“Great,” I mutter. “No pressure or anything.”
His laugh is soft as he squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
The way he’s speaking to me, with warmth and sincerity, makes my chest tighten.
“Okay.” I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
The look he gives me is so intense, it steals my breath away. His eyes trace over my face, lingering on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “I’ll be right beside you the entire time.”
The way he says those words makes my heart constrict. This doesn’t feel like an act anymore. Not to me. The sincerity in his eyes and the way his thumb is still stroking my hand—it feels real. Too real.
Before I can dwell on that conundrum any further, the limo slows to a stop. Camera lights flash and a red carpet extends from the sidewalk to the entrance of a tall, elegant glass building, taunting me.
“We’re here,” Rowan says, giving my hand one final squeeze. “Ready?”
When the dooropens and Rowan gets out, the crowd goes nuts. I can barely hear him over the cacophony of noise as he holds out his hand. Lights flash as people call out, vying for his attention.
I take his hand, trying to push down the panic rising in my throat. The instant I straighten after stepping out, I’m momentarily blinded. My entire being wants to dive back into the safety of the limo, but Rowan’s steady hand at the small of my back keeps me grounded.
“Just breathe,” he whispers in my ear. “Smile and follow my lead.”
His breath grazing my skin centers me. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, forcing my lips into what I hope is a confident smile, and we begin our walk.
The red carpet feels like it stretches on for miles. Photographers line both sides, shouting Rowan’s name as their cameras click, frantic and loud. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, terrified I’ll trip in these heels and face-plant in front of everyone.
“Rowan! Over here!”
“Rowan! Is that your childhood sweetheart?”
The noise is overwhelming, but Rowan handles it like a pro. He smiles, nods, and occasionally stops to pose, arm securely wrapped around my waist. Each time we pause, he pulls me closer, our bodies fitting together perfectly. Heat radiates from his body through his suit, contrasting sharply with the cooler evening air grazing over my bare back.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving as we continue our slow procession.
Up ahead, I spot a line of recognizable faces—actors I’ve only ever seen on movie screens and TV. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize I’m about to meet people whose posters I had up on my wall as a teenager.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, gripping Rowan’s arm even tighter. “Is that?—”
“Yep,” he confirms with a slight grin. “Just act normal.”
Easy for him to say. This is Hollywood. He works with all these famous people. I just tattoo college students, tourists and locals back in our hometown.
As we approach the entrance, a tall blonde in a stunning silver gown waves at us enthusiastically.
“There you are!” she exclaims, air-kissing Rowan’s cheeks before turning to me. “Lizzy, you look absolutely gorgeous!”
Carrie Southern is dressed to kill.
“Thanks,” I manage, still overwhelmed by everything happening around us. “So do you. Love your dress.”
“Ah, shucks. This old thing? Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Linking her arm through mine, she pulls me forward, Rowan following close behind. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite. Well, except for Martin, but only after his third martini.”
Her easy confidence is contagious, and I find myself relaxing a little as she guides me into the gallery’smain space. Its walls are adorned with striking contemporary art pieces illuminated by soft, glowing spotlights. The crowd is a sea of designer clothes, champagne flutes, and a gentle hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.
“This...” Carrie says, tugging me forward with a Vanna White wave at the sea of people blanketing the room, “...is where the real fun begins.”
She introduces me to a dizzying array of names and faces. An Oscar-winning director whose latest film I’d watched just last month, a famous novelist whose books line my shelves back home, and a tech billionaire who mentions he’s here looking for some new art for his yacht.
