Page 239 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I do what I want, write whatever I want, and fuck, I’ve never been happier.

Now, that’s not to say my career is the only reason I’m over-the-moon happy.

The main reason is her.

My Hadley.

“Where’d you go?” Her voice brings me back, and I shake my head, snapping out of it.

“Sorry, I was just thinking.”

She laughs. “Well, can you do that while we’re getting in the car? We’re going to be late.”

I nod. “Lead the way.”

My girlfriend smiles, checks her outfit and makeup in the mirror one last time, and walks out of our bedroom.

What she doesn’t know is by the time we come back tonight…

I’m hoping she’ll be my fiancée.

* * *

HADLEY

I can’t believe I’m having my first gallery opening.

You hear that, me?

You did it.

Nausea crawls up my throat as I run around the gallery, triple-checking each painting to make sure they are properly labeled.

I have no idea what to expect from tonight. Will I sell out? God, what if I don’t sell anything? What if I have to go home with all of these paintings at the end of the night?

What if nobody comes?

“They’ll be here,” Kane says, and I inhale a sharp breath, grabbing a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray.

It freaks me out when he does that. Mostly because it makes me wonder if he’s a mind reader. It’s bad enough that my heart and soul belong to him. Now, you’re telling me my thoughts do, too?

I feel his presence behind me, and my shoulders release all tension when he wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Breathe. You’re going to kill it.”

I sure hope he’s right.

It’s weird that I still get the jitters, considering how far I’ve come in the past four years. But I don’t think I’ll ever see the day where I’m so cocky I just assume everything I do is going to be a hit.

I could be a multimillionaire and still pray that people will show up to my event.

The gallery staff notifies me that they’ll be opening the door in a few minutes, and I tense in Kane’s embrace. He responds by taking my hand from behind and lacing our fingers together.

“Ready?” Kane whispers in my ear when the clock strikes seven.

This is it.

“Let’s do it.” I give a small nod, squeezing his hand before releasing it.

The next thing I know, the large wooden doors of the gallery are flying open, letting in a steady influx of people I realize were waiting in line.

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