I dress in a guest room and take my time with final preparations, regretting my decision to wear something saucy under my dress for Tyler. Hooking thigh-highs on a garter belt is more complicated than I expected and getting the stockings’ back seams straight is maddening.
“Beryl? Can you help me zip?” I call through the partially open door of the guest room. I feel fingers on my back and my zipper snakes partway up my spine, but the touch is too intimate to be my best friend.
Tyler.
I turn and his broad hands linger on my waist, his eyes shining with appreciation.
“You look …” Tyler doesn’t finish his sentence and his lack of words makes me feel beyond beautiful. He’s dashing in a slim-cut dark suit and white shirt that’s open at the collar. An undone bowtie hangs around his neck and though his hair is combed back, a few days’ worth of stubble lingers on his jaw.
I’m at a loss for words, too. Sexy is too run-of-the-mill to describe him. He’s positively edible.
“I came in here to talk, but I think your dress just melted my brain,” Tyler admits, and the discomfort and hope in his eyes are adorably awkward. “I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard on Saturday, I just—”
He struggles for his next words so I interrupt him. “It’s OK, Tyler. I just needed some space to think.”
He steps back a little, his brow creased with worry, but his hands don’t leave my waist. Maybe it’s true when he said he can’t not touch me. I don’t want him to stop.
“And?” he asks.
This is not a conversation we can have five minutes before we hop in a limo, so I give him a half-assed half-answer. “I’m still thinking. And I’m sober. I just don’t want things to be weird between us.”
Tyler bends and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, avoiding my deep ruby lips that Jemma somehow plumped to epic proportions. I feel the heat from his lips course through my body, zinging and bouncing through me like a pinball machine.
I can’t help leaning into him. Even though I don’t have the words to tell him how I feel, I close the inches between us. His breath catches and his fingers trail from my waist up my ribs, his eyes heated and wanting.
“Would it be weird if I told you about the things I want to do to you right now?” he murmurs. “They’re illegal in some states.”
My eyes widen with the promise in his gaze—hungry, voracious even. After what he’s already done to me, I’m more than willing.
“Tyler?” Gavin calls from the living room. “Stop making out with Stella and get out here. The car’s downstairs.”
Tyler’s lips purse to suppress his grin. “Who says we’re just making out?” he calls.
Naughty boy.
Gavin laughs and I follow Tyler to the living room, where Beryl is stunning in a vampy purple strapless dress that shows off her hourglass figure. Mine is black and beaded, a halter neck with a deep vee in the back that feels flapper-esque.
We pile into a stretch limo, picking up Dave and Kristina, then Jayce and Shelly. Gavin pours champagne and I glance at Tyler and decline the glass. I’d like a couple pre-function shots in my system, but I just told Tyler I’ve stopped drinking.
It makes me do stupid shit.
I was fine with stupid when my life was a blur of shows, late nights and anonymous bad boys, but Tyler’s goodness makes me want to be good, too.
“So what’s your manager’s game plan?” Kristina asks, her ice-blue gown glowing under the car’s violet interior lights. “Are you going in first or are we arm candy?”
Dave checks his phone before answering and frowns. “I still haven’t heard back from Chief. Let’s have the band go in first. We’ll do the press rail and you ladies can take the direct route. Meet you inside.”
Kristina nods, as much the girls’ team captain as Dave is Tattoo Thief’s. She’s done this for months, but Beryl, Shelly and I are newbies. Shelly giggles and snuggles closer to Jayce, whose hand rides high on her thigh.
The car slows and the girls hang back, letting Tattoo Thief exit first in a barrage of flashing lights. On the other side of the tinted glass, dozens of photographers swarm Emma Stone, one of the stars of The Amazing Spider-Man 2. She poses with her date, who towers over her the way Tyler would tower over me.
I’m glad I’m not going out in that. I’d probably trip in my heels and do a faceplant on the red carpet.
The guys straighten their jackets, waving at the crowd outside of our car. Girls shriek I love you at Tattoo Thief. It reminds me that there are thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of women who would happily shove me aside for a shot at Tyler.
I expect the band to follow Emma down the red carpet but a stocky guy with a skinny beard catches Dave by the elbow and whispers in his ear. Dave turns back to the band and nods his head to the car where we’re waiting behind a closed door.
Oh, shit.
Beryl sees the panic in my eyes when Dave opens the car door and offers a hand to Kristina. Jayce is next, and Shelly shimmies out of the car, her breasts barely contained in a strapless, sequined fuchsia cocktail dress that screams look at me.
Beryl squeezes my hand, aware this is the last thing I want. “Just smile, look at Tyler and don’t answer any questions,” she says. “Pretend you don’t even hear them.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Tyler! Tyler, give us a smile over here!” Tyler turns to the photographers calling his name, smiling at them with his body cemented to my side.
He stands tall and proud, grinning like he just won the lottery. I can almost forget the flashing and the screaming and how this could look to my editor. Almost. Why did I agree to come with him?
He wraps my hand under his elbow and bends to my ear. I catch his words floating just above the roar of the crowd as girls scream his name. “The best thing about being here right now is being with you.”
I draw strength from his touch. I replay Beryl’s instructions in my head, smiling like crazy as my eyes bounce between the red carpet ahead of me and Tyler’s handsome profile.
He really is gorgeous. His light olive skin glows with health and I have a fleeting thought about his diabetes. He looks so strong and vital; it’s shocking to think that every day he’s locked in a complicated dance that demands constant attention to his blood sugar.
“Tyler! Who’s this? Where’s Kim Archer?”
My head swivels to Tyler and my face betrays surprise. He squeezes my arm and keeps smiling, though it no longer reaches his eyes. I smile back at him, all teeth and no twinkle.
Something’s very wrong.
“When did you and Kim break up? Is this your new girlfriend?” More shouts from the photographers and I hear a clanging in my head as I start to piece together their shouts into a narrative.
“Where’s your baby?”
“How do you feel about being a father?”
“What does Kim Archer think about your new girlfriend?”
Tyler’s stride is plodding, the joy I saw in his eyes when I first exited the limo replaced by terror. He smiles and waves at the crowd as if nothing’s wrong, but I feel the invisible arrows hit his body with each question.
“Did you know about the baby?”
“Were you there at the birth or were you on tour?”
“Why aren’t you taking responsibility for your child?”
That last one stings and a gate drops down on Tyler’s face, a stony expression to get us across the last few yards of the red carpet. But before we can escape, the man with the skinny beard, whom I now recognize as Tattoo Thief’s manager, anchors Tyler’s other arm.
“You’ve got to talk to them, Tyler,” the manager hisses over the noise of the crowd. “Kim Archer cashed in her threat and went to the media. The story just hit the wire and Twitter. Time for damage control.”