I jerk my head up. ‘You said you could prove to me that you loved me the whole time.’
He grins, and I swear parts of my heart melt and dribble down through my insides.
‘I did. The proof is at my apartment. When I told you I was staying on Elgin, you didn’t tell me you lived so close.’
‘I chose not to divulge that information to you,’ I say drily.
‘Minx. Should I go get it?’
‘I dunno. Will I ever see you again if I let you out of my sight?’
‘Har har. You’re funny. But I’m way too scared of Alyssa to vanish into thin air. Tell you what’—he takes out his phone—‘Lemme set this thing for fifteen minutes. I’ll be back before it goes off.’
And with that, he settles me back down on the sofa and is gone.
CHAPTER 43
Josh
Imake it back to Elle in twelve minutes. No way in hell will she ever get to doubt me again. If that’s the way to earn her trust back, I’m there: I’ll show up, again, and again, and again.
I’ve got my bag with me, but as I sit back down beside her and lift her legs so they’re draped over mine again, I have a surge of doubt.
This thing could backfire.
Like, big time.
It could make her run for the freaking hills.
I reach into the bag. She’s smiling at me like it’s Santa’s bag of presents I’ve got here, and I hope it goes some way to show her how bright this flame I’ve carried for her has shone all these years.
‘This may seem cute,’ I tell her, ‘or it may make me look like that psycho blonde guy in the movieBodyguard.’
‘Creepy stalker guy?’
‘Yeah. Him.’ She can’t say I didn’t warn her.
Her eyes widen, and she smirks. ‘Okaaay. I’m definitely curious now.’
‘Here goes.’ I sigh and pull out the first book. Lay it on her lap. There’s a photo of us on the front, a selfie from that walk we took around the cape in Antibes. The first time I kissed her.
She looks down at it and then up at me. Her fingers stroke the photo. ‘What’s this?’
I clear my throat. ‘Um. It’s my Elle book. My scrapbook of you. Of us. There may be’—I glance at the bag—‘a couple more.’
Her jaw drops. ‘You’re ascrapbooker?’
‘Don’t say it like that. It’s not who I am. It’s just something I do.’
Jeez. Way to make a guy feel emasculated. I rub the back of my neck.
‘If you say so.’ She shuts her mouth and opens the book. I’m big on chronology, so the first pages have my ticket stub from theGraciepremiere as well as the gilt-edged invitation to the Vanity Fair party where Elle Hart shook her hot little ass against my dick. I’ve also printed out a screen-shot of myBusted, dudereply to Perez’s tweet, and there are a couple articles stuck in from French newspapers the next day with photos of the two of us dancing.
Elle touches theGraciestub in wonder and smiles up at me. ‘This is amazing! I can’t believe you kept all this stuff.’
I nod at her. ‘Keep going.’
The following pages are a trip down a French memory lane: press coverage of the two of us at amfAR, more photos from our walk, the receipt from our dinner in Le Suquet and a coaster from the Martinez. I’ve devoted a few pages to coverage of her Best Actress win as well as a lot of print-outs of photos we took on our phones. My favourite is a selfie I took where I’m giving her a kiss on the cheek while she holds her award up in the air, looking shell-shocked. It’s awesome.
