“Ha.” Him falling in love with me wasn’t a risk, though him breaking my heart was a strong possibility. The limo slowed beside the white tent that housed the red carpet area.
Vidal’s hand tightened on mine. “Ready?”
It was just after noon in June in LA, which meant ninety-degree temperatures and a balmy thickness to the air that instantly caused beads of moisture to collect in the dip in the small of my back. I carefully touched my upper lip, verifying that it was sweat-free, and cursed my decision to wear a high-necked gown. Holding my arms slightly out from my body, I prayed the extra-strength clear deodorant would work.
Vidal, in his green velvet jacket, had to be boiling. He held a stack of one-sheets with bullet points listing my accomplishments, which were comically weak, but this was an awards show hosted by MTV, he had reminded me. This wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of talent, and as long as you could entertain, you had a shot at the press.
That’s how those first two hours went. Me, awkward and alone, in four-inch heels that were already rubbing a raw spot on the back of my left foot, listening as Vidal tried to sell me to anyone in the press crowd who would listen to him. A few bit, and I had five interviews in total, the questions short and basic, nothing that I could twist into a semi-interesting reply. I shifted onto my toes, hoping for relief, and felt my stomach cramp in hunger. Vidal had granola bars for us both, and I fought the urge to dip my fingers into the edge of his pocket and pull them out myself.
I smoothed a hand down the front of my flat and empty stomach, the black sequined surface of my dress reminding me of those pillows that changed colors depending on which way their fabric lay. I twisted to one side, feigning nonchalance, as if I always stood by myself, both wanting and not wanting a chance to be seen, and that’s when I saw Cash.
He had dark jeans and a faded dusk-gray t-shirt on. His hair was tousled, and getting a little long on top, the ends beginning to curl—a hint of what would come if he let it continue. His facial hair was a few days old, dusting across his strong jaw, and the short sleeves of his shirt showed off the tattoo that ran along the inside of one forearm. He crossed his arms, tucking both palms against his ribcage as he bent slightly forward, trying to hear what the petite interviewer with the giant microphone before him was saying. Beside her, two others jockeyed into position, anxious for their shot at him. I took the stolen chance while his attention was captured and stared.
He was painfully good looking. The kind that took your breath away so quickly that there was a sharp pain in your lungs from the absence. And effortlessly cool. While Vidal wiped at his glistening forehead with his monogrammed handkerchief, and I gnawed away some of my lipstick in a dress that had been cinched painfully tight around my ribcage, Cash was entirely at ease. He laughed, and I looked away, second-guessing my plan.
He probably hadn’t even seen the video I had made—the one that had coasted up a small ramp of viral, but nothing compared to his average post. It would be ridiculous for me to bring up the jokes I had made at his expense, the snarled insults I had flung freely into the black eye of my camera, the story of our date that I had recapped in almost excruciating and embarrassing detail.
“Emma, this is Rae Micks with Self Magazine.” Vidal thrust a short girl with coke-bottle glasses in front of me. “Rae thinks that reality tv is dead. What’s your take?”
I caught a faint whiff of coconut and sunscreen and would bet you, without needing to look, that Cash had moved closer.
“Reality tv is my favorite kind of tv.” I fought the urge not to lean back into the smell, the gravel of his voice sounded from behind me and to the left. “I like the ugly side of things, and the truth shows that.”
That quote later resurfaced, once the show came out, once the lawsuits happened and the tabloids went nuts. It was thrown back in my face, like I knew anything about reality tv back then, like I had been anything other than a scared girl, standing in front of a reporter, hoping she would love him.
Yeah, I stole that from Notting Hill. So?
I was already in my seat when Cash paused, mid-aisle, and considered me.
“Oh.” I stood, my knees knocking against the seat in front of me, and flattened myself back, trying to give him room to move by and to his place.
He faced the stage as he passed, the fit tight as he moved by and folded down the seat next to mine, settling in and keeping his arm off the rest.
I was right about the scent—definitely him. I shrugged not to bury my face in his shoulder and inhale deeply, like a crazy person.
There was a long period of nothing, where I rearranged the cross of my legs, and he stared down at his program.
“Hi,” I managed.
He lifted his head and looked at me. “Hi.”
Direct eye contact with Cash Mitchell was a powerful thing. It knocked my next words loose from my head. I looked down at the thin black clutch I held on my lap and fingered the ornate silver clasp of it, wishing for the distraction of my phone.
“This is my first award show.” I didn’t look up, keeping my focus tight on the purse. Why had I told him that? The point was to be COOL, and I’d already flunked that. I’d failed that the minute I’d stepped onto the red carpet and realized how MF hot it was outside.
He didn’t respond, and my mouth diarrhea continued. “It’s a little nerve-wracking, talking to the reporters.”
He flung his arm out and across the back of the empty spot beside him, and I wished I’d waited until right before the show to take my seat.
“You have lots of experience with it. Obviously. I guess you’ve been interviewing from birth.” I tried to laugh, but he only looked at me.
“I watched that video you made.” His shirt was stretched tight over his chest, and the hint of an expensive and intricate silver chain peeked out of the distressed scoop neckline of his shirt.
I lifted my gaze from the shirt to his face. “Did you like it?”
I don’t know WHERE that question came from. Honestly. It just fell out, like an automatic response when someone asks how your week is going, and you say fine, even though your dog died three days ago, and you can barely function without tearing up.
That was how the question came—light off my tongue. Almost, if I had known how to do it… flirtatious.
He didn’t move, held my gaze, and said absolutely nothing for a good five seconds. I tried not to notice the thick fringe of his eyelashes. There was no way he wore mascara, but it was unfair for those to be natural. My own were extensions, a two-hour process where I had fallen asleep and woken up with gorgeously thick lashes and a thick line of drool coming down the left side of my mouth.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” he finally managed.
“I am,” I assured him, though inside, I did want to know. Maybe he had found it funny. It had been funny—Vidal had convinced me of that, the assertion backed up by the dozens of LOLs and emojis that were popping down the comments section.
“Do me a favor,” he said, and I straightened in my seat, wary at the steel in his tone.
“Stop using other people and find your own fame.” He ended the demand by settling back in his seat, his attention returning to his program as if he was a parent who had just dismissed me to do my chores, and was returning to his evening paper.