CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Whitney
I t’s like we struck some kind of truce—get us out of our soccer clothes and off the pitch and we turn into civil people.
And he turns into a man who is, quite literally, visual perfection and aural seduction. The little murmurs in my ear during the movie. His arm around the back of my chair so that his fingertips tickle the top of my shoulder.
I’m aware of every single movement of his.
I don’t love that.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
It’s just my imagination that’s working overtime as I consider the soft touches, his close proximity, alongside the viral clips of Hardy watching me.
Or maybe it’s not. It’s never been more apparent than right now.
But when the movie’s over, it’s as if the magic ends. We head to the after party on the rooftop of a historic hotel next door. It’s there that Hardy is pulled every which way for conversations and pictures. And while he includes me, I’m extremely aware that I’m the third wheel and way out of my element.
“I’m going to head back to the hotel,” I tell him.
“What? Why?” His face is a mask of confusion. “No. Stay here with me.”
“It’s been a long day. This has been incredible.” I’ve met other celebrities and sports stars. I’ve rubbed elbows with people I’ve seen on the television and admired from afar. But this part, the pretending to be something I’m not, isn’t for me. “Thank you for being my date tonight. I had fun.”
He studies me, the muscle in his jaw pulsing and something warring in his eyes. “Okay. I understand. I have to be here— contractually —for a little longer. Are you sure you’re okay to—”
“Alexander Hardy. My man,” someone says and effectively ends the conversation for us.
While I’m not immune to being an extrovert or doing extroverted things, my world is small. It’s insular. I don’t get out much for two reasons—the academy takes all my effort, and going out is expensive when I don’t have extra money to spare. So you’d think I’d want to milk tonight for everything it’s worth—the gorgeous dress, the unexpected celebrities, the night in New York City, the free drinks, Hardy—and while it’s good in theory, it’s a lot to take in. I’m overstimulated and figure I’ll call it a night while I’m ahead and nothing bad has happened.
I sneak out while Hardy’s attention is on his conversation. That makes things easier than an awkward goodbye or him feeling obligated to do ... something different.
While I wait for the elevator in a line of people, I get my phone out of my clutch to see what my hotel’s name is again—it’s been such a blur I don’t remember—and to text Suri, who’s been blowing up my phone all night with requests for updates.
But it’s the picture she sends me in my texts that has me stopping and staring. It’s of Hardy and me on the red carpet. His hand is on my back and he’s leaning down, whispering what I know were reassurances in my ear, but it looks like he’s kissing my cheek. And there’s an expression on my face—one of surprise, of happiness, of adoration—that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
And I don’t know how seeing it makes me feel.
It’s the weirdest thing seeing a picture of a moment I lived through—because it looks like something totally different.
I study the image of us, feeling like it’s a dream, and then remember to read the actual text. “First off, that dress is to die for. Second, when the hell did this happen? You two looking like that together? The whole internet is talking and they’re liking it.”
“Miss? There is room in this party for you,” the elevator attendant says as I step onto the car, my head still down, thumbing through the pictures of us all over social media.
Like . . . wow.
“Good night, huh?” the girl next to me says.
“Yes. Very fun.”
“You’re here with Hardy, right? How does it feel to be Cinderella tonight? Flown here, given the royal treatment, and the prince no sane woman would sneeze at.”
“Um.” My throat tightens up on me. “It’s not like that at all. We’re just ... friends.” I smile as the car dings we are at the bottom floor.
And just as they walk away, I overhear the one girl say to the other, “Or a photo op staged perfectly.”
I stand in the lobby staring at them and hate knowing she’s right while at the same time hoping she isn’t.
I’m your date.
Those were his words, weren’t they, when he opened my car door?
I have to be here— contractually .
Those were also his words.
It’s hard to know which to listen to. Instinct tells me the latter because I know his contract determines many of his activities.
But did he “have to” put his arm around me? Compliment me? Dote on me ?
That’s what’s confusing, and I just don’t know what to think ... what to feel .
Perhaps it’s just a Cinderella story.
Perhaps tonight will be the only night where I feel like a princess after all.