Page 468 of One More Kiss

Fear that I wouldn’t be able to trust him even if he’d given me no reason not to.

Even after a year, I kept all the dried rose petals from dozens of flowers that sat in a box on my nightstand. I looked at them every day and tried to remember the way he smelled. He always smelled so damn good. Purely male mixed with a hint of amber. It was heaven.

Even though I essentially ignored him for months, he refused to let me forget him, as if I could. One note he sent hit me hard. It said he was giving me all the space I needed, knowing I was working on my book, and that he’d be there when I was ready. He wasn’t giving up—no matter what.

Part of me wondered how long he was going to keep it up and if he was still thinking of me as much as I was thinking of him.

Then the flowers stopped coming a month ago. Right after the book’s release.

First, a week went by, and I didn’t think much of it. I’d been preparing for my book tour, but when another three weeks went by, I knew I’d run out of time. A million thoughts tumbled through my mind. Had he finally gotten over me? Did he meet someone else? Was he done trying? Had I fucked up by not giving him some kind of response that wasn’t wine-induced?

Or worse. Did he see the book and now hate me for it, for sharing those intimate parts of our relationship?

I knew the only person I could blame was myself and admitting that brought more pain than anything else. I was heartbroken all over again, and it was my own damn fault.

* * *

“Vada!”Olivia, my new assistant shouts. She’s been traveling with me and helping keep my schedule straight. The promotional tour for this new book is the biggest and longest I’ve ever done, so my agent suggested bringing someone to help me. Considering there’d be a lot of events and meetings to keep track of, I took her advice and went through an agency to find a highly-qualified assistant.

Blinking, I realize she’s waving her hand in front of my face. “You need more caffeine,” she mutters, pointing to the Styrofoam coffee cup on the table, silently telling me to chug it down.

“I’m fine,” I finally reply, grabbing for the cup anyway. She catches me daydreaming all the time, so I know she’s used to me zoning out on our conversations. “What is it?” I ask before taking a large sip.

“Which outfit do you want to wear?” She’s holding up a dress in each hand. “You have the brunch meet-n-greet at eleven and then the signing from one to four.”

I narrow my eyes, studying each one. They both work just fine, but being in Charleston has me thinking I could maybe—just maybe—see Ethan. As quickly as the thought enters, I push it back out.

“The navy blue one,” I say, pointing to the one in her right hand. “With my cream-colored heels.”

“Great.” She hangs them up. “You can wear your new blazer over it for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I rack my brain, but I can’t remember.

“Yes. You have an intimate meet-n-greet from six to eight.”

I put it in my mental calendar, although I know I’ll forget. Every day of this tour has me so jam-packed that I have a hard time keeping track.

“Thank God you have a great memory.” I sigh.

She turns around before grabbing something and walking toward me. With a loud plop, she tosses a fat notebook on the table.

“I have a great planner,” she corrects. “This is your Bible.”

I arch a brow, amused by her dramatics. “The Bible?”

“Yes, the Bible.” She starts petting it. “Treat it as such, anyway. It has everything in here from your schedule, your coffee orders, your outfit options for each event, your flight itineraries, your sleep schedule.” She pauses to blink up at me. “Everything.”

“Jesus, Liv.” I pull it toward me and start flipping through pages. “Surprised it doesn’t have my menstrual cycle in here.”

“Page twenty-two,” she says, not missing a beat. I look up at her with an arched brow, and she winks. “You think I just know when to pack extra chocolate and pads?” She taps her temple with a finger. “My number one job—keep my author happy.”

I smile. “Wow, I never realized how much you do behind the scenes. Thank you.”

She blushes, and I know our little moment is over. “Okay, well you have twelve minutes to finish your breakfast.” She gives me a pointed look that tells me I better eat.

Grabbing the planner off the table, she walks back to her makeshift office in the opposite corner of the hotel suite while I finish my breakfast.

Exactly twelve minutes later, Olivia is pushing me into the shower and reminding me to shave my legs.

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