Trophy Husband (24 page)

It’s a waterfall, crashing over me, in my
body, and in my heart, and so I bury my face in his neck, as I say
his name louder, and my voice nearly breaks, and I hope he knows
it’s because his name is the only one I ever want tumbling forth
from my lips.

I shudder, and fall onto his chest, and then
he rocks into me, saying my name many times too, then kissing me
softly and holding me close, as I think of music, and lyrics, and
sailboats in the moonlight.

A week later, I'm walking home from the
coffee shop when I run into Amber on her way to her gymnastics
class. I don’t have anything to say to her, but I don’t want to
avoid her either. I won’t let her have that much power in my
life.

So instead of slinging a snide remark, I
suck in all my pride, and say, “Hi Amber.”

Without agenda, without anger, without that
jealousy that encased me for the last year.

“Hi McKenna. I’ve been meaning to reach out
to you.”

I stay strong. Whatever she has to say,
whatever they will throw my way, I’ll manage. I wait for her.

“I wanted to let you know that I had no idea
what Todd was up to with the business buyout bullshit. But as soon
as I heard last night, I sat him down and told him it was not okay.
I told him to back off and stop threatening you with legal
battles.”

“You did? You said that?”

“Yes. I made it clear that he was not going
to operate our family that way. We make our own money. We don’t try
to take money that belongs to other people. And The Fashion Hound
is yours, and yours alone. So he spoke to his lawyer this morning
to let him know he won’t need his services.”

A brittle piece of my heart softens. I’m not
going to be friends with Amber, we’re not about to get mani-pedis
together, but I respect her for this.

“Thank you, Amber. Thank you for that.”

“I better get to class.”

“Happy cartwheeling,” I say, and I mean
it.

I walk the last few blocks to my house and
am surprised to find two delivery men and a large truck waiting
outside my steps.

“You McKenna Bell?”

I nod. “We have a delivery for you.”

“Evidently. What is it?”

But the guy doesn’t answer. Instead, he
returns to the truck, and wheels a dolly down the ramp. When he’s
halfway down I see what’s on the dolly.

My very own Qbert. An arcade Qbert.

“Oh my god!” I clap my hand to my mouth and
I jump in excitement.

“Built it myself.”

I turn around and there’s Chris walking
around from the front of the truck.

“You did?”

“I had a feeling you might like your
own.”

Fifteen minutes later, the delivery guys are
gone, and there’s a gorgeous new game in my living room.

“It’s one hundred percent authentic,” Chris
says, and then hands me a bag of quarters. “No freebies. You gotta
pay this beast every time.”

My eyes light up and I reach for a quarter.
“I want to play now.”

“There’s one thing I should let you know,
though. I tested it out first. Just to make sure it worked. So
you’ll have to beat my high score.”

He taps the screen and shows me his score.
It’s insanely high. I pretend to punch him. “Chris! That’s too
high. It’ll take me forever to beat your score.”

“We can just christen the game instead
then.”

Two Months Later

The cabs honk, and the traffic roars, and
everywhere there are people, bustling and coming and going. Chris
holds my hand as we weave through streams of New Yorkers and
tourists. I’m wearing a black linen dress with cartoonish dog
prints smattered across the fabric, and a flouncy skirt that shows
off a hot pink petticoat underneath. It’s totally retro and
rockabilly, and I love it. So does Chris, who looks sharp in jeans
and a button-down shirt as he guides us to the stage door.

He knocks and the stage manager opens the
door shortly.

“Hi. You are?”

“Chris McCormick. Here to see my sister
Jill.”

The stage manager glances at a list in her
hand, taps it once to confirm, and then shows us into the theater,
escorting us through narrow hallways that whisper stories of the
past, of plays and productions and big, brassy musicals that this
jewel of Broadway has seen over the years. Down a well-worn red
carpeted hallway to a dressing room, and the stage manager knocks.
We are early. Curtain is in one hour. But it’s opening night at
Chris’ sister’s show, and she said she wanted to see him
beforehand.

She opens the door and flashes a huge smile
then jumps into his arms.

“Hey, little sis.”

“Hey, big pain in the ass.”

