This was my only option. I had to make it work.
Twisting uncomfortably, I managed to pinch the fabric together. Pulling a safety pin out of my desk drawer, and contorting enough that I was starting to sweat, I was able to pin the torn fabric to my bra. If anyone looked closely, it was a mess, but if I kept my arm down, kept my purse tucked against it, and prayed for dim lighting, I could probably make it through the evening without tearing the dress further and exposing the world’s most boring black bra.
Jo was watching TV on the couch. My toes were already hurting by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, but the shoes suited the dress so perfectly that I decided to ignore the pain.
“Wow,” Jo said. “You look absolutely incredible.”
For all her sharp comments and condescending compliments, when Jo really liked something, she could be effusive with praise. It was what kept me from completely despising her.
“He’s totally going to fuck you,” she said.
“Thank you?” I said.
“Use protection. He’s probably filthy.”
I shook my head, both flattered and disgusted.
My phone rang. It was the car service.
“I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for doing my makeup.”
“Remember everything,” she said. “I’ll want to hear every detail. Shaved body hair and all.”
GO FUG YOURSELF
THE FASHION AT THE SHARED HEARTS PREMIERE
Oliver Matthias Checks the Box
Delicious, debonair Oliver Matthias once again delighted the senses with a green checked suit perfectly befitting his leading man status. This is how you show up to your movie when everyone has been talking about the part you didn’t get. You put on an attention-getting suit, have your hair styled to perfection, and bring one of the most beautiful women on the planet—Isabella Barris—as your date.
Even better if that date can’t seem to take her hands off you, while wearing a stunning vintage Versace gown.
Jacinda Lockwood Is Pretty Galore
Jacinda Lockwood came to be seen. The newest Bond girl stepped onto the red carpet in a neon teal reproduction of a classic Gucci dress—practically daring you to stare directly at her. I couldn’t—it was like looking into the sun. Though, I did see enough to suggest that the strapless number—in December!—might have benefited from a bit of a hoick.
Chapter
12
Gabe was waiting for me at the end of the red carpet.
He looked incredible, and when he gave me a hug—which I tried desperately not to sink into—I could smell his cologne. It was probably very expensive and smelled very, very nice. Like the world’s most exclusive cedar tree.
There was also a hint of whisky on his breath.
“You made it,” he said, as if there was some universe in which I might not show. “You look gorgeous.”
I twisted on my heels a little, flustered not just at the compliment but at the way he was looking at me. He leaned back as he did it, as if he was trying to see all of me at once, and then ran his hand over his mouth.
My legs started trembling.
“You look gorgeous too,” I said.
He laughed.
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow.
So.
Jo was wrong.
The one thing I couldn’t quite discern was whether or not Gabe considered this a continuation of our interview. If he was planning to show me his world just so I could write about it, or if this was something else. Something more.
It seemed very unlikely that it was, but still.
I needed to know.
But the moment we were led down the red carpet, I was hit with a wall of noise and lights so intense and abrupt that I stumbled, and almost fell.
Gabe’s arm went around my waist, pulling me up against him.
“Gabe! Gabe!” people were shouting.
Flashbulbs were going off around us, and that’s all I could see, an unending strobe of bright, white pops of light. I tried to smile, even though I felt like I was baring my teeth more than making any sort of attractive expression. It was as if I’d forgotten how to grin normally.
“We’ll just give them a few shots,” Gabe said, leaning his head toward mine, his cheek almost grazing my forehead. “Take a deep breath, and smile.”
I nodded, following his instructions, as the crowd threw questions at us.
“Who’s your date?”
“Are you excited about Bond?”
“When do you start filming?”
“Who’s your date?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Does Oliver know you’re coming tonight?”
“Who’s your date?”
Gabe didn’t answer any of them, just kept his arm around my waist, lifting his other hand to wave. I’d noticed, though, that his posture had changed as we stepped in front of the cameras. He was standing straighter, his chest facing the photographers, his chin angled a different way.
He was posing. Subtly, but he knew what he was doing.
I tried to do the same as I held on to him.
“Come on,” Gabe said after what seemed like a lifetime.
The red carpet was long, but we walked the rest of it at a fast clip, ignoring the other photographers and camera crews that were set up, assistants trying to wave us over while their bosses stretched out their microphones. Gabe’s arm was firm around my waist, and I could feel his biceps flexing as he propelled me toward the theater. It was a miracle I didn’t trip over my own feet.
“I’m just here to support Oliver” was the only sound bite Gabe would give.
It wasn’t until we got inside and the doors shut behind us, cutting off the overwhelming cacophony, that Gabe released me.
“Wow,” I said, suddenly exhausted.
“Yeah,” Gabe said.
The smile and the pose had disappeared. He ran a hand across the back of his neck.
“It’s a lot,” he said.
“It’s not so bad,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s a lot. How do you cope?”
“Practice,” he said. “And this helps…”
He unbuttoned his jacket, opening it to reveal a slim silver flask tucked into his inside pocket. He took it out and unscrewed the top.
“Want some?”
It explained the whisky on his breath.