Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I laugh, knowing that she probably wouldn’t have brought food either. I sign the bill and stand, grabbing my little black blazer and slipping it on, but not bothering to button it. Walking out of the restaurant, we kiss each other’s cheek and confirm what time we are meeting tomorrow night as she walks to the left to get into the Uber she ordered. I turn to start toward the parking garage when a white car pulls up in front of me. Annoyed at the obstruction, I start to walk around the vehicle, but I’m stopped by the herd of paparazzi swarming the sidewalk as soon as the driver of the white car opens the door and places one foot out. At that moment, I hear his name before I look up. My annoyance meter is now at maximum level when I spot him.
“Tyler! Tyler!” I hear the shouts and the shutters of the cameras, their flashes blinding me as I try to walk around them. “Tyler, Tyler, do you have a moment to answer some questions?”
I look to the side and see he’s wearing jeans and a long brown shirt with two buttons open in the front. His trademark gold aviator glasses shield his eyes from their intrusion; his hair is brushed to the side, and he has scruff on his cheeks. He doesn’t make eye contact and doesn’t acknowledge their questions as he tries to walk into the restaurant. But the paparazzi just follows him, keeping a respectable distance and maintaining that bubble of sacred space that they know they can’t encroach. I put my head down and walk away from the restaurant. Not only am I glad to be away from that chaos, but I’m also thrilled Tyler didn’t notice me when he pulled up.
Pulling into my parking spot, I grab my Louis bag from the passenger seat and walk up the cement steps, enjoying the warm breeze caressing my skin. I inhale a much-needed breath as the palm trees make a swishing sound in the wind. Today has been overwhelming, and I think it’s finally sinking in that I have to go on a thirty-day tour with the very man whose presence I just escaped. The only things that will wash away the chaos of this day are a long shower and my amazing king-size bed. After my nightly routine, the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on finally hits me, and I’m pretty sure I fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
The morning beep of my alarm comes way too early at six a.m. It feels like I just fell asleep five minutes ago. I groan, hitting my clock to stop the incessant noise. A minute later, the smell of coffee slowly wafts from the kitchen, drawing me to all its deliciousness. As usual, I notice that my phone is lit up from the previous night’s activities. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are the hot nights in Hollywood and when all the rumor mills are churning out the salacious details of the rich and famous. So no matter what day it is, I’m up at six a.m.
Scrolling through the events, however, I see it was a rather quiet night. There are, of course, pictures of Tyler when he arrived at the restaurant and when he left an hour later, but nothing else. An ex-socialite was arrested for an alleged DUI, but all in all, everything was calm. Realizing there’s no celebrity fires to report, I change into my black workout shorts and matching sports bra to hit the treadmill. My morning run has always been my sanity—five miles, seven days a week, rain, shine, or heaven forbid, celebrity chaos. This morning, I especially need this distraction to get out of the funk from yesterday’s turn of events. After I powered through that distance, though, I take another quick shower before I walk into the closet and grab a white pencil skirt and a white long-sleeved shirt with sheer sleeves. Reaching for my black heels, I’m ready to kick today’s ass—but first, my latte.
Grabbing my phone, I head out to pick up two lattes, barely making it to my desk by nine. I stop at Karen’s desk, our receptionist who is super pretty but is honestly a horrible bitch. You know what they say, “keep your friends close, but keep the person who knows where the bodies are buried even closer.”
“Good morning.” I smile at her, handing her the other latte I bought. There’s a Keurig in the break room, but she turns her nose up at it. Too commonplace for someone of her stature, I guess. She’s got the whole “champagne taste on a beer budget” mentality down to a science.
“Finally, someone who really knows me.” She smiles at me. “I swear to God, if they don’t get me a Nespresso machine”—she leans in a touch—“I’m going to run over that Keurig and throw all those K-cups in the trash.” She brings the coffee to her lips. “This,” she says loudly, raising the cup in her hand and looking around to see if anyone is paying attention to her, “is life.” She slings her golden locks over her shoulder, and her blue eyes look almost human as the coffee finds its way into her bloodstream, tamping down the beast that lives within.