Hot Mess (Life Sucks Book 2)
Page 15
And they weren’t letting go.
Epilogue
Part Two—That’s the Shot
Shannon, A Year Later
She was wearing a fancy dress and big ol’ heels.
But that wasn’t the most surreal thing.
No, the most surreal thing was that she’d gotten used to the flashes of lights, used to the red carpet, used to the cameras occasionally being pointed in her direction, used to the odd story here or there on the gossip sites.
It hadn’t been the odd story at first.
For a while, after news of their small wedding had broken, it had been all the stories.
But Stoneybrook was still their safe place.
The odd paparazzo found their way into town now and then, but Stoneybrook’s residents always pulled rank, tightened their inner circle, and froze the photographers out. They quickly found out that the long trip to town wasn’t worth the mediocre pictures.
Time had passed.
The media had moved on to the next story.
Finn still left to film movies, though he’d lightened his promotion and shooting schedule considerably so he could spend more time with his girls. Shan still taught third grade, and Rylie was now in second grade—well, almost done with second. And to celebrate the end of another school year, as well as some expensive lawyering—cough, movie star perks—Finn had formally adopted Ry.
So, things were the same.
And yet, so, so different.
They were a family. They’d been welcomed by Finn’s parents and siblings. They had ties and connections and a house that was often loud and full to bursting with people and voices and love. And . . . Shan had piles of textbooks at home, online courses in progress, now knowing that while she still wanted to work with kids, instead of being solely in the classroom, she wanted to focus more on educational intervention and social support. She wanted to help the kids who were falling behind, wanted to stop them from slipping between the cracks.
It paid even less than being a teacher.
But funny how being married to a movie star made that less of a worry. Ha.
Looking decent in front of a bunch of flashbulbs while six months pregnant, on the other hand, was a bigger one.
“Shannon!”
“Look here!”
“Shan!”
Thankfully, she’d practiced for this moment. She’d gotten the posing tips, her hair done, her dress from a designer and yet, underneath it all, she was just a normal mom. Maybe she had never fit in with the rail-thin, blonde-beauty princesses in all the fairy tales she’d yearned for, but now she didn’t mind that her hair was dark, that she was very far away from those skinny, fictional stereotypes.
She had her happy ending.
She didn’t need to fit into a story or a film or—
“Blue Eyes.”
A shiver skated down her spine.
Despite the calls of her name, she’d been hanging to the side, letting the big stars do the heavy lifting of photo-call. This movie may have been inspired partly by Shannon’s life, partly by a book Lexy had given Finn on her first visit to Stoneybrooke, but this film was really just an ode to all the women who weren’t “typical” heroines. And the driving force to get it made, the one who’d had the vision for the project in the first place, the one who’d given a lot of the money, and definitely the one who’d devoted an almost endless amount of hours into finding people who could carry out that vision had been Finn.
He’d heard her talk about the princesses and storylines.
He’d heard her talk about how she felt different and less.
He’d heard her talk about how she’d never seen people who looked like her on screen growing up, and he didn’t want Rylie, didn’t want other boys and girls like Rylie to have that experience.
So, this.
Lending his name but taking a backseat in acting and directing. Funding different stories by different authors. Finding people with like minds to work with, to act in, to direct and produce who may not have otherwise had the opportunity.
“Ready to go?” he asked, pulling her into the present by cupping her cheek, staring down at her like there weren’t a million cameras pointed at them and flashbulbs going off.
She smiled at her husband, staring up at the love of her life, who’d come and found her on the sidelines, who’d never put her there, who would never let her stay there, even if she put herself there. He would always find her, would always protect and cherish her.
And that was everything she’d ever dreamed about.
That was her happily ever after.
“Yeah, baby,” she murmured.
He brushed a kiss over her forehead, leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Let’s go home.”
She nodded, let her body drift toward his. “Yes,” she murmured. “You’ve finally given me those promised thirty pounds”—he’d just finished filming a flick in a popular superhero franchise and had bulked up for it—“I need to take advantage of it.”
Just as she’d expected when bringing up their private joke, Finn started laughing, warm honey eyes on hers, one hand still resting on her cheek, the other dropping to her belly.
She rose on tiptoe, pressed her lips to his.
Flashes went off.
She’d had her press lessons. She’d practiced and prepped. She’d studied up.
And because of that, Shannon knew this was the shot that would be everywhere tomorrow.
She dropped back to her heels, the love in his eyes feeding her soul, filling her heart. Yeah, she could live with that, with this man loving her.
And with the thirty pounds.
