“Nice to know you’ve noticed my style.” His teasing smile curves down, and a faraway look darkens his blue eyes. “Maybe I am.” He squeezes my shoulder. “It’s a small thing to keep my father off my back. He’ll have enough to say.”
My stomach does a few more cartwheels. He’s going to be upset that Beau brought a nobody to this thing. “About me? Coming as your date? He’d rather you brought someone from your world.” I shift away from him, but he slides his arm around my waist, pulling me back into his side. His warm bulk is comforting.
“It’s easier not to fight the small things. What I wear tonight isn’t important. Who I’ve got at my side is. I wouldn’t want anyone else on my arm tonight, Wild Thing. Who else would have the audacity to ask Beau Whitaker to clean up cat turds on film?”
The tension slips from my tight jaw as I laugh, but the relaxation doesn’t last. The weight of what we’re walking into presses against my ribs.
I smooth my hands over the soft fabric of my skirt. “We should talk about the livestream.”
He nods. “When did you want to do this?”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Would next Sunday work?”
His eyebrows lift. “Is that soon enough?”
“Probably not. They’re already speculating. The articles. The posts. I’m sure it will only get worse after tonight. There’s going to be photographers there, right? But I don’t want this to be a rushed thing. I don’t want to let the media force us into a hasty announcement.” Why couldn’t we just have a nice day at my sister’s competition without some kid taking a pic and spreading it around online? Or more likely, some bored mom.
He swallows hard. “You want to confirm we’re dating? Publicly?”
“I want to control it. We set the tone. We say what’s true and what isn’t. And if that means going public as a couple, then that’s what we should do.”
His mouth curves back into his cocky grin, but his eyelids have dropped half shut. It does nothing to hide the heat as he studies me. “I’ll be happy to tell the world you’re off limits. That you’re mine.”
A fresh shot of lust punches me in the gut. There are so many things wrong with that reaction. “I’m not yours.” My protest is weak even to my own ears.
“You sure about that?”
I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath. “This is serious, Beau. You may be used to having your relationships splattered across the web, but I’m not.”
He studies me for a long beat, brows pinched together. “You’ve never introduced one of your boyfriends to your followers?”
“No.” He doesn’t need to know how long it’s been since I had an actual relationship. Sure, I’ve gone on dates here and there. One guy even stuck it out for two months in freshman year until he couldn’t handle my schedule anymore. Apparently, canceling every other date to deal with some crisis or other wasn’t cool with him.
“It’ll be fine. We’ll be together.”
I nod, fingers grazing the back of his hand on the leather seat. “Good. I want them to hear it from us.”
“For the record,” he says, gaze dropping to my lips, “if we’re doing this live, I might kiss you on camera.”
I lift a brow. “That so?”
“Just to drive the point home.”
“Purely professional.”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the ride passes in a kind of breathless silence. Not awkward. Just thick. Like there’s too much unsaid and neither of us wants to be the first to crack it open.
The ballroom is stunning in the most obnoxiously expensive way. Tall arched windows draped in deep burgundy, chandeliers throwing golden light across dark wood floors. Waiters in starched white uniforms float around with trays of champagne and tiny hors d’oeuvres that probably look better than they taste. Not that I’m going to test it out. I don’t think my stomach can handle any food tonight.
But it’s the people in the crowd that really kick my heart into overdrive. Everyone here moves with the kind of confidence born from never having to worry about tuition payments or whether they have enough in their account to pay for groceries at the checkout. I hold on to Beau’s arm like it’s a lifeline.
He leans in. “You good?”
“I’m about to be interviewed by three different private school moms about where I got my dress and what my horse’s name is. At least that’s what I assume happens at this kind of event.”
“Fuck them. They wouldn’t last five minutes on the ice with you. They’re just people. People with over-inflated egos andoverflowing bank accounts, but most of them did nothing to earn either of those things.”