“I see you haven’t changed.”

“I can still beat you up.”

“You so wish you could.”

Then she turns to me, and she’s gorgeous,
with beautiful blond hair pinned up on her head, and heavy stage
makeup that accentuates strong cheekbones and dark eyes. She’s
wearing a white tee-shirt splotched with paint stains, and a pair
of loose jeans. I’m not sure if they’re her costume, or just casual
backstage clothes.

“I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you.
You’re even hotter in person.”

I blush. “Stop that.”

“No, seriously. I can’t believe my brother
snagged a total babe. How did you trick her, Chris?” she says to
her brother, and I love the back-and-forth banter. Then she turns
to me, and wraps me in a hug. She lowers her voice and whispers
just to me. “I’m so glad he found you. He’s mad about you.”

“The feeling is completely mutual.”

“So I’m sure you guys want to see the stage
before the show starts,” Jill says, then guides us out of the
dressing room, down the hallway, past other actors and stagehands
who she says hello to. Then to the wings, and onto the stage.

The set is breathtaking in
its minimalist glory, and I gasp. “It’s amazing,” I say, then we
turn around and take in all the empty seats in the theater, seats
that will soon be filled up with patrons here on opening night
of
Crash the Moon
.

Jill smacks her forehead. “I forgot
something in my dressing room. I’ll be right back.”

Then it’s just Chris and me on an empty
stage in a Broadway theater.

I turn to him and am shocked to see him down
on one knee.

“I’m pretty sure they want to get their
stage back soon, so I’m seizing this moment.”

He looks so earnest, so full of hope, as he
reaches into his pocket and takes out a dark velvet box. His
nervous fingers fumble at the opening, and his light brown hair
falls across his forehead. I can already feel my throat hitching
and tears welling, as he takes out a stunning diamond in a vintage
style cut that couldn’t be more perfect for me.

“When we first met, I thought you were a
babe. Then I got to know you and I thought you were the coolest
chick ever. And it all started with you wanting me to pretend to be
trying out to be your Trophy Husband. So what I really want now is
not to be your Trophy Husband, but just to be your husband.”

“Yes,” I say, and my voice breaks, and the
tears come, and I’m shaking as he slides a ring onto my finger
because I am overjoyed.

“Okay, let’s clear the stage now.”

* * *

I can’t stop looking at my ring. I don’t
think I will ever stop looking at it. The theater fills, and soon
the overture begins, and I spread open the Playbill and point to
his sister’s name.

“Look. There’s your sister. Look at the role
she’s playing.”

“I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Totally,” I say. “Hey, do I have to take
your name? Because McKenna McCormick would be pretty silly.”

“Take my name or don’t take my name. All I
care about is that you’re mine forever. For always.”

“I am.”

Then the music swells, and the sound of the
orchestra fills the theater, and I hold hands with my favorite
person in the world as the musical begins.

First and foremost, a ginormous thanks to
the readers. Without you, well, this book would not have been
possible. I am so so so grateful for your support, your notes, your
tweets, your messages, and most of all your passion for romance,
especially the kind I write. I love hearing from you, and I am
grateful for each and every one of you. Romance readers are THE
BEST - a vocal and awesome crew and I want to hug all of you.

Writing is such a solitary act, but editing
and publishing are not. I am honored and humbled to have amazing
critique partners like Cyn, Summer Stone, Simone Noelle, Kelli and
CS. My business advisor, Simone, is my go-to gal every day, and I
would not be on this indie journey if she hadn’t encouraged me and
guided me. THANK YOU, Simone. Then there is my biggest advocate,
Michelle, who somehow manages to make sense of the insanity of our
plans, and does it with passion, intensity and a gung-ho attitude.
I adore the indie writing community and can not imagine navigating
it without my indie BFF Monica Murphy. That indie family now also
includes the amazingly awesome authors Kristen Proby, Kendall Ryan,
Emma Hart, Lexi Ryan, Melody Grace and Paige Edward. Big thanks to
Kristen and Kendall for the fabulous blurbs!

