And for the millionth time since I asked him to take Bash and me out of Snaggletooth Creek for just a week or two, while the reporters get the hint and move on, I nod. “Press the button.”
Bash is napping, and even if he wasn’t, Keisha and Giovanna and Millie and Jonas’s chef and security team and probably a few other random people who could actually secretly live in this palatial mansion in New Hampshire without detection because it’sthat bigwould entertain him.
Yolko Ono is comfortably situated in a room of her own, watchingPanda Banandabecause we accidentally discovered she’s a fan.
The rest of the chickens are still back home in Snaggletooth Creek, under constant care and supervision from the triplets, who have also added security cameras andbooby traps, as they call them, to the outside of the coop.
Just in case.
Keisha and Millie and Giovanna and Jonas’s chef and security team are all leaving us alone in thebusiness wingof the house, probably assuming we’ll use the time to get naked and have more grown-up fun.
But instead, I’m sliding into his lap in his home office, which is so veryJonaswith the colorful, whimsical artwork on the walls, the clean glass desktop, the massive computer monitor, and the family pictures on the sideboard.
The fact that he has a home office isn’t totally Jonas to me. He’s motion andwhat’s next?andlet’s go climb a treeso much more than he’sI need to go sit at my desk and do business work. That probably explains why it’s so clean.
Not a lot of use.
Which he fully confessed to on a laugh when I asked why he bothered with a room he spends three minutes a year in.
The house came with it. Hayes has used it more than I have, and he’s only come to visit twice.
And there’s zero chance that he’s getting me out of my clothes until he does as I’ve asked.
“You’recompletelysure?” he presses. “Once it’s out, there’s no take-backs.”
I’ve spent the past hour with my PR coach, and I’d be lying if I said this didn’t give me a smidge of anxiety.
But it’s time.
“The press wants our story,” I tell him. “If I’ve learned anything from your PR people so far, it’s that controlling the story gives you power. And my story—ourstory—the story we recorded yesterday—is the truth. There’s power in the truth too. I want to do this while we can still scoop all of those news outlets who are trying to talk everyone else out of what they know.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, those gorgeous brown eyes still so studious and watchful. “Let’s do this.”
I grab him by the cheeks. “Areyouokay with this?”
That earns me a smile. “I’m okay with anything you’re okay with.”
“I’m not a delicate flower, Jonas.”
“Yes, you are. But you’re a tough delicate flower.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It’syou. You’re a thing.”
“You’rea thing,” I tease back as he slips his arms around me and pulls me tight, sticking his nose in my neck and inhaling in a way that makes my nipples hum in anticipation.
“You’re my favorite thing.”
I laugh. “Be that as it may, hit the button. Please.”
“You’re absolutely, completely, one hundred percent, zero doubts sure?” he asks.
“Yes. Why? Are you not sure? Is this a bad idea? Is there something you’re not telling me? Did you say too much yesterday? Are there parts you want to edit out for you?”
He leans back in the chair, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. “I’m absolutely positively completely sure abouteverythingwith you. Except for hitting this button without triple-quadruple checking with you first. I can handle bad press for me. But I couldn’t forgive myself if I had any doubt at all—ifyouhave any doubts at all—that being the lead story of every gossip page around half the globe would cause you too much stress.”
We’ve been over this six times since we finished recording our interview for his podcast yesterday.
