Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mina
“Marry him,” Joyce tells me, staring at the kitchen counter.
“At this rate, I just might,” I answer mindlessly as I gawk at the display.
Purple balloons float all around the apartment to match my book cover and the two-tiered cake with the title on it. A big hunting knife is speared through the middle of it, and chocolate bullet casings are sprinkled around.
There’s also a bouquet of various purple and black flowers. The entire thing is probably the same size as me.
I woke up twenty minutes ago, well past the time Leo needs to be at training, and he likely arrived in the early hours of the morning after his game yesterday. I don’t know when he found the time to do all of this and not wake either of us up, but at this point, I’m not even surprised.
What I am, though? Burning up.
My cheeks are bright red. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t stopped swooping since I stepped out of my room. My chest feels both tight and like it’s about to explode. I want to squeal, and twirl my hair, and cry, and squeal again.
“What was your prayer? Tell me it word for word.”
A smile splits across my face as I continue taking in my surprise. “He’s getting ripped off picking me as his girlfriend.” The only things I’ve gifted him are problems.
I don’t know what the hell he sees in me, and I don’t think I care anymore. If our date and its aftermath two nights ago didn’t seal it, the spread in front of me will. I barely remember why I’ve been resisting this relationship.
Clearly, the only answer is to start ringing the wedding bells.
“As long as you rip his pants off, I doubt he cares. And hey”—Joyce slaps my arm—“don’t say that about yourself. You have plenty to offer.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin.
“Firstly, your ass is huge.”
I snort. She’s full of shit. It most definitely is not.
The third notification pops up on my phone since she’s come out of her room.
She didn’t get back home until last night, and I’ve kinda missed her.
But I’m almost grateful she wasn’t around yesterday to witness the state I was in, especially when I still feel like shit over asking her to cover my portion of rent until we get paid again, and having to lie about whether the insurance company has paid out yet.
I’m not sore anymore from the flare-up, but I spent all of yesterday morning feeling like shit for stopping, despite Leo’s many assurances that it was fine. Not to mention, well, Mom.
At least my blackmailer hasn’t contacted me since.
“Jesus Christ, your phone won’t stop going off. Look at you, Miss Famous Author.” The smile Joyce gives me is beaming, and shit if it doesn’t make me blush even harder. “Are you still getting a million messages about how much everyone loves it?”
“So many people have already finished reading it.” I’m trying to be humble, but fuck it, I can’t be right now.
“You wrote a fucking good book, that’s why. Are you ranking?”
“I’m ranking.” I’m at least bashful this time.
“Shut up.”
“Top 50 books in the store.”
“Oh my God!” Joyce’s scream could burst my eardrums if I weren’t giggling and fighting the need to jump around like she is.
None of my books have ever made it to even the top 400 in the store. But fifty? Five-zero? I think I might faint.
“Does your mom know?”
“Fuck no. I’m not telling that woman shit.” The reminder dampens my mood, and the dread comes crawling back.
Joyce’s forehead wrinkles. “Not even to shove it in her face?”
“She found out about Leo and is likely hiring a hitman as we speak.”
Her jaw drops. “What? When? How? Who? Where?”
“He showed up at Thomas’s funeral and introduced himself to Mom as my boyfriend.”
“Oh, she would’ve been pissed. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
“I’ve been avoiding her.”
“Good call.” She thrusts her chin toward the kitchen island. “What’s happening with you and hockey boy, anyway? You haven’t given me an update.”
Where do I even begin? “We keep talking about me moving in.”
“Already?”
“He’s really serious about us.”
“And are you?”
I find myself nodding without a moment of hesitation, because yes, I’ve been serious about him since the first time I saw him on my screen.
“I really like him. He gets me, and supports me, and has shown how all-in he is with our relationship. I . . .” I lower my voice because for some reason I don’t want him to hear. “I don’t want to lose him.”
Joyce takes a second to consider, like she’s trying to draw a verdict on whether he gets hanged or not. “Have you told him that you have a Pinterest board with engagement rings you like?”
I bark a laugh. “Not yet, but I’ll add it to my to-do list.”
The next smile she gives me is sobering. It makes my heart flip-flop over itself. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me with so much pride like that.
“No, for real, though. I’m happy that you’ve found someone and that your book is doing so well. You deserve it. Congrats on a killer release, bitch.”
