A slow smile spreads on my face as hot relief boils my blood. I wasn’t sure which way Paige was leaning. Normally I would’ve pressed my advantage…but then I made the tactical error of hiring Josephine, who’s running her ragged. I know it’s a necessary step—nobody will be able to mock her for not being fashionable enough—but it’s still annoying because I can’t bring myself to seduce her when she looks like she’s about to fall over dead. Which she does, every time she comes home.
I get up, stretching my arms above my head. All my irritations vanish as I anticipate having Paige shaking in climax in my arms again. Today, I think triumphantly.
Hmm… Should it be before or after the surprise?
Before. I can always do it again afterwards if she seems too tense. On the other hand, I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be out shopping. There can’t be that much left to do. It’s already Thursday.
I grin. I can’t wait to see the expression on Paige’s face when she realizes I’ve sent my private jet to Sweet Hope to fly her parents back and arranged for a car to pick up her sister and her husband for a surprise dinner tomorrow night.
* * *
Paige
When I come back to the house, it’s already a quarter to nine. I kick off my shoes and carry them in my hands. I really shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. My arches ache like they’ve been beaten with hammers.
The nighttime housekeeper serves me soup and salad. I don’t want anything heavy since I won’t be able to sleep otherwise. I can’t believe Josephine wants to shop again tomorrow. She’s not a Shopping Tornado. She’s a freakin’ Terminator.
“Where’s Ryder?” I ask the housekeeper.
“He went out half an hour ago,” she says.
“I see.” I sigh. I want to ask him to call Josephine off. I pull out my phone to check the news and emails. There are over a hundred unread messages and alerts about Ryder.
I check some of the links. Ninety percent of them are about our impending nuptials. Tons of speculation and rumors clog the celeb news blogs. Some are claiming an anonymous source who has “confirmed” that I initially got hired due to my skills as a fellatrix, and now I’m moving onto the bigger prize.
Jeez. The comments are atrocious. Anonymous people are saying the most vicious things about me. Many of them ridicule my weight because that’s the easiest target. Some mock my face or fashion sense. Several call me a gold-digger. A few apparently think I deserve to be run over or die in some other gruesome way for daring to marry someone as perfect as Ryder.
Irritated, I toss the phone back into my purse and push away from the counter. The dinner is only partially eaten, but I don’t have an appetite anymore. My stomach’s knotted, and my lower back hurts from all the damn shopping.
I climb up the stairs to my suite. Once inside, I shower, put on a comfy nightshirt and toss myself on the bed.
Haters gonna hate. I should just get some sleep. If I ignore them long enough, they’ll lose interest and move on.
My phone buzzes. Out of pure habit, I reach for it and say, “Paige Johnson.”
“Hey, lovely. It’s Derek Madison.”
He’s a reporter for The Hollywood News. “Hello,” I say cautiously. He was helpful when we were doing damage control after that woman released the sex tape with the fake Ryder in it, but other than that, we’ve never talked. Ryder has his own publicist who deals with the media.
“First, congratulations. I was floored when I heard.”
“Thank you.”
“Second, Ryder’s publicist is an asshole.”
I chuckle. Christopher Luther is hard-nosed and no-nonsense. “He’s not that bad.”
“Yes, he is. He won’t let anyone interview you.”
That makes me pause. “People want to interview me?”
“Of course! You’re the most interesting woman in Hollywood right now!”
“I had no idea.” The only thing I’ve seen is speculative articles and nasty comments.
“Paige, you have to have your story told.”
“You’re assuming I have a story that needs to be told.”