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21
TEDDY
PRESENT DAY
The elevator doors ding a half-second before they open. I wait for Sutton to walk in first in what I hope reads as a chivalrous gesture, but is really me taking the opportunity to ogle her appearance, uninterrupted.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten used to seeing Sutton in either casual attire or sparkly minidresses.
Tonight’s look is neither. It’s glamourous and elegant, a silky green dress that’s tasteful and conservative…except for the slit up the right side that goes all the way up to mid-thigh. Every time she moves, I get a flash of long, toned leg that disappears when she stills. A constant tease I already know will make focusing on anything else difficult. At least she won’t be walking around at dinner.
I expected this feeling to fade, at least a little. The urge to be near her to dull. But it’s remained intact and encompassing, even as the number of venues where she performs and the number of times we have sex both increase.
Novelty isn’t all it’s made out to be, I guess. Especially ironic, coming from me. I always knew my fascination with Sutton was unrelated to the fact that there was a long stretch where it looked like she and I would never happen in any way, shape, or form. Sutton was the one who seemed to think that was part of our pull.
As we creep closer to the end of this whirlwind, I’m increasingly cognizant of the ticking clock in the background.
Sutton seems equally oblivious to the countdown. Iwanther to care, but I can’t make her.
I step into the elevator after her, debating on what to say. Since our conversation in her room yesterday morning, we haven’t actually spoken. She texted me, telling me that Ellie wanted to have dinner with us tonight and asking if I was free. I replied yes, and she responded with the details, down to what time I should meet her by the elevator.
I’m not sure what to say to her. I don’t regret what I said to her, but I do regret how it’s removed the casualness of our encounters. This outing might have done that all on its own, though.
Sutton fiddles with her bracelets after the doors close, spinning one bangle around her wrist as the elevator descends. We step out into the lobby a minute later and head toward the glass revolving door, flanked by two porters who give us respectful nods as we pass. I can already see the press camped outside.
It’s our third day in London, and every single paparazzo in a hundred-mile radius seems to know this is where Sutton Everett is staying.
She swears under her breath. “I should have had Greg meet us in back. I haven’t gone out all day; I didn’t think they’d be this bad.”
I rest my hand on the small of her back. “It’ll be fine. They just want a photo of you.”
“They want a photo ofus,” she corrects.
I glance over, surprised by her response. “What do you mean?”
“According to Suzan, the internet believes some bullshit about how we’re meant to be. It’s why the whole fake-dating thing came up in the first place. Kyle and I were cooked up to create the buzz you and I already have, apparently.”
I take an embarrassing amount of pride in the knowledge I’m winning the fake-dating popularity contest. But I say nothing in response, unwilling to reignite any animosity by asking why us beingmeant to beis, in fact, bullshit.
Flashes start going off as soon as I step into one of the rotating openings. I think Sutton will wait for the next section to swing around, but she doesn’t. She’s right behind me as we take the short, stilted steps, which are all the slow speed allows for, already blinded by the number of cameras going out.
Warm air, smelling of exhaust and filled with shouts, greets us as we step outside. I’m soaking the activity in, attempting to look unconcerned and unbothered, when something happens thatdoesstartle me.
Sutton grabs my hand.
We touch plenty. Her skin against mine isn’t unfamiliar. It’s pleasant, welcome. But I didn’t expect it now, not just in public, but in front of cameras capturing every shift in our expressions, let alonethis.
There’s a fresh flurry of shutters as soon as our hands make contact. I don’t glance at Sutton as I push through the crowd toward where I can see Greg waiting.
The fifty feet from the hotel to the car feels twice as long. I’ve seen the crowds around Sutton before—from a distance. This feels close and claustrophobic.
Greg opens the door as soon as we near. Sutton slides in first, and I’m right behind her. The door shuts, the heavy metal frame of the car muffling the commotion outside.
She lets out a long exhale as I lean back against the seat.
“So, that’s the carousel, huh?”
Sutton rolls her head to the right, so she’s looking right at me. “That’s the carousel.”
