I didn’t text back. Even my band mates thought her response was a rejection. And my gut agreed. There were only two types of answers to a proposal: yes and not-yes.
But she said she wanted to see you after the signing. If you mope and don’t come up with a plan, you’re screwed. But if you get your shit together, maybe you’ll get to change her mind, the determined part of me whispered. Grab the opportunity. Take it!
I inhaled. That was true. I still had a chance. No matter how slim it was, I shouldn’t waste it.
I rushed to the concierge in the lobby.
“How can I help you, sir?” a middle-aged man in a dark suit said with a courteous smile. Then his eyes widened. “Mr.…Axelrod?”
I started to tell him he was mistaken, then changed my mind. Dev had said that fame w
as part of who I was now, and that it was a nuke that could be used for good or bad. “You know who I am?”
“Know who…? Of course! I love your songs. ‘The Danger Zone’ is my wife’s and my favorite.”
I smiled. “Awesome. Would you like an autograph to take to your wife?”
He lit up. “That would be spectacular. Thank you, sir. Shirley’s not going to believe this!”
“Not a problem. And your name is Piers, right?” I said, reading his tag.
“That’s correct, sir.”
I signed a stiff piece of paper he brought out. As I gave it back to him, I said, “Listen, Piers, I’m in a little bit of a bind. Think you could help me out?”
“Of course, sir.” He drew himself up, the Axelrod fan being replaced by the professional concierge. “Of course.”
“Great. I need to rent out your best restaurant. The one with the best view. The whole thing. If that isn’t possible, then an entire, I don’t know, terrace facing a garden or something like that. I need it today, for at least three hours, after the book signing over there ends.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the event. Given the number of people in line, I suspected it’d go on for at least another couple of hours. I wouldn’t want to be the organizer having to face the wrath of a female horde, furious it didn’t get to see its favorite author.
“I’m sure I can arrange something appropriate.”
“Excellent. And the place is going to need flowers. Lots of them.” Cole told me he’d arranged for a hundred bouquets to set the mood when he proposed to Teri. I wasn’t going to fail because I’d forgotten flowers.
“Anything particular in mind?”
I thought for a moment. Emily had never mentioned her favorite. And I couldn’t ask now. “Something that says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m a dick, I love you, marry me, I’ll make you happy.’”
“I begin to understand the dimensions of the issue. I assume that, ah, budgetary considerations won’t be a factor?”
“Not at all. Spend what you need to.”
“Very good. What about music? Food? Will there be any specific requirements?”
“My…” What could I call Emily? Not really a girlfriend, not a fiancée… “My lady will order when she’s ready, so the kitchen should be prepared to make whatever she wants. As for music…” I paused and considered. She’d said she didn’t do music. The only time she’d asked for it… Well, she’d wanted me to sing for her. But I didn’t think rock would set the right tone. “Nothing. No music.”
“No…?” He frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, as I’m sure your experience in this area vastly outstrips my own, but one can’t help thinking that the, ah, proceedings are more likely to succeed with music. I could perhaps make some suggestions on romantic pieces…?”
“Yeah, normally you’d be right. But she just doesn’t like it.”
“I see.” He stood straighter. “Very well. You’ll have what you need.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Emily
My mind had been whirring since Killian asked me to sign My Fair Molly. I smiled and said all the right things to the fans, operating mainly on autopilot, but I couldn’t remember much of anything.
When the signing was finally finished, Lucy and Skye came over, Skye’s eyes as wide as the real sky. And they weren’t the only ones. Other writers converged to my table, sharks sensing the most delicious food there was: gossip.