Epilogue
Part Three, Dumpster Fire
Rob
It was probably a morbid birthday tradition for him to be in a graveyard, a beer at his hip, a bouquet of daisies laid across his late wife’s headstone.
But . . . the daisies had been her favorite.
Well, the beer had been her favorite, too.
His best friend, his buddy, his love. Carmella had watched more sports than him, had gotten him turned onto IPAs, had dished shit his way more than anyone else. And . . . he’d loved her more than anything.
But now she was gone, and he was sitting in the graveyard on his birthday, because it was something to do when his life was filled with absolutely nothing.
Cool.
Super positive outlook you have there.
The mental voice was Carmella’s, and it was no surprise she was giving him shit from the other side of the grave.
He just wished she was around to give it in person.
That wasn’t to be, of course.
And it was time he stopped grieving. Or if not that, then it was time he stopped hanging around in the graveyard. Because he’d had enough beers to admit that he’d spent more than just his birthday here.
A lot more.
Stop moping, Rob.
Sighing, he collected his empties and stood, slightly wavering because the bottles numbered four, but that was okay because Stoneybrook was a small ass town and his house was all of two blocks away.
He weaved his way through the graves, dumped the bottles in the trash can near the exit, and started walking along the road.
It was dark, nearing midnight, with only the moon to light his way.
But again, that was okay. Because he’d done this walk more times than he could count.
The town was quiet, having rolled up its streets hours before.
So, the last thing Rob expected was the car.
He’d just stepped out of the shadows across the road from his house when he saw the headlights . . . coming right toward him.
He froze.
This was it. This was when his loneliness would end, when he would finally see Carmella again. Finally.
The car screeched to a halt.
Inches from him. Close enough he could feel the heat of the engine, hear the ticking of the metal parts inside the transmission.
Then the door f
lew open, and he saw heels appear on the street. High, high heels Carmella would never wear. Bare ankles, calves, and knees appeared and then a glimpse of thigh encased in a short, tight skirt. Another thing Carmella would never wear.
“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing crossing the street without looking in the middle of the night?” the woman yelled.
That was Carmella.
Fierce. Tough.
But this wasn’t his Carmella. Rob wobbled slightly, the beers catching up with him, even as he had the distinct thought that this woman was. Not. His. Carmella.
“It’s my birthday,” he muttered.
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s the pope’s birthday—” She broke off.
Probably because right then he bent at the waist and puked all over his own shoes.
He couldn’t even summon up the strength to be embarrassed . . . because the moment after his stomach was emptied, the whole world went black.
The last thing he heard was,
“Shit. Motherfucker. Son of a bitch!”
And that made him smile.
Because that mouth was his Carmella.
Dumpster Fire
Coming February 2021. Preorder your copy at www.books2read.com/dumpsterfire
Life Sucks
Train Wreck
Hot Mess
Dumpster Fire
Also by Elise Faber
Billionaire’s Club (all stand alone)
Bad Night Stand
Bad Breakup
Bad Husband
Bad Hookup
Bad Divorce
Bad Fiancé
Bad Boyfriend
Bad Blind Date
Bad Wedding
Bad Engagement (October 12th, 2020)
Love, Action, Camera (all stand alone)
Dotted Line
Action Shot
Close-Up
End Scene
Love After Midnight (all stand alone)
Rum and Notes
Virgin Daiquiri
Gold Hockey (all stand alone)
Blocked
Backhand
Boarding
Benched
Breakaway
Breakout
Checked
Coasting
Centered
Life Sucks Series (all stand alone)
Train Wreck
Hot Mess (August 3rd, 2020)
Roosevelt Ranch Series (all stand alone, series complete)
Disaster at Roosevelt Ranch
Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch
Collision at Roosevelt Ranch
Regret at Roosevelt Ranch
Desire at Roosevelt Ranch
Phoenix Series (read in order)
Phoenix Rising
Dark Phoenix
Phoenix Freed
Phoenix: LexTal Chronicles (rereleasing soon, stand alone, Phoenix world)
From Ashes
In Flames
To Smoke
KTS Series
Fire and Ice (Hurt Anthology, stand alone)
Stand Alones
Someday, Maybe (YA)
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author, Elise Faber, loves chocolate, Star Wars, Harry Potter, and hockey (the order depending on the day and how well her team -- the Sharks! -- are playing). She and her husband also play as much hockey as they can squeeze into their schedules, so much so that their typical date night is spent on the ice. Elise changes her hair color more often than some people change their socks, loves sparkly things, and is the mom to two exuberant boys. She lives in Northern California. Connect with her in her Facebook group, the Fabinators or find more information about her books at www.elisefaber.com.