Page 101 of Saxon

So far I've seen six A-list actors, a famous rockstar and his super-model girlfriend, a pop megastar and her athlete boyfriend, several supermodels with hulking bodyguards and boyfriends in skin-tight leather pants, and entourages of hangers-on.

No one less than a B-list star, therefore. Millionaires. Billionaires.

Saxon will fit right in, with his blond Adonis build, perfect features, scary scar, and killer green eyes.

And then…there's me.

"What was I thinking?" I whisper, voice shrill. "I can't go in there, wearing this, with women who have literally worn dresses made for them by top-name designers on the actual red fucking carpet! Me and my homemade fucking piece of shit. Me and my fat ass and my belly." Tears haze my eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hey." His tone is firm, hard. "Cut the shit, Terra Connelly. This is no time to wallow in self-pity."

"Fuck you," I snap. "You're perfect. You can eat a whole goddamn pizza and it'll just go to your stupid muscles. I eat one fucking pretzel and I gain ten pounds in my left ass cheek." I point angrily at the castle. "It's a castle! Filled with fucking famous people—professionally attractive famous people!"

"Terra, honey. Look at me." I can't disobey that soft, loving tone. Yes, loving. "You're perfect."

"I'm fucking terrified." I can barely hear my own whisper.

"I swear to you by the brand on my arm, the brand marking me as a Broken Arrow, I will not leave your side. I'll beat the shit out of any man or woman who dares look at you with anything less than fucking awe." He touches my chin. "Look at me. Look at me, goddammit."

I've turned my eyes away, unable to handle the love in his. "Stop. I'm trying not to cry."

"Look at me, woman." I do, and his eyes are deadly serious. "I love you. You can do this. Your hand in mine, every step of the way."

I swallow hard, tip my head back. Breathe. "You love me. I can do this. My hand in yours, every step of the way."

"That's right."

"I can do this."

"You faced down Camilla Marccione, and she wants to be your friend. A bunch of entitled fucking asshole celebrities will be a walk in the park."

"It's Jean-Paul we have to impress."

"And you will." He rummages in the glove box and comes out with a package of Kleenex. I fold one and blink into it, dab, blink. Check my eyes in the mirror—still good.

Look at him finally. "You said it.”

"I know, but it seemed like the right time."

I can't smile yet—I'm too scared, still. "I'm not saying it yet."

"Don't. I see it, honey. I feel it. You'll say it when you're ready. If that's a year from now, or ten years, or never, I don't care."

"Liar."

"Told you, I'd never lie to you."

I inhale deeply, hold my breath, count to five, and let it out. "Let's do this."

He nods, tosses the key fob in the cupholder, and exits, circling to my side. Opens my door for me, beating the valet who was moving to do it. The other valet is behind the car, examining the bullet marks with a curious expression. Saxon tries to tip them, but the valet just shakes his head.

"No, thank you, sir. We are paid very, very well, sir."

Saxon shrugs. "Cool. Keep it close, yeah?"

With a nod, he climbs behind the wheel and the Rover glides away. The other valet escorts us to the bridge, gesturing.

Saxon tangles his fingers with mine and saunters casually onto the bridge, past the stoic, hard-eyed guards.