“And she’s your main squeeze? Your steady? Your one?”
“That’s my hope.”
Her dark eyes twinkle. “Sometimes you have to take a chance.”
At her words, a final piece of tonight’s puzzle crystallizes for me. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say. I seize the chance to share what just sparked in my brain. “Can I tell you what I was thinking of doing?”
She stabs her desk with her finger. “You better.”
I outline the idea for her, and Angeline’s grin smacks of complete approval. “You better go. Now.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. “Thank you. For everything,” I say from the bottom of my heart.
Then, with fleet feet, I take off for the theater in Chelsea. A third chance with Bellamy rests entirely on what happens next. Time to attempt to scale that wall. She is worth it. She’s worth everything.
46
Special Edition
I fly out of the subway on Eighth Avenue, headed to the theater. I’m not due to meet Bellamy until after seven, but we’ve always played the get-there-early game. One-upmanship has been our thing since the beginning, and I hope it keeps working for us beyond today, beyond tomorrow.
As I near the theater, I check the time again. Five forty-five. At six, she starts recording her special edition podcast before a live audience. This grovel fest I’m planning has three stages—the third one is the go-for-broke phase.
Grabbing my phone, I click on the digital ticket I snagged last night. Admission to the show is free, but the event is sold out. Well, she is a popular podcaster. I bound up the steps, flash the screen at the ticket counter, then go inside.
The full house lets me blend in. I head down the aisle, snagging a seat in the eighth row. Close, but not too close. A royal blue chair commands center stage, talk-show style, single host. Behind the chair hangs a banner—it’s a caricature of a woman bending to smooch one of the frogs that surround her.
In the house are two podiums at each aisle, with mics set up on both for audience questions.
The theater is packed, and just before six, a voice over the loudspeaker says, “Please take your seats. The five-hundredth episode of Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs is about to begin.”
Bellamy has made a helluva name for herself. There’s a charge in the air, a spark of energy as the audience goes quiet, waiting for their romance goddess.
The click of high heels comes from backstage.
Gets louder.
And Bellamy strides out into the light.
The crowd goes wild. It’s electric, the reception they give the brunette in skinny jeans, a black top, and red heels. She’s beautiful, powerful, vulnerable . . . and open to love as she waves at the crowd.
“Hey there, dear listeners! It is so good to see all of you.” Bellamy stops, blows out a breath. “Wow. Just look at you. I am a lucky lady. And I am pleased to be your Most Devoted Guide to Romance. What a treat to be here tonight for a live, special edition. Did you bring your questions?”
The audience roars, and my heart thumps.
Pride suffuses me. I can’t stop grinning. I’m so amazed at what she’s pulled off. Building this show. Nurturing this dream. Damn good thing she went to Bryn to wrestle all this back. She deserves full control of her production, and I’m so glad she has it.
Glad, too, that she hasn’t spotted me yet.
I wait patiently as she talks about the upcoming cuffing season, then as she shares new tips for dating profiles. Ten minutes in, she takes a seat, flashes her winning smile, and says in a playful, sexy purr: “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? I think I know why. You want to ask me questions, right?”
The audience cheers.
She crosses her legs, and beckons with her fingers. “Hit me up, dear listeners.” With a delighted grin, she squints, scanning the crowd as arms shoot up. “Oh, I see you came armed and ready, did ya?”
She continues her visual tour of the crowd, and when her eyes reach me, she does a double take. But she’s not a pro for nothing. She’s deep in the host zone as she tackles the first question from the audience with a professional grin.
A line forms at both podiums, and I get up and join at the back of the queue. As the clock ticks, audience members toss out their questions, and Bellamy seamlessly answers them all with charm, wit, and honesty.
Finally, it’s my turn at the mic.
The woman who owns my heart and dick gestures to me. “Hey, there, cowboy. What brings you here tonight?”
Cowboy.
That term of endearment sends my heart racing.
Here goes everything. Fuck nerves. Fuck worries. Fuck fucking up. “If a man embarked on a great grovel quest to make up for screwing things up with a woman, when would an ideal time be for a big gesture?” But before she can answer, I tack on an addendum. “For instance, would you say tomorrow? Or later tonight? Or, say, just off the top of my head, right now?”