Page 106 of Love Felt Like This

Beverly nods. “Mm-hmm. I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

She lets out a breathy laugh. “Yes. Let’s do this.”

“Right. Okay.” I adjust in my seat, reach for the handle, then freeze. “It’ll be bright out there, though.”

“I bet.”

“And hot. The lights are surprisingly very hot.”

“Griffin, let’s go.”

She pulls her shoulders back and raises her chin high. The diamonds float up with the new posture, revealing the top of those collarbones.

Those damn—

The limo door whips open by another hand. Bright lights flash. Voices attack. And Beverly’s expression immediately weakens at the sight beyond the safety of our dark limo.

I step out first. Cameras snap, blinding me with spots of light and noise. I extend a palm back to Beverly. She’s frozen. I take her shaking hand into mine, holding it tight and escorting her out of her seat. Her subsequent smile, though forced, is still devastatingly pretty.

I transfer my hand from her palm to her lower back as we walk. Beverly stands closer to me, in a shy way like Ava does when she’s meeting strangers. I wind my palm around to the dip in her waist. She takes a fistful of my suit jacket. I can see her heartbeat through her neck, bouncing the diamonds and shimmering them in the lights.

Her eyes are wide, like a doe in headlights.

She’s scared.

I don’t know why I do it, but I bring my opposite index finger to her chin, hook it underneath, and tip her face up so she looks at me. Beverly blinks, dazed from the lights and flashing cameras. The thumping diamonds momentarily freeze.

“You all right?” I ask on a breath.

“Yes,” she whispers back. Her green eyes don’t leave me for a second.

“I got you, okay?”

Without hesitation, she says, “Okay.” I believe you.

Camera flashes explode in clicking, frantic shutters. I grip her dress’s silky fabric to hold her closer, murmuring in her ear, “And you belong here, okay?”

She stares at me, biting her bottom lip, bashfully averting her eyes.

I take her chin again, tipping it back up.

“Okay?” I repeat.

She nods. “Okay.”

I trust you.

“Griffin! Griffin, over here!”

Photographers and interviewers yell my name and attempt to call hers by saying “Betty,” “Brittney,” or, completely off base, “Belinda.” I ignore them all, guiding her down the carpet as fast as we can manage. Beverly clutches me tighter, and my palm spans the width of her waist. The dress is smooth and soft. My thumb nudges her inner elbow, which is even softer, and she leans that much closer.

We finally turn the corner—off the carpet and away from photographers—and head up the stairs, into the award-show ballroom. The air is much cooler here. The noise more subdued. Beverly finally lets out a heaving sigh that sounds more like a groan.

I chuckle. “More or less risky than the thought of skinny-dipping?”

She bursts into a laugh. “Oh, shush.”