Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ben
I was now the owner of a bespoke suit.
I’d sent Bridgette a photo of the guy with his teeth full of pins crouching at my ankle while I stood on a pedestal in front of a mirror because I knew she’d freak out. And of course, she had, sending me a barrage of messages until she’d given that up and sent me a video call so she could watch everything in live action.
I looked good in that suit. How I’d feel next to Whit in some crazy formal gown, I had no idea. I wasn’t sure if I’d walk the red carpet or what, but there’d definitely be a thorough briefing of what to expect before we loaded into the car.
Whit would fly out early Wednesday morning, so once I got off work Tuesday, I rushed home to see her. I’d been feeling more and more needy—terrible timing, really, since I was also seeing her less and less. Why hadn’t I felt so desperate for her when I’d basically been living with her?
I knew why. This had all been, mostly, before we were really together. It was when we were no longer fake together that I let myself want her, need to see her, look forward to being with her. The only thing that had kept all of my interest, excitement, and desire for her under wraps had been the fact that we’d agreed we were friends and I was helping her. Once that had gone out the window, well… it was a miracle I had maintained any sense of calm since then.
In a way, it was good we couldn’t spend all day every day together. There’d be no way to play it cool then, and if I knew something about Whit, it was that she didn’t like people falling all over her. I’d gotten that sense the first time I ever saw her when I’d been momentarily speechless other than gushing out her name.
And so, the hour or so we’d had on Sunday had me eager for a few more minutes with her before she passed out to get a few hours of sleep in anticipation of her early flight. She’d be busy all week, and she’d also be busy all day next Sunday for the award show, so this was potentially my best shot to have some quality time, even if I wanted both the quality and the quantity.
But, beggars can’t be choosers.
She opened the door, and I kid you not, my heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. I’d seen her two days ago, but still, seeing her standing there in sweatpants, a T-shirt, bare feet, and hair in a ponytail, clearly in her comfort zone, had my heart hammering in my chest.
“Hey, honey.”
A small thrill shot through me at her calling me honey.
“Hi.” I then rushed her, kicking the door closed behind me and tossing her over my shoulder .
“Ben. What are you doing? ”
She was laughing at the unexpected move, and I had to admit I liked the feel of her on my shoulder as I trotted into the living room and gently tossed her onto the cushions of the couch. I crawled over her and boxed her in, my knees on either side of her hips, my hands pressing into the cushion on each side of her head.
I brought my face close to hers and stared her down with squinting eyes.
“I missed you,” I said, enjoying her hands now coasting over my back under my shirt.
“That was a nice way to greet me. I’ll have to add some weights to my routine so I can do the same to you next time,” she said, letting one hand slip to my side and pinch my rib.
“Ah!” I squawked, and jumped up so she couldn’t reach me.
“No. No, come back, I didn’t mean that to make you go. It was just for emphasis.”
She laughed again, and the beauty of that sound floated around me, more beautiful than any song.
“That sounds like a line. I’m not sure I can trust you. My ribs are very sensitive.”
She chuckled again. “So I gather.”
Overly-cautious, I approached her and sat down next to where she lay, then leaned over her torso with one hand to the side of her head. “You are obnoxiously pretty, you know that?”
She bit her lip, all kinds of adorable and coy, and she knew it.
“I know you know it,” I said.
“I don’t always know you think so.” She let her eyes flicker up to the ceiling above me.
“Really?” She wasn’t one to fish for compliments.
Her returning look was shy—which meant she was serious. That was insane. She blinked up at me, and that rare vulnerability she kept tucked away crept through.
“Are you really asking me if I think you’re pretty, Whit?” My voice stayed gentle, low, so she wouldn’t take it as a criticism.
I wasn’t completely sure she wasn’t messing with me, and I wasn’t about to start spooning out compliments from the bucket I carried around if she was. Even with that flash of anxiety I’d seen after she’d said it and looked away, it was simply hard to believe.
See the weekend, when she opened her bedroom door in nothing but a towel, and I nearly evaporated into a cloud of desire.
Her brow furrowed a bit, but she didn’t speak. The look on her face broke my heart, and I didn’t understand it. How could she doubt any part of her was beautiful? Of course it had to come from her parents, and maybe from the sycophants attracted to fame, but…
“This is probably something you should know about me. I get insecure before award shows. I know it’s stupid, and I know nothing about me has changed, but being on parade is unnerving. So much goes into how you look, and the photographs circulate for years—they pop up at the grocery and every Internet site for weeks afterward. It’s exhausting, and I’m not immune to comparing myself.” She reached up and grasped my arm where it rested by her head, her small, strong hand warm against my wrist.
“Scooch,” I said, nudging her with my hip. She moved so her back rested against the back of the deep couch, and I lay down beside her. We both propped heads in hands and leaned on our elbows so we were facing each other, eight inches apart.
“That’s only human,” I continued. “I’m sure it’s difficult to stay focused on yourself when others compare you, and then when you’re walking the red carpet or sitting in the seats, looking around at all these people whose jobs it is to look beautiful.”
With my free hand, I traced her dark brows, the curve of her cheek, along her chin, and stopped at her perfect lips.
I pulled her chin toward me while leaning in and set a soft kiss on her mouth. I could see the barest of smiles on her lips, even though they hadn’t moved.
“It’s brutal. And I’m naturally hard on myself. I know this, and I always prep with my therapist. I’m excited you’ll be with me, too, but the small, scared part of me imagines you seeing Taylor Swift and becoming the