Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet 2)

Leaning my head on his broad shoulder, I whisper, “What a ride.”

“Baby,” Savage says, kissing the top of my head. “I promise the best of our ride is yet to come.”

Thirty-Five

Savage

Laila and I are sitting in the backseat of our SUV with our usual driver and bodyguard, supposedly heading to our reality TV mansion in Malibu for the last time. In actuality, though, we’re headed a few miles down the road to my new, kickass pad—the fully furnished, four bedroom, cliffside home Reed helped me find and purchase, and which Amalia and Georgina helped me personalize and perfect. And I’m losing my fucking mind.

When we arrive at my new house, I’m not only going to tell Laila the shocking news that the place is mine, and that I want her to move in with me, I’m also going to get down on my knee and ask Laila to be my wife. Not for pretend. Not for a bonus. And certainly not with a ring supplied to me by a sponsor of Sing Your Heart Out. No, I’m going to ask Laila to marry me for real, with a million-dollar rock I personally paid for and picked out for her, although I admit I made my final decision about which ring to purchase with the help of Amalia, Georgina, and Sasha on FaceTime. Because, for fuck’s sake, a guy’s got to put it all on the line when he asks the woman of his dreams to marry him, including laying down his own goddamned money. Plus, I never would have forfeited the chance to see Mimi’s little diamond shining like the most beautiful star in heaven in the setting of my future wife’s ring.

“. . . during the celebration,” Laila is saying, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Hmm? Sorry. I was zoning out.”

Laila smiles. “I said I liked seeing you having fun with Fish and Colin during the celebration. It seems like you’ve buried the hatchet with Colin.”

“Yeah, you were spot-on about that whole thing. Plus, Dr. Reynolds told me I should mend fences whenever I can, so . . .”

Laila’s smile broadens. She’s already made it clear she’s beyond thrilled I’ve started seeing a therapist once a week.

“I think you’d like seeing someone, too,” I say, reacting to Laila’s smile. “After only a few sessions with Dr. Reynolds, I’m already realizing my childhood has affected me far more than I’ve ever understood. I bet it’d be the same for you.”

Laila nods. “Aloha has a therapist she adores. I’ll ask her for the name.”

“Good.”

Our phones buzz at the same time, and we look down to find a group text from Reed, sent not only to Laila and me, but to Fish and Alessandra, as well, letting us know our cheeseball duet is now sitting at number one on the daily singles downloads chart.

“Yes!” Laila says, laughing.

“I have a feeling that sappy love song is going to make us a boatload of money, Fitzy.”

“Woohoo!” Laila says exuberantly, and we high-five. She bites her lip, contemplating something for a moment. “Is it weird I don’t feel any emotional connection whatsoever to that song?”

“I feel the same way. That’s because the song isn’t about us.”

“I’m glad it’s not,” Laila replies. “I wouldn’t have wanted to bare my entire soul and the deepest depths of my love for you for the first time on national TV.”

I furrow my brow, as the implication of what Laila just said hits me. “You’re saying you haven’t bared your entire soul to me yet?”

Laila shakes her head. “I’ve told you how much I love you in words. But telling you how I feel in a song would be a whole other level.” She smiles shyly. “I’ve actually written a love song to you. I’ve been working on it for a while now, but haven’t felt ready to play it for you . . . until now.” She bites her lip. “Now that we’ve finally got the duet behind us, I’m suddenly dying to play it for you when we get home.”

My heart skips a beat as tingles skate across my skin. I’ve been feeling close to positive Laila will say yes when I propose to her tonight, but, somehow, hearing her say she’s written a love song to me, and is now ready to play it for me, obliterates any last irrational shreds of doubt I’ve been harboring. Laila is a true artist. Which means, although she’s damned good at expressing herself in words, it’s when she sings and plays her piano that her truest voice can be heard.

I take Laila’s hand and squeeze it. “I can’t wait to hear the song.”

My phone buzzes in my lap and I look down. This time, the incoming text is from my manager, Eli. When Laila and I first got into the car, I relayed Aloha’s message about her compensation package, and now, Eli is telling me he’s already in the midst of a back-and-forth with producers that makes him feel confident their next written offer, which will be coming shortly, will be in line with Aloha’s deal.