“Excuse me,” I said, shoving through the last bit of the crowd. When they parted, someone murmured, “I think that’s her,” and before I could stop them, cameras turned.

Toward me.

Panic zipped through me as I finally reached Clay just as he turned the next page.

“Clay and Giana made a deal — he would help her get the attention of the Prince of Rum & Roasters, and she would help him make his ex-girlfriend jealous. How? By agreeing to fake date each other.” He turned the page, showing the two stick figures locked in a hug as people watched. “Except, there was nothing fake about what they felt for each other.”

My heart squeezed, and as much as I wanted to hear the rest of whatever was in that poor excuse for a book, I reached out for his jersey and tugged.

“Clay, stop.”

He looked down at me. “No.”

“Clay,” I whisper-threatened through my teeth, trying to remain as professional as I could. I turned toward the crowd. “If you all want to take a quick break, we’ll have Holden Moore in here in ten minutes to answer more questions,” I tried.

No one budged.

Least of all Clay.

“No,” he said again, hopping off the chair and down to the floor in front of me. My breath caught as his scent enveloped me, as he stepped closer and closer until we were chest to chest.

Or rather, chest to abdomen.

“No, I won’t stop. I can’t stop, Giana. I can’t hide or pretend anymore. I can’t let my pride keep me from being honest and admitting that I fuuu—”

He paused, an awkward smile on his lips as he amended his language.

“Messed up. Bad.”

I swallowed, ribs squeezing painfully tight around my lungs.

“I hurt you. I know I did. And I also know that I don’t deserve the chance to explain everything to you, to admit my wrongs and ask for your forgiveness.” His brows folded together. “But I’m going to anyway. Because I love you, Giana Jones.”

The room was aflutter, cameras flashing and microphones being shoved as close to us as they could manage as Clay moved in closer, one hand moving up to sweep my hair out of my face.

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter this time, as if he only wanted me to hear. “I love your smutty books, and your weird documentaries, and your obsession with orange, processed snacks.”

I choked on something between a laugh and a sob.

“I love the way you dress, and the way you light up when you talk about the universe, and the way you saw through every wall I tried to put between me and the rest of the world and knew who I was even when I didn’t.”

He shook his head, licking his lips before he continued.