Ismoothed my hand over my dress, checking for any last-minute creases or lint, and took a long, deep breath.
Crap. I covered fitness, not Hollywood, yet here I was, sweating like a pig in the backseat of a limo. There was a good reason I was a health-and-fitness editor and not a paparazzi gal. I preferred running shorts to ball gowns.
Dressing up made me nervous. It meant small talk and cocktails with people who always questioned my age and position. Everything was subjective.
With writing and editing, there were rules for grammar and punctuation. With running and spinning, there were times finished, pace, calories burned, heart rate.
Numbers don’t lie.
The car made its approach to the theater and slowed before a red carpet spread out long and wide, filled with celebrities and surrounded by the media. Strobe lights lit the place up against the dusky sky. When the limo stilled, I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth once and then again before the driver opened my door. It was just another weekday here in Westwood—at least that’s what I told myself.
I stepped out and felt bare as all eyes focused on me until they realized I was no one, and then they all went back to the hot guy they were ogling before, all fit and tan with a man bun and a beard.
Thankful for the distraction, I quickly made my way past the paps and into the theater. A woman in a long black evening gown asked for my name.
“Charli Richards.”
She ran a finger down the list on her sparkly clipboard, and when she scrunched her face, I added, “FromBubblePOP.”
“Charleston?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Welcome toSeven Sins of Serial Dating. Both lounges are open inside, and you may bring your drinks into the theater.”
“Thank you.”
As I took a moment to take in my surroundings, I decided a glass of wine was in order. I politely pushed my way close to the bar and waited for a server.
“Can I help you?”
“White wine spritzer, please.”
The bartender turned around and grabbed a bottle of white wine and a chilled glass. When he turned back around with my drink, a hand came out of nowhere and took the glass from him.
“Hey there, gorgeous girl.” Layton handed me my beverage, massaging my body with his voice. He shoved a five-dollar bill into a glass for tips and turned back to me. “You made it.”
His eyes seared through me, as warm and genuine as they had been on the plane. I took a sip of my drink and swallowed any weird thoughts I’d been having.
“Here I am. God, this is something. Makes covering the New York Half Marathon feel like nothing.”
“Welcome to the land of make-believe.”
“So, were you waiting for me?” I took a look around; he seemed to come out of nowhere.
Double crap, why did I have to go and get bitchy again?
“I guess,” he said. “I asked for them to give me a buzz when you arrived. Hope that’s okay?”
I nodded and smiled for fear that the wordsa bit stalkerish, but I like it, or even worse,I’m so glad you did, would come out of my mouth.
“Uh-oh.” He stuck his hand inside his pocket and pulled out a rosebud, tight and not quite ready to bloom. “For you.” His long fingers extended the deep purple flower toward me. “Want to hold it? Or you can pin it? They gave me a pin ...”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, twisting it in my manicured fingers. I popped it into the snap on my clutch. “I think it looks stunning here. Does that work?”
“If it’s good for you, it’s good for me.” He winked and I took notice of his hair, styled and handsome in a way only a few men could pull off.
“You look great,” he added. “Definitely, the most gorgeous woman here.” His eyes ran the length of my red dress, not stopping when it ended above my knees.
