Waking Up to You Overexposed - By Leslie Kelly Page 0,69
before I said anything, Madison jumped in and offered to be the phony fiancée for a while.”
She wasn’t entirely sure Madison had been serious about the screenplay-writing thing. It was possible, though. Her sister had recently hinted that she wasn’t happy with her job, despite how hard she’d worked toward a career in journalism. Mad had always loved to write, and had thought hard-hitting news articles would be her forte. She’d also been great at creative writing, so perhaps this idea of hers hadn’t been just a throwaway offer meant to make Candace not feel so guilty. Maybe she really wanted this shot at a new career. Candace certainly hoped so anyway.
“So she’s not giving up her dreams so you can have yours?”
“No, I really don’t think she was.”
They fell silent, staring at one another. She saw him processing everything, that keen mind evaluating all that had happened...what she’d said, what she’d done, what it meant.
“I love you,” she repeated, holding nothing back, her voice thick with emotion.
He took a step closer. Then another, until he stood a foot away, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body. Far enough away for her to miss it.
“Say something,” she said.
His perfect mouth widened little by little, until that sexy grin appeared, stopping her heart and chasing away all her misgivings.
“Something.”
Laughter spilled from her mouth. “Jerk.”
He didn’t torment her anymore, didn’t hesitate. He reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her hard against his body. His mouth covered hers, lips parting, in a kiss that seemed like a very long time coming, though they’d only been apart for a few hours. With that kiss, she told him again and again how she felt, and knew he was saying the same thing.
Eventually, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the steps. Carrying her up them, he began to whisper the sweetest things—promises, dreams, hopes for the future.
All she’d ever hoped for. All she’d ever wanted.
“I love you, Candace. I want you with me always. I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up with you every morning. And I promise I’ll do everything I can to make you happy.”
This time the wetness in her eyes was brought on by pure joy. She knew he meant what he said, knew she could trust him with everything—her heart, her body, her life.
He was her present and her future.
Her everything.
And she was his.
Epilogue
The Hollywood Tattler: She’s Landed The Big One!
Well, it’s official. Superhunk Thomas Shane has announced his engagement to his childhood sweetheart, a private, reclusive journalist from New York, who has recently moved with him into a new oceanfront home. A certain Ms. Reid is sporting an enormous ring that even Jennifer Aniston would covet, and has quickly settled into life on the West Coast.
The happy couple has been seen romancing all over town, with cozy dinner dates in exclusive restaurants, and late nights dancing at all the hot spots. Sources say these two put off some major heat—theirs is obviously a real love match.
Shane’s future wife is also rumored to be writing a screenplay adaptation of a recent blockbuster, with an eye toward her future husband landing the leading role. Sounds like the birth of another Hollywood supercouple!
Don’t you just love happily-ever-afters?
* * * * *
Leslie Kelly
Overexposed
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Excerpt
Prologue
THEY CALLED HER the Crimson Rose.
As her name was announced in sultry, almost reverent tones at Leather and Lace, an exclusive men’s club, an awed quiet began to slither through the crowd. The room stilled, noisy conversation giving way to quiet expectation.
Businessmen in open-collared shirts stopped their whispered flirtations with waitresses wearing tiny black skirts and skimpy tops. Attendees of an entire bachelor party returned to their table, elbowing the groom to watch and weep. Single men who came every week just to see her sat back in plush leather chairs and stared rapt at the stage through hooded eyes. The ice tinkling against their glasses was soon the only sound in the lushly appointed room, even the servers knew better than to interrupt the clientele when the Rose was on stage.
She danced only twice a week—on Saturdays and Sundays—and since the night she’d started, the Crimson Rose had become one of the hottest attractions in the Chicago club scene. Because while the jaded city had long been used to hard-looking dancers taking off their clothes and gyrating to the heavy beat