“That’s toxic,” I said severely, pressing the toe of my boot into his throat.
“And?” he retorted, his eyes gleaming at me, his jawline set. “You fucking knew who I was when you made me fall in love with you—I’m toxic, I’m a scumbag, but girl, I’m obsessed with you.”
He seized my foot, pulled the other one out from under me and caught me before I fell.
I couldn’t help grinning at him, at that familiar, irrepressible cocky look in his eyes.
“Yeah, I guess I love you, too,” I said, affecting a yawn, but he only laughed and kissed me, so hard and deeply that I felt butterflies gathering in my belly, damn bluebirds spinning around my head, and Kingsley threw me over his shoulder and hauled me into the limo.
Epilogue (9 months later)
“Get up,” Kingsley said one morning, holding up a cup of pungent black coffee. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” I asked, blinking.
We were in our new house, a massive California coastal manor with a private beach, massive swimming pool, recording studio, full library, and right next to a historically interesting graveyard.
He was wearing a pink collared shirt, but it was unbuttoned practically down to his pecs. So just your average everyday horny Saturday morning.
“None of your business, brat,” he said, kissing me. “You’ll know when we get there.”
“What am I supposed to wear?” I asked curiously, flipping over on my belly.
“Whatever you want, Ro. You’ve got five minutes.”
I threw on one of my most comfortable black dresses with a bustier and flowy sleeves, brushed my teeth, and followed him out.
Kingsley put the car into gear and we shot off down the highway. The wind whirled around my face, but I didn’t care, my heart bursting with joy.
The headlines had not been kind to Kingsley after his revelation, calling him fake, a poser.Is this the end of his superstar career?a very annoyed Eunice wrote.
But since Kingsley made no excuses and instead took every interview request to come completely clean and praise my songwriting skills, with that shit-eating grin, his concerts were selling out faster than ever.
Kingsley’s reputation as a singer-songwriter was in shambles but, again, his reputation as a dirtbag was stronger than ever.
People had been pissed to find out I’d written all his songs, butmyrequests for interviews and collaborations was off the chart and the drama hadn’t hurt his sales.
The sun was dipping down, and I still had no idea where we were going, his fingers tightened in my hair, stroking gently down my throat.
My curiosity was at a fever pitch now.
“Are we going to a spa? Out camping? We don’t have any shit for camping! A surprise concert?”
He looked at me, his eyes crinkling up as he brought my hand to his lips.
“Vegas, baby. We’re getting married.”
My jaw dropped. I was engaged and had the massive rock to prove it, but, but. . .
“We just got this custom made ring back! We’ve barely gotten engaged!”
“Baby girl, I’ve been working on getting you tied down ever since the idea of you leaving scared the shit out of me. And I want this donenow.”
“I’m wearing—” I protested, but I could feel my insides turning to mush as the big lights of the city came into view.
He made a beeline for a little white chapel that was dripping with gaudy silver and gold trim.
“Get in here. I can’t wait a minute longer to lock you down. After all, I’ve already gotmyring tattooed on.”