A special thanks to Kelly Simmons at
Inkslinger PR for her focus, dedication and use of words like
“lickable” to refer to stock photos. And for believing in this
book.

Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations blew this
cover out of the water with her work. Holy hotness! You are a cover
wizard, Sarah! Giselle at Xpresso organized an amazing cover
reveal. Thank you, Giselle!

The indie world thrives on word of mouth,
Goodreads, social media and the amazing bloggers who bring so much
passion to books. I am indebted for the support of amazing bloggers
including Cara at Book Whores Obsession, Kari at Sub Club, Taryn at
My Secret Romance, Angie at Angie’s Dreamy Reads, Becky at Reality
Bites, Sugar and Spice Book Reviews, My Fictional Boyfriend, Denise
and Nic at Flirty Dirty, Tammy & Kim Reviews, Romance Addict,
Jessica and Lyndsay at Little Black Book Blog, Christine at
Shh…Mom’s Reading, and more.

And most of all a big thanks to my family. I
love you all so so so much.

Tentatively Slated for an August release

Dear Readers: After reading
Caught Up In Us
, many of
you asked when I would tell Jill’s story. Likewise, after
reading
Pretending He’s
Mine
, where Jill also plays a key role,
many readers inquired as to when they’d get her story. I’m thrilled
to let you know I’m busy writing
Playing
With My Heart
and am aiming for a summer
release. To whet your appetite, here’s the first chapter. (Note:
This is unedited and may change in the final version.)

Xoxo

Lauren

Playing With My Heart

Chapter One

Davis

The moment this girl steps on stage to sing
her solo, I know - without a shadow of a doubt - that she’s our
Ava. Her voice gives me chills. She starts small, as the song calls
for, in a trembling kind of tone, and then through each verse her
voice strengthens, matching the lyrics, the tone of the song, the
story the music is telling: a girl who was all alone, but who had
to find her own way to her dream, and found it through pain and
patience and heartache.

When she reaches the chorus, her voice is
all I feel, and it’s got arms and fingertips that stretch from the
center of the stage, all the way around the theater to the balcony.
A voice that surrounds you, and mesmerizes you with color and heat
and tremulous tenderness. The voice has layers and hurt all in one,
and so does this actress, her face, the way she wrings the emotion
from the words.

I have goosebumps all over, as I rest my
elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped together, seeing only her. I
want to hold onto this moment, this feeling, because it comes
around so rarely. Usually, it’s in London when I see a huge star
perform, or sometimes it’s when I go to Lincoln Center for a
one-night only performance of a legend. So few and far between, I
can count them on one hand, being blown away by a new talent. By
someone I could cast in a new Frederick Stillman musical, so she’d
make her New York theater debut, and I’d be the director who
discovered the next big Broadway star.

This girl is It. She’ll haul home Tonys over
the years, she’ll lure in TV deals, and cut CDs, and the denizens
of theater the world over will adore her.

I can feel it in my bones. She’s my lead.
She’s going to bring down the house. She’s going to make the
audience cry and soar, and then get on their feet for the loudest,
biggest standing ovation.

When she finishes, I nearly can’t help
myself. I want to stand up, shake her hand, and tell her she’s been
cast. But I can’t. The executive producer and composer can veto me,
though I have no intention of letting that happen. I have never
been more sure of a casting choice than I am now.

Even so, I restrain myself. “Thank you so
much. Now, the scene and song with Mr. Carlson.”

Patrick Carlson, who was
cast long ago as the lead in
Crash the
Moon
jumps up from the red upholstered
chair next to me. He’s here at the final auditions, along with Don
Kraftig, the producer, and with Mr. Stillman himself.

Frederick Stillman, the most revered
composer in the last quarter century, who’s collected armfuls of
awards for best musical. Actors fall all over themselves to star in
his shows, directors fawn at his feet.

I would have fawned to land this gig, but I
didn’t have to.

I’ve won three Tonys, one Oscar, and my
Broadway shows have all returned on their investors’ dollars. I
directed a film too – that’s how I nabbed that golden statuette. So
Stillman called me. Called my cell one fine afternoon six months
ago, and told me he was offering the directing job to me, only me,
and to no one but me.