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

my dressing room, however, someone knocks on it. “Laila?” a voice I recognize as belonging to a PA shouts. “Time to take your mark for the duet!”

“Coming!”

As I follow the production assistant through the backstage area to the spot where I’ll await my cue to walk onstage, I look around frantically for Savage, so I can tell him everything that needs to be said. But he’s nowhere to be found.

Finally, when the PA and I arrive in the wings, I see Savage standing across from me in the wings on the other side of the large stage. Crap. I forgot the director decided at the last minute he wants Savage and me to start singing from opposite ends of the large stage, and then walk toward each other during the first verse. I’m sure that blocking will make for a delightfully dramatic performance and all, but, unfortunately, it means I won’t have a chance to talk to Savage before we start singing.

“Okay, Laila, stand by,” the PA whispers, a hand on her headset. “Three, two . . .” She gestures toward the outer edge of the stage, and I take my mark in the dark, my heart thrumming. I accept a live mic handed to me by a crew member and inhale deeply, just as Sunshine Vaughn bellows, “And now, it’s Savage and Laila, performing the world premiere of their duet, ‘Perfect for Me’!”

The audience applauds wildly, the lights come on, the band kicks off, and Savage and I begin walking slowly toward each other across the large stage, as planned. I sing first in the song—a line about Savage being imperfectly perfect. Blah, blah. And he replies that I’m a “Picasso”—a bit of a mess, with my colors bleeding outside the lines, yet always a “work of art” to him. Blah, blah. And by the time we sing in unison in the chorus about being imperfectly perfect for each other, we’ve both reached the middle of the stage.

I’m giving the song my all, which thankfully quiets the raging storm in my head. And I can tell Savage is giving it his all, too, even though he’s been clear he thinks the song is a “gigantic cheese-fest.” And by the time we reach our final, soaring notes, there’s no doubt the audience is transfixed.

After we sing our last note together, the band plays the song’s melodic outro, and, just like that, everything I was thinking before the music started playing crashes into me, all over again. I lean forward, intending to say, “Get the bonus, Savage!” . . . but freeze when Savage touches his pocket like he’s about to slide his hand inside and grab something.

I wait. Hold my breath. And as the music ends, Savage touches his pocket again . . . and then unceremoniously drops his empty hand to his side.

Fuck!

I lean in and whisper to him through my smile, like I’m a ventriloquist who’s speaking through a dummy, “Bonus. Now.” But Savage remains frozen and smiling at me as the audience applauds wildly.

I lean forward, intending to repeat my command, but when I do, Savage goes in for a kiss, making the audience applaud even more wildly. Flustered, I break away from his lips and whisper into his ear, “Get the bonus!” And in reply, Savage grabs my hand and raises it with his, like we’re actors executing a Broadway curtain call.

When the audience roars again, Savage puts his arm around me and pulls me close, making it pretty damned clear he’s not about to kneel before me.

I’m shocked at how long the lights and cameras have remained trained on us, without turning off or the show cutting to commercial. The director is letting this post-performance moment go on for much longer than usual, isn’t he? But finally, the bright lights in our faces fade to black. The little red light on the camera directly in front of us turns off. And the director yells, “And we’re clear!”

So, that’s it.

In the end, Savage decided not to propose. Not even for pretend. Not even to recoup a million bucks out of the four million he forfeited because of me. Not even when he was offered a free freaking ring from some fancy jeweler. I have no doubt Savage loves me with all his heart. For crying out loud, the man secretly paid two million bucks to keep me on the show, netting him literally nothing in salary for three months of hard work. But the fact remains, no matter how much Savage loves me, proposing to me—even if only for pretend—was a bridge too far for him.

I shouldn’t feel disappointed about that. But if I’m being honest, I do. I desperately wanted Savage to earn that bonus. But even more so, I want Savage to want to marry me! Yes! My feelings are so clear now. More than any amount of money or fame or success in my career, I want to marry Adrian—and I want him to feel the same way.

When the lights turn off, a PA immediately escorts Savage and me offstage, before I’ve had a chance to say a word to him. She compliments our performance and instructs us to wait with her in the wings while Sunshine announces this season’s winner. “Once Sunshine makes the announcement,” the PA explains, “the winning judge will run onstage to congratulate their contestant for a moment, before the remainder of the cast joins the winning judge and contestant onstage for the ‘big celebration.’”

“It’s gonna be Addison,” Savage whispers to me, referring to the blue-haired cutie who’s amassed an unprecedented army of fans since the first audition episode aired.

I take a deep breath. That’s what he wants to talk about, after what he just decided not to do out there—who’s going to be crowned this season’s winner on the show? “It’d better be,” I whisper, even though there are a thousand other things I want to say, if we were alone. Or maybe, if only I had the