Page 66 of Lucky Shot

“You’re doing great,” he says, his mouth by my neck. It’s enough to make me still and probably give a deer in the headlights look to the camera.

But does it really matter when there are so many of them? I don’t know where to look in the first place. All I know is his hand on my lower back is a silent source of comfort that I need, even if I want to understate its importance.

That makes it easier for me to ignore the confusion racing through my system.

“Hardy. Here. Look here.”

“Miss Barnes. Over here.”

How do they know my name? But he must sense my body tensing as my name is shouted over and over because he leans in once again, his mouth to my ear, and says, “They have a press sheet that says who is who so they know.”

I nod furtively and swallow as I continue to smile until my cheeks hurt.

“Thank you,” he says loudly to the press. “Good to see you too.” He continues to chat idly with the media like it’s just another day while we wait for our turn to enter the theater. I hope the blind spots in my vision subside sooner rather than later. “You okay?” he asks me as we move into the foyer of the theater.

“Yeah. Yes. That was . . .”

“Intense? Always is. Now the rest is easy.”

He ushers us farther into the lobby. People stop to speak with him here and there—people with one-word names and large entourages that follow them while others whisper and stare at him from afar. Phones come out and pictures are snapped discretely. He’s definitely a huge attraction to the people in the room, but every time someone approaches, he makes sure to introduce me and talk about the academy and the work I’m doing.

I’ve never needed validation in my life. Yet there is something about him giving it to me, about him talking about it with other people who clearly have influence, that does just that—provides validation.

He offers unexpected attentiveness, especially when the whole world wants him, and it has me studying him while he talks.

He knows how to play this game. He’s good at it. And by the weirdest set of circumstances, I never could’ve imagined, today, I’m a part of it.

The lights blink, no doubt to tell us that the movie is going to start. “Do you want to watch the movie, or do you want to leave?” he asks quietly.

“What do you mean go?” I glance around at all of the people leaving the theater through a side exit and realize that for many, this is just a pretend appearance. People really leave? But . . . “I—uh—whatever you want to do.”

He angles his head and studies me. There’s a quiet intensity to it that I don’t understand, but my mind flashes back to what feels like forever ago when I got out of the car and his mouth was right there, so close. And as if he’s remembering that moment too, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off my bare shoulder. But he doesn’t move his hand. Instead he rests his palm there and runs his thumb back and forth over my collarbone.

My breath hitches.

My body heats.

Every part of me wants this weird dance of desire that we’ve skirted around since we met, but now it feels like we’re dipping our toes right into it.

“Hardy?”

I jump back at the voice that calls his name, and I’m grateful for the interruption. But he doesn’t look toward the voice. He keeps his eyes fully focused on me. “We’re coming,” he says. “We just need to get some snacks first. What do you want, Whitney?”

“I—uh—” I glance over to the fancy tables laid out with all the treats one can think of. They run the gamut from typical movie food to fancier. “You pick.”

I expect Hardy to pass on everything. I’ve seen the man eat lunch, and it’s a balanced perfection of proteins and carbs. He surprises me by grabbing exactly what I would have picked. Buttered popcorn. Cheesy nachos. Two glasses of white wine.

We’re led to our seats inside the theater just as the lights dim.

It’s right when the opening credits begin to roll that I feel the heat of his breath on my neck. I fight the urge to ask him to stay right there with his breath feathering over my skin.

“I was wrong, Whitney.”

“About?” The stupid word comes out breathless rather than nonchalant as I’d intended. No doubt its sound is aided by the ache in my lower belly, which is currently simmering to life.

“That first night in the bar, I thought blue was your color. I was wrong. It’s red. Definitely red. You’re stunning in that color.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO