“What do you think?” he says into the microphone, his eyes still on me.
I’m not sure what my face is doing, but I’m aware of my feet taking steps toward him. I’m aware of the moment stretching out—the air between us even more charged than it is around us. It’s like we’re in some vortex being pulled or pressed closer and closer. I can’t tell what’s drawing us together—ourselves or the waves of screams and cries from the audience.
His hands drift to my waist. I tilt my face up to his. I look into his eyes. They’re filled with questions, but I just answer the one. I reach up and loop my hands around his neck and then… we’re kissing.
His lips land hard on my mouth, and I open them to him. My hands find his hair—they thread through. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to run my fingertips down his face. I want to memorize the milliseconds between the pulses in his neck. I want to be so close to him that even when this moment is over there will be enough to last.
I’m never allowed this, and the sheer torture of want—of being so close but not being able to simply reach up and lay my lips on his—bursts through the surface. Every impulse I’ve hidden. Every time I’ve wanted to put my head on his shoulder. To put my hand on his cheek. Every intimate gesture that’s been pushed down, banished to where it came from, roars back with something close to vengeance. It feels like the world is going to break open from the sheer relief I feel at being able to kiss him. I’m never going to be able to stop.
I feel myself reach for him, to pull him down even closer. To press my chest up against his and fit our bodies together so there is no space, not even an inch, but he pulls back and releases me.
The lack of contact makes me grope forward, but he has his hands on my shoulders and his eyes carry a warning—no.
I see his chest rise and fall. He holds my gaze for a beat, and then he’s turning back to the crowd. The noise comes back all at once, like taking a blaring television off mute. People whoop, scream. Jordan speaks. “Er, hopefully that’s what you were after. Thanks again.”
Then his hand is on my arm, and he’s steering me backstage.
Four different people descend on us when we get there, but I shake my head, pushing past them.Just one minute. Not now.I follow Jordan into a corner.
“Christ,” he says, under his breath. “What the hell was that?”
I know there are a million people around, some of them hovering, waiting to move us like little chess pieces to our next location.
“What was what?” I say. “YOU kissed me.”
He shakes his head. “We won Best Kiss—we kiss. It’s a tradition. I wasn’t trying to make out with you in front of America. You—” He looks at me. Puts a fist to his forehead and holds it there.
“Then why did you do it?” I cross my arms. I suddenly feel naked in this dress. Anger flares up in my chest. “Why didn’t you just say sorry and thank them and walk off the goddamn stage, Jordan?”
He drops his fist. His eyes find mine. He doesn’t say anything, but I see it there, right beneath the surface. He looks about as miserable as I feel.
“Jordan…,” I start, gentler this time, but a girl with a headset is pointing to us and Rainer is walking over. He comes up behind Jordan and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You guys make good TV.”
“Tradition,” Jordan mumbles.
Rainer reaches and pulls me toward him, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “Congrats,” he says.
There is no bitterness in his tone, no sarcasm, and for a minute this pisses me off more than Jordan yelling at me for kissing him back. Does Rainer not even care? Did he evennotice?
“Hey,” Rainer says. He cocks his head in the direction of the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Don’t you think we should get back to our seats?” I ask. I realize my voice is shaking. If that kiss looked like nothing to Rainer, then maybe it looked like nothing to the audience, too. I remember the bloopers reel from Hawaii. How they played an extended scene of Jordan and my on-screen kiss and how Rainer immediately picked up on the fact that something was going on. How pissed he was. But now—nothing.
I still feel the champagne swirling around my head, but I try to let the rational thoughts march through, gather some order. One: I should be happy that I’m not dating a crazy, jealous sociopath. Two: Rainer let all that Jordan stuff go for us. Why would I want to dredge it up again? Why would I want to hurt him? This kiss was just part of the job.
I glance at Jordan, but he’s not looking at me. He’s watching someone coming toward us. I follow his gaze to see a girl about my height. Dark skin, jet-black hair, and razor-sharp green eyes. She’s wearing a neon-blue leather dress and her heels are sky-high, but she walks with confidence. Totally assured, like she could run a marathon in them. Like maybe she will.
She reaches us, and her eyes land on me. Her gaze is halting as she takes me in—down to the feet and then slow pan—up, up, up. I know who she is immediately. It makes me take a step back. The force of her: the girl who came before me. She drove Rainer and Jordan to hate each other. She commanded intense, limitless loyalty. She was the start of so much.
“Paige,” Rainer says, his hand waving from her to me. “This is Britney Drake.”
CHAPTER 7
Britney smiles with her mouth, but her eyes are too busy for emotion. She’s studying me. And she doesn’t put out her hand.
“Quite a performance out there,” she says, her gaze flitting to Jordan. “I was impressed, Wilder.”
