I blow him a kiss as he and his stuff make their way downstairs and out the front door. I turn back to Grayson. “You ready?”
He tugs a little on his tie. Any heat that was blazing in his eyes just minutes ago has been doused. “Yeah, let’s go.”
I wait until we’re settled in the backseat of the limo before I reach over and take his hand. “Hey. What’s going on? What happened?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing his gaze on his feet, tapping an incessant rhythm on the limo’s plush carpet. “Nothing. I’m good.”
“Grayson. Seriously. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but don’t try to pull that ‘nothing’ crap with me.” I nudge his ribs with my elbow. “I know you better than that now.”
He drapes an arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer into him. “I just want to be sure you’re ready for this.”
I glance down at my designer gown and excruciatingly painful shoes. “I’ve been getting ready for the past four hours. Trust me, I’m ready.”
“I don’t mean physically, Emmy. I mean are you ready to step out on that carpet together and have people talk about you, and about us?”
“Hey.” I take his cheek in my hand, forcing him to turn his head and look at me. “People are going to talk about uswhether I walk this carpet with you or not. They’ve been talking about me my entire life. So let them talk. Who cares?” I repeat the advice my mother gave me with conviction because the one thing I’ve learned during the past couple of months of dating Grayson West is that people will talk no matter what, and in the long run, what they say means nothing.
“You might, when people start judging Hollywood’s golden child for being with me.” His brow furrows, and there’s so much emotion in the deep pools of his eyes, I have to take a second to parse it all out.
“Anyone who thinks like that is an idiot and an asshole and doesn’t matter to me anyway.” I lean in and place a soft kiss on his lips. “I’m proud to be with you, Grayson. I feel so lucky to be with you, and I can’t wait to step out on that stupid carpet and tell the whole world that you’re mine.”
His eyes soften, and he presses his lips to my hand. “I’ve never brought a date to a premiere before.”
“Me neither. Well, except for my parents. They’re usually my dates.” The jolt of pain catches me unaware. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about my dad—not a day goes by when I don’t—it’s just that lately the happiness in my life has overpowered the grief.
Grayson squeezes my hand. “You miss him.”
“Every day.”
His own sadness pulls down on the corners of his mouth.
“Have your parents ever come to one of these?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re not just the first partner I’ve brought. You’re the first person.”
“It’s an honor to keep being your first, Grayson West.” I plant a kiss on his cheek and am happy to see the slight smile on his lips.
“I love you, Ems.”
“I love you, too.” I fist my hands in the lapels of his tux jacket. “Now kiss me good and proper before I have to put this junk all over my lips.”
And he does, because of course he does. His lips are warm and searching and passionate, and I ache for him, so it’s a good thing we pull up in front of the theater when we do. Otherwise, we’d be rolling up that partition window and going for it in the backseat.
We take a couple of seconds to right ourselves. I swipe on the lip gloss and smooth Grayson’s hair. When we’re all set, he knocks lightly on the window and the door magically opens from the outside. Screams and cheers immediately infiltrate the space, and we exchange a wary grin.
Grayson steps out of the limo in a graceful swoop, buttoning his jacket before reaching his hand back to help me out. I place my hand in his, climbing out much less gracefully but at least managing not to flash anyone in the process.
The reaction is so instantaneous, it almost knocks me back a step. The crowd went wild for Grayson, but they completely lose it when we join hands and take our first step onto the plush crimson carpet together.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“Told you.”
This is far from my first premiere—I couldn’t even count how many I’ve been to for my parents’ films, and then, eventually, my own—but this is the first time I’ve feltlike the people crowded behind the metal partitions actually care about seeing me personally. Obviously, most are there just for Grayson, but I’m definitely hearing my own name shouted at me repeatedly as we begin the long short walk. It hits me again just how public this is. How public our relationship will be. How public our failure would be. I struggle to remember the words of advice I delivered to Grayson only moments ago.
The first stretch of the carpet is lined with fans, and I let Grayson take the lead, trailing behind him as he signs autographs and poses for selfies. Multiple people ask for a selfie with both of us, so I join in when requested, but I have no problem hanging back and letting him be the center of attention. This is his night, and honestly, the whole thing is a little overwhelming.
When we reach the step and repeat backdrop, Grayson poses for a few photos on his own, but it becomes clear quite quickly that the photographers are more interested in pictures of the two of us together. When he holds out his arm for me, I tuck myself into his side, remembering to keep one foot slightly in front of the other, hand on my hip.
