Page 92 of Prime Time Romance

“Smothers. Tell me what’s going on.”

Her hand finds mine, and as our fingers lace together, Sheldon growls into the microphone.

“You.” Sheldon points his finger straight at my chest with such fervor that I swear I can feel it. “You are not one to take a hint, are you? I tried to be subtle with a well-timed power outage or two, but you managed to screw up being the screw-up!” He shakes his head, the volume of his voice dropping to speaking level. “I should have been more careful. I should never have let you come here. That was my bad. I got impatient.” He continues to pace the stage until he once again stops midstride; this time, his finger is aimed at Brynn. “But you—” He glares. “I expected more from you. It’s one thing that you interfered with my ending for Luce last night. But spending the night with him—” He thrusts his hand in my direction so violently that the microphone shrieks. “Sloan doesn’t belong with Fletcher Scott.”

I open my mouth to argue. To tell him that Sloan may not belong with Fletcher Scott, but Brynn belongs with me.

Brynn, however, steps forward before I can speak. “You know what? You’re right.”

My stomach bottoms out.

“I screwed up big-time,” Brynn continues. “You had a plan for this place, and I messed it all up. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I’m lost.

Brynn and I haven’t had the chance to talk about what happened between us last night, but I thought we were on the same page. No more denying it. No more Spencer. We were going to figure this out together.

“We made a mess of your plans,” Brynn says. “And I’m very sorry for that, and I want to make it up to you.”

She holds her hand out to him as if talking to a small child. “Let’s go talk. Just the two of us. I know how we can make everything right.”

Sheldon sets down the mic, his eyes shifting from Brynn to me.

As he crouches down to jump from the stage, I reach for Brynn’s hand. To get her out of here. To run. To do anything but stay here and comply with this sicko. But Brynn shakes me off.

“You still want to go home, right?” she asks through clenched teeth, her eyes fixated on Sheldon.

“Of course, but—”

“June twenty-first,” she whispers. “I’ll get you home in time. I promise. Trust me, okay?”

“I trust you, but what are you—”

She shakes her head. “I need to go take care of this. But meet me tonight. Seven o’clock. At our spot?”

Sheldon finally reaches us. Brynn points to the door and beckons Sheldon to follow her. I watch as they leave together.

“Are you sure about this?” I yell, just as the door is closing.

There’s a moment when I think I’m too late. But then Brynn’s head reappears around the corner.

“I’m sure,” she says. “I’m going to fix everything.”

26

Brynn

“Five…Six…Five. Six. Seven. Eight.”

“Isn’t She Lovely” croons through the speaker for the 347th time.

My cheeks hurt from smiling.

My arms hurt from the incessant, repetitive port de bras that Poppy keeps yelling about in a fake French accent as we are trying—and failing—to get this opening pageant number to the level “that is expected for a town celebrating seventy-five years of tradition.”

Her words, not mine.

This is all part of my deal with Sheldon. Follow his plan. No opinions. No objections. No funny business.