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I glanced up at him, noting the way his eyes glazed over, turning a dull shade of green. His smile fell, his expression crestfallen. Defeated.
And maybe it was our conversation from the plane, about having each other’s backs, still fresh on my mind, but before I could stop myself, I tipped my chin in defiance and said, “Thorne’s different now.” My voice carried across the barriers to the paparazzi and reporters, clear as a bell. “He’s not the same guy he was a few months ago, and his career is only just getting started. Just you wait and see.”
He curled his hand tighter around mine, and I felt his eyes on me, could see him shift his gaze in my periphery. But I wouldn’t turn to him. Not yet.
“Are you his girlfriend?” a paparazzo yelled from the sidelines.
I stared at the man asking the questions. He held a giant camera in his hands, currently pointed at my face. The knot of nerves at the base of my spine loosened, and all the tension in my body melted away as I said, “That’s right. I’m Scarlett Rees, his girlfriend. And I think we’re done here. We have an award to win.”
He tugged me toward the safety of the entrance while they continued their torrent of questions behind us. Which is when I realized they wouldn’t quit. Not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Not until we gave them something else to talk about.
And so I stopped Thorne, my hand firm on his bicep while he glanced down at me, a question in his eyes. Though the heels I wore gave me an advantage, I was still too short, so I stood on my toes, tugged the lapel of his jacket, and pressed my mouth to his.
I felt him gasp softly between my lips in surprise before he curled his arm around my waist and drew me closer.
Energy crackled between us. My skin tingled, every nerve ending electric.
With my body flush against his, he angled his head slightly and brushed his lips over mine, again and again. Until my head spun and my toes curled and little pinpricks of pleasure coasted across my skin.
His lips were soft and full and far more experienced than mine, and when he pulled away a moment later, I could still taste him on my mouth—like mint gum and forbidden fruit. Because even though my head screamed at me, this was all a lie, at the moment, my heart said something different.
Chapter 20
SCARLETT
Thesoftthrumofthe airplane’s engine after take-off filled the cabin. Exhaustion sunk into my bones, so I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes, needing a minute to decompress and unwind from a remarkable evening that I still struggled to wrap my head around. The dresses, tuxedos, shoes, and bags. The celebrities, bright lights, and glitz of the giant stage. Silk swatches and glittering bulbs. All of it more impressive and surreal than the next. It was a night I wouldn’t soon forget—one I’d always remember.
And that kiss . . .
I hadn’t forgotten the kiss.
My head buzzed, remembering it all. And as tired as I was, I knew I’d never fall asleep, so I blinked my eyes open.
Across the darkened cabin of the plane, Thorne’s mother slept. A silk sleep mask covered her eyes while a cashmere throw blanket draped over her legs. I turned my head to my left, to the seat Thorne had taken upon boarding, and found his eyes on mine.
My stomach tightened in knots. Part of me wanted to look away, to drop my gaze, but I didn’t. Instead, I kept boldly staring, even as the flush of embarrassment crept over my skin.
He was jacketless now, his tie long since removed. The first couple buttons of his shirt spread open to reveal a hint of smooth, California-tanned skin. His hands rested between his legs, and in them, he clutched a tumbler full of ice and a clear liquid I couldn’t be sure was alcohol or water. For a moment, I thought about asking, then decided it didn’t matter. Because if it wasn’t, then it looked like I was questioning him. And if it was, a lecture would only bring back the defeated look on his face from when the reporters lobbed the hammer of their steel-edged questions at him.
“Staring is rude, you know.”
The rumble of his voice moved through my chest like thunder, and my cheeks burned hot while my heart skittered in my chest.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his tone pained.
“I was just . . . “ I searched my head, but it went blank with nothing to draw on. “Thinking about tonight,” I said finally.
He hummed in response and glanced down at the glass in his hand, then lightly shook it, swirling the liquid inside and rattling the ice before he took a drink. “Did you enjoy it?”
I nodded, saying nothing, though I felt the kiss between us like a dirty secret neither of us wanted to discuss.
He returned the gesture as he trailed a fingertip over the rim of his glass, holding my eyes for a second longer before he turned his gaze to his window, and stared out into the darkness.
I schooled myself for not saying something—anything—to keep him talking, to keep his eyes on me. Because when he looked at me, I felt special, like the only girl in the room, even when we were surrounded by dozens of women. And I hated myself for feeling that way. Why couldn’t I just be normal around him? Make conversation instead of cutting him down or thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t enjoy his presence?
“Did you? Enjoy it, I mean,” I asked, suddenly wanting to know everything about him. Not the little things like his favorite food or his secret vices. We already covered those in the hotel and all the time in-between. But the big things. I wanted to know all his secrets, his bitter truths, the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart—a desire that startled me more than anything.
“It was okay.” He flashed a sheepish smile, and I was selfishly grateful to have his attention back on me again.
