If I look back now and meet his eyes again, I’m afraid I won’t be able to control myself. So, I blaze a path through the tables, not sparing a single glance over my shoulder. Decker marches along behind me until I realize I probably look like a child lugging her doll around. Dropping his hand, I slow up, join him at his side, and loop my arm through his.
I spot our table. My mother stands, followed by my dad as we approach. Decker draws in a deep breath as he closes in on them. It’s cute that he’s nervous.
“Decker, this is my dad, Roger.” I unhook our arms and he steps forward, exchanging a firm handshake with my dad. “And you’ve met my mother, of course.”
“Of course. You two look great.” Decker beams.
"I could say the same to you two," Dad chimes in. "And I’ll be honest with ya, Deck—" I die a little at the nickname. "I haven’t seen Lena-Love glow like this in… I don’t know—maybe ever." He lowers his voice. “Her job can be pretty demanding.”
Endearing is not typically a word I use to describe my father, but I always find it cute that he continues to refer to my hectic career as a “job,” like it’s any other nine-to-five. To be honest, these days I wish my schedule were as predictable as a 9:00 a.m. start and a 5:00 p.m. finish. But I know how fortunate I am to have a job some only dream of. I’m also fortunate that to my father I’m still his little Lena-Love. I’m not the girl on the stage, I’m not a paycheck, I’m simply his daughter. I smile at him, knowing he means well, but also hating that my faux-glow is fooling even him.
Decker and my dad chat it up while I stuff my face with hors d'oeuvres in an attempt to absorb some of the champagne.Bonus: If I keep my mouth full, I don't have to answer any probing questions or engage in any Super Bowl talk with my mother. A waiter in a white button-up and black bowtie drops off a salad, and I pick at it as my mother engages in a conversation with some other local philanthropist. Antonia is happily chatting with some local politicians across the room, and Gustav has stationed himself near the door, but even he seems distracted.
As much as I want to catch up with my dad, I don’t want to interrupt his conversation with Decker. Both of them are fully engaged, smiling and laughing, only breaking when Dad needs a sip of his scotch. Decker sneaks me a wink and warmth spreads across my exposed decollete. I dip my head, digging into my salad and wondering if anyone else notices the flush. The two of them continue on and the butterflies in my belly multiply tenfold as Decker politely excuses himself when someone on stage summons him to the podium. He leans down and pecks my cheek, drawing it out a little longer than necessary before climbing the handful of steps toward the microphone. When the applause stops, he flashes that million-dollar smile and starts in about his passion for The Vista City Rescue Society.
I’m completely enamored with him, along with everyone else in the room. His passion for these animals is palpable, and I find myself wishing I were something he talked about that dearly. Which is kind of weird—to want to be spoken about in the same way as an animal rescue. But I know he loves it, and deep down, though I know it could never work between us—because of our careers and the timing and the fact that it’s too soon for me to seriously consider dating for real and about a thousand other reasons—I kind of wish he could love me too. And then his eyes flash to where I sit. My breath catches in my throat at the sudden shift in the room as everyone turns my way. Decker hones in on me, his full lips parting into a smile that would make anyone weak. Everyone falls away as he wraps up his speech.
“And I want to acknowledge you, Lena. If anyone deserves an award for their devotion to helping others, it’s you. Our time together has changed me—my life—for the better in unimaginable ways, and I have you to thank for that.” His eyes lock with mine a split second longer before dragging back across the crowd, leaving me melting in my seat as a collectiveawwwsounds throughout the ballroom. Though he’s moved on to address everyone else, I can’t take my eyes off him.
A tapping sound pulls my attention. I turn to find my mom reaching across the table, a fork poised between her fingers as she raps it against the floral centerpiece between us.
I yank the fork from her, and she smiles gleefully, her voice a loud whisper. “Did you tell him to include you in the speech?”
I shake my head, trying to keep the annoyance from shadowing my features.
Her eyes light up. “Brilliant move on his part. People will eat that up.”
I try to reciprocate her smile, but I know why she’s glowing. Because the fact that he mentioned me will only fuel the rumors after our impending breakup. Deep down, I know that Decker didn’t do it for that purpose, but the doubt still slithers in. What if he did? What if his words were just another way to ensure he’s set once we go our separate ways?
He gives his final thank you for the award and lopes back to our table, sliding into his seat next to me and giving my hand a light squeeze. When he smiles at me, any uncertainty drifts away. Decker wouldn’t do that to me. He can be strategic, but he’s not manipulative. We may be headed for a breakup, but it isn’t tonight. We still have time. The butterflies in my belly kick up speed, turning into something far more aggressive than those irritating little bugs I’ve gotten so used to over the past couple of months.
Decker sits beside me, none the wiser, as my parents congratulate him on a speech well done. My mother slathers on howwonderfulit is that he mentioned her beloved daughter in his acknowledgments. Decker’s smile doesn’t falter, his words remain polite, but there’s an emptiness in his eyes as he responds. He’s already tired of her, and he’s hardly even been around her since we began our arrangement. Finally, Dad has the good sense to cut her off, thanking Decker for his dedication to the charity as he totes my mom off to chat with some table across the room.
A smile is cemented on my face as passersby shake Decker’s hand, patting him on the back, thanking him for being a “voice for the voiceless.” Of all the men I’ve dated—real or fake—none have been referred to as anything even remotely similar to that. It makes him sound like some kind of vigilante superhero. He’s humble as he accepts each compliment, and dare I say, he soundsmodest. Decker Trace, the guy whose ego and attempted humor gets under my skin, is actually modest. Andcharming.Both of these I’ve experienced, but watching him now, I know for sure that I didn’t imagine it.
An older man with an impressive handlebar mustache shakes Decker’s hand, gives him a jolly pat on the back, and disappears back to his table as the next speaker is announced and emerges from the crowd. Decker leans back, nodding to others as they compliment him from their tables and whisper about his job well done.
Finally, he turns my way and catches me staring, his mouth quirking into an irresistible grin meant just for me. I can’t take it any longer. I seize the opportunity. Tired of sharing him, I grab Decker’s hand and my clutch. Before I lose my nerve, we zigzag between the tables, to the edge of the room, and through the closest exit.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks as we maneuver through the shadowy wings of the stage.
Though it’s been a while since I’ve performed here, I still remember the route. “I thought we could use some fresh air. Follow me.”
“It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”
A minute later, we’re in the dark dressing room tucked behind the stage. Since these are strictly reserved for performances, they’re empty tonight. The space is totally blacked out, save for the red emergency lights casting a dull scarlet glow that reflects off the expansive vanity and rounded bulbs lining the long mirrored wall. It’s a little eerie, and I grip Decker’s hand tighter as I fumble through the space looking for the lightswitch. I find it and flip it. A vampiric hiss spouts from Decker before his hand comes down over the switch again, killing the overhead lights.
“You have to warn a guy. I think you burned my retinas, and the air isnotfresher here.” He coughs dramatically.
“Baby.”
“I think you meanbabe.”
I toss my clutch onto the countertop. “Can’t wait to finally hear the end of that.”
As soon as the words fly from my mouth, I regret them. If there’s anything I’ve come to realize lately, it’s that as much as I hate the whole nickname exchange, it hasn’t been as stomach-churning with Decker on the other end of it.
“What else can’t you wait for?” Decker asks, his voice lowering. I can’t interpret what he means in the dark. I’m not close enough to see the quirk of a brow, and it’s too dim to pick up on a glint in his eye. Did he mean thatsuggestively? Or is that only my wishful—lustful—thinking?
