Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet Book 2) Rowe, Lauren (read aloud TXT) 📖

precious token. And, finally, we wrap up our video with a little kiss on the mouth and a joyful “See you next time!”

When I turn off my camera, I plop my phone onto the coffee table in front of us and exhale. “I think it’s distinctly possible by the end of the season, these daily videos will feel like a colossal pain in the ass.”

“By the end of the season?” Savage says, his expression making it clear he already feels that way.

A buzz simultaneously emanates from both our phones on the coffee table, and we grab them, curious to see who’s texted us. It’s Reed Rivers, telling us he wants us to write a “sappy, classic love song” as soon as possible—a single we’ll perform in the show’s finale and release that same day. Reed writes, “Send me the bones of the song within a week or so, to give us enough time to get it fully produced before the finale.”

I look up from my phone and wait a beat for Savage to finish reading. When he looks up, I say, “I think a week to write one song is doable. Do you?”

“In theory, yeah. But I’ve never written a ‘sappy, classic love song’ before. I’ve never even written a straight-up love song.”

“You’ve heard my songs. Sappy love songs aren’t exactly in my wheelhouse, either.” It’s the truth. I’m known for writing breakup songs. You-did-me-wrong songs. Or, on occasion, damn-boy-you’re-so-fine songs. But never the kind of song Reed has requested. “I still think we can do it, though,” I say. “All we have to do is treat this like a creative writing project. We’ll write the song as if we’re writing it about some other couple—a perfect, sweet one who’s ‘couple goals.’”

Savage scowls. “‘Perfect and sweet’ isn’t my goal, Laila.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not mine, either. But you know what is my goal? Making a whole lot of money off this song. And ‘perfect and sweet’ is the world’s couple goals, so that’s what we’ll write. God help us, if we infuse too much of our actual personalities into the lyrics, the song will be about a couple fucking in a shower.”

Savage’s face lights up. “And in a bathtub, a hot tub, a pool . . . a rainstorm . . .”

I snicker. True to his word, Savage arranged for a doctor to come to the set today during one of our breaks—a real one, not a dude who plays one on TV—and we both got our “all clear” results during the drive home.

“You know what I think we should do to get into the mindset to write this song?” I say. “We’ll pretend we’re writing the soundtrack to a romantic movie—like, you know, something unapologetically sweet. Like, I don’t know, we’ll pretend we’ve been asked to write the ‘big song’ for a remake of Ghost.”

“I haven’t seen that one. But I get your drift, I think.”

“You haven’t seen Ghost?” I shout incredulously.

Savage shrugs. “I think this is going to be a running theme, Laila. So I’d ration your outrage, if I were you.”

“But Ghost is one of the greatest movies ever made! I got my pottery wheel after seeing that one. It’s so romantic. A total tear-jerker.”

“Yecch. I hate tear jerkers.”

“Well, too bad, because we’re watching it now. Ghost is the perfect movie to inspire our song!” I pick up the remote control exuberantly. “Fire up the popcorn maker, Adrian! We’re going to snuggle up and watch the most romantic movie ever made, and then sit down and write the sweetest, sappiest love song ever written in fifteen minutes flat!”

* * *

So much for writing a love song after watching Ghost. The only thing that movie inspired Savage to do was demand that I immediately teach him how to work my pottery wheel. And I’m such a dork for my wheel, I leaped off the couch and sprinted up here with glee to get the thing fired up. Yes, I’m well aware Savage’s request was nothing but a ruse to be able to make out while using the wheel, the same way Demi and Patrick do in the movie. But I don’t care. I’d never pass up the chance to watch Savage’s talented fingers molding wet, spinning clay. Plus, bonus points, Savage is shirtless as he works, and his face is wearing an expression of extreme concentration. In short, he’s fatally gorgeous right now.

“How are you already so good at this?” I say, mesmerized by the bowl taking shape underneath his fingertips. He’s making it for Mimi, of course, as a Christmas present, he said, even though he’s already bought the woman a house for Christmas.

“It took me weeks to get anything to take shape that symmetrically,” I marvel as Savage slowly continues coaxing the clay into form. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You lied.”

Savage chuckles. “I swear I’ve never done this. I’ve always been pretty good with my hands, though. This feels intuitive to me.”

Damn straight, you’re good with your hands, I think. I watch for a moment longer, before putting up my palm. “Okay, I think that’s enough. You should stop now.”

Savage doesn’t stop.

“Adrian, seriously,” I say. “Stop now. If you make the clay too thin on the edges, it’ll flop over.”

“I just want to make the top rim a bit thinner.”

“If you overwork the clay—"

“Nooo!” Savage shouts dramatically as the edge of his creation flops over and then wobbles asymmetrically on the wheel, before abruptly turning into nothing but a marred, spinning blob. Savage lifts his bare foot from the wheel’s pedal, bringing the turntable to a stop, and looks at me. He grimaces adorably. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

I giggle. “It shouldn’t be too hard to fix. If it is, we’ll start again. That’s life. In the meantime, though . . .” I get up and move to him, spread his thighs wide, enough to accommodate me kneeling between them, and then look up at him and say, “As it turns