Even though neither of us likes physical contact, I reach out to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”
“I mean it.” She gives me an earnest nod. “I’m gonna head out. Ben’s working from home, so I’m gonna do my stuff there. Text me if you need anything.” She shoulders her bag and heads for the door, shooting me a glare before she steps out. “You better save me some fucking cake.”
“I will.” I chuckle as she shuts the door behind her.
I’m grinning like a fool, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I might love this man. This obsession I have with him isn’t normal—never was—but to know that it’s reciprocated?
I just need to bite the bullet and tell Mom that my relationship with Leo is happening, and she can either be supportive of it or show herself out the door. I dislike that it’s taken a man to get me to this place with her, but it’s better now than never.
Chewing my bottom lip, I debate whether to, I guess, tease to the public that we’re in a relationship. The post on his account of him holding my hand comes to mind, and that decides it.
I snap a picture of the gift from Leo then upload it to my author socials, captioning it: “Turns out real-life book boyfriends do exist.”
For the hell of it, I send the post to him with a side-eye emoji. I intend to show my gratitude in person as well.
Grinning to myself, I practically skip up to the cake and snag some frosting. Buttercream. How did he know it’s my favorite?
It’d probably be rude if I ate it without him, right? Yes, I should probably wait.
Too overwhelmed to eat breakfast—or, I guess, lunch since it’s already midday—I take some more pictures and spend an embarrassing amount of time cataloging everything he’s done and all the thought he’s put into it.
Once I’m satisfied, I run back to my room and hide beneath the blankets, too scared to check my notifications. If I see one negative comment or message, I might tip over the edge. I want to hold on to this happy feeling for as long as possible.
My solution to this? Binge-watching.
It does wonders to dissociate me from the sounds my phone is making. Every time it vibrates, a voice at the back of my head tells me it’s Mom or my blackmailer, and I’m even more afraid to look. I don’t dare to pick it up until I see an email notification come through.
That I can handle.
Or, at least, I thought I could. My eyes scan over the paragraphs from a random reader, and my stomach sinks further with each sentence.
That can’t be true.
I click into Google and type one of my unannounced projects into the search bar. Right there, underlined in bold, is a PDF access to it. I search another unrevealed title, and it’s right there—books I no longer have copies of since he stole my laptop.
Then, I search up Knight’s Bane, and like the reader warned in their email, the downloadable copy of my first draft is the top result. It’s the unedited version littered with typos, plot holes, and inconsistencies.
This is an author’s worst fucking nightmare.
Oh, God.
I clutch my phone to try to lessen the tremors raking down my arms. What do I do? How do I get it down? What does this mean for my career?
Through my bleary vision, I manage to send a text to the piece of shit intent on ruining my life.
Mina: I gave you money. You agreed you wouldn’t go public with anything. Please take those books down.
I had planned to maybe work to release one of those projects he uploaded. It has a strong premise, and it’s been speaking to me every time I ask myself what’s next, but now I can’t work on it.
I probably can’t work on anything else again. This alone could completely ruin my reputation.
He needs to take them down before anyone else sees them.
Unknown Number: I asked for $500,000. Besides, I’ve changed my mind.
Mina: You can’t do that! Please. I literally have nothing. I sent you the money I received from my insurance. All I have is my car, and it has transmission issues and rusted paint. But you can have it! Just take those books down.
Unknown Number: I’ve named my price.
My broken breaths and tears fog up my glasses as I try to think. This could all go away if I ask Leo for help. But who’s to say this guy won’t come back and keep asking for more? What if he goes straight for Leo next?
Mina: Please. There’s no way I can get you the amount you’re asking for. I’ll give you whatever else you want.
Unknown Number: I want everyone to turn on you.
Mina: What?
My blood goes cold when he sends a picture of an email he’s drafted detailing every fucked-up thing I’ve done, with attachments to back the accusation.
Over ten different journalists and news agencies around the country are listed in the recipient bar.
The worst part is the title: NHL Player Leo Duval’s Shadow.
Unknown Number: You have until the end of the day to send me evidence of you pushing everyone away, or else I’ll click Send. Tell anyone about our little chat, and I’ll tell everyone about where Leo’s car was on the night your friend died.
I’m going to be sick. This has to be a joke.