Behind the Scenes

Chapter Twelve

Thursday arrives with surprisingly little fanfare, considering it's premier day. I sleep in until noon, then wake up to a block of fireworks emojis from Millie and a "See you later ❤️" from Joe that turns me into a puddle of mush. 

          I try to spend the few hours between waking up and hair and makeup productively, but I delete more words than I add, putting me well into the red. Deandra's knock on my hotel room door at 3:00pm is almost a relief. I slam my laptop shut and let her in. 

          The rest of the afternoon is a blur as Angie and an esthetician named Robert arrive to wave their magic wands and get me ready for the ball. Angie re-straightens my hair and bundles it into a low, sleek ponytail ending in a loose barrel curl, then douses it liberally in hairspray. Robert moisturizes and primes and conceals, then I'm asked to close my eyes. 

          I don't open them again until he's done. Somehow, he's given my pale complexion a healthy golden glow. He's also given me a gentle smoky eye without making me squinty, and topped it off with a golden liner and touch of sparkle that make my blue eyes pop. 

          For once, the mean voice in the back of my head usually telling me I'm not good enough--for Joe or myself or anybody--shuts up. 

          I. Am. Stunning. 

          My outfit is the pièce de résistance. It's a handmade black lace jumpsuit, completely transparent except for the satin bodysuit underneath, but even that doesn't cover up much. It's also a Millie Oliver original made just for me, so the lace sleeves and pants hug my form perfectly. 

          Her exact words the first time I tried it on were, "If Joe King doesn't lose his fucking mind over this, then I'm quitting fashion for good," so I know I look damn sexy in it. The scalloped neckline plunges in a deep V that grazes my sternum and puts 99.9% of my cleavage on display. The look is finished off with a thin leather belt around my waist and a pair of gold heels. 

          I look at myself in the full-length mirror and whisper the first thing that comes to mind: "Va-va-voom."

          A wall of heat envelopes me the minute I step outside. Just my luck that New York gets hit with a late-August heatwave on the same day I'm trying to rock a red carpet. The city sits in a bubble of smog and I've never been more thankful for air conditioning as I slide into the back of the limo outside the hotel. 

          Nervous butterflies flit about my stomach as we make our way into Midtown Manhattan. I think of the red carpet I have to walk, the cameras that'll be in my face, the wall of photographers who'll be staring at me and judging everything from my looks to the way I walk and how much I smile, and feel sick. 

          Then I think about Joe. The twinkle that lights up his chocolate brown eyes whenever we make eye contact. The dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. The curl that always falls across his forehead, and the way he scrubs at his beard when he's contemplative. We might not get two minutes alone, and everyone will be clamoring for his attention, but knowing he'll be there, sharing in the craziness, is a balm on my nerves. 

          Even though we've passed by Radio City Music Hall a couple times already this week, it looks totally foreign behind the wall of press and event coordinators in official-looking nametags and headsets. The limo driver deposits us right at the start of the red carpet. For once, Deandra smiles at me and gives my bicep a squeeze. 

          "Good luck," she says before stepping back into my shadow.

          One of the handlers gives my information to the photographers at the front and I see my name get passed down in a wave of murmuring lips. I step one heeled foot onto the red carpet.