He cleared his throat. “I’m in love with you. I think you love me too.”
Did she? All the emotions were muddled into a ball inside her. Was this what love felt like?
Her fingers crept along his spine. “I’m sorry, Will. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”
He wasn’t supposed to love her.
“Don’t give up on us.”
She swallowed the hunk of emotion lodged in her throat.
“Take the time you need. But come back to me.” He tilted her chin up.
That wasn’t going to happen.
God. This killed.
“Will, it’s time for me to go.”
She released him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Three weeks later…
William was sweating. The bright lights of theBeach Nights Reunionstudio warmed the set past comfortable levels.
He tapped his foot against the blue carpeting and stared ahead into the array of cameras and screens, production crew and directors. His blood pressure rose higher than the ratings haul the producers assured him this show was sure to carry.
Lucy wouldn’t answer his calls.
He didn’t blame her. He’d messed up. She broke it off.
But she had to know how he felt. She didn’t believe he loved her, but he did. And he was willing to put his reputation on the line again to prove it to her.
Now he only hoped to hell she’d watch the show—and they wouldn’t flay him again on national television.
“William?” Mason Hale, the host of the show stuck his hand out to William.
He shook it. “Hale.”
“Long time, huh?” Hale flopped in the seat across from William. “Heard you were a hold out to this whole thing.” He gestured across the set.
William nodded. “Took a little convincing.”
Cameras weren’t rolling, but his mic was already attached to his collar, so he knew better than to say anything that could be edited into something it wasn’t in post-production.
“What do you say we get this party started?” Hale took the cue cards a production assistant slipped to him.
“Sounds good.” William stilled his tapping foot.
He was a journalist. He had spent years in front of the cameras. He shouldn’t be terrified of what these assholes were about to do. And yet, he couldn’t stop sweating—literally and figuratively.
Makeup powdered his face one last time. A cameraman wearing a headset held his fingers out beside camera two in a silent countdown from ten…nine…
He could do this.
Eight…seven…
