocked some worlds; he came to talk to me after.We had it out; I left.My biggest issue is the gorgeous reporter in my lap who isn’t kissing me right now.”
“That’s it?”
“For now,” he says, threading his fingers through my hair.I sigh at the touch.“I know what I want, and she’s right here in front of me.”
My heart thumps loudly in my chest, pestering me to let Sterling go.This is where I want to be.
“Let’s start fixing your other issue then,” I say, grinding into him.
“Best idea you’ve ever had.”
* * *
Groaning, I silence my third alarm and sit up, choosing to linger in bed instead of getting coffee started.
I know; I barely recognize me either.
It’s now been six weeks since I leftThe Observer.
I have a shiny new job at the second-biggest newspaper in Chance, and I didn’t even have to work the lifestyle beat to get it.My front-page dreams are within reach now, closer than they’ve ever been before, and I’m having a hard time believing I’m not hallucinating.
Mentally, I flip a coin—heads, doomscrolling; tails, emails—and I open my mail.
“Oh my God.”
There’s no way.
“Hnrg?”Lucky groans beside me.He rolls over and drapes an arm across my waist.
If this is an elaborate fantasy, I’ve got to hand it to myself—it’s damn good.Lucky’s a pretty great cheerleader, gorgeous and distracting, but always behind me, encouraging every win.He’s more than his songs, more than the success or the box the public has put him in—the troubled past with a bleeding heart.He’s loyal and sweet and a phenomenal cook.
I shuffle against the headboard, staring down at my phone, eyes barely open, still trying to believe what I’m looking at.
An email.Not unusual on its own.
No, it’s who it’s from that has caught my breath in my throat.
“Sterling emailed me.”
Sterling knows my personal email address?
More importantly, why is he using it?I have to know.
Lucky cuddles closer, eyes closed, head almost in my lap now.It always takes him a while to wake up.
Technically, I still live in the guest room.
In reality, we pass out in whoever’s bed is closest at the time, and I’ve had more sex in the last six weeks than the last two years combined.
“What’s he want?”
I have no idea.
Opening the email is more confusing.
“He’s apologizing for what happened with Monica.”Which makes no sense because it was hardly his fault, and why the hell does he even care?Then there’s the last part.I look forward to being dethroned as Chance’s number one reporter.If there’s ever anything you need, you only have to ask.“Strange, right?”
“Not really.He’s relentless when he sets his sights on someone.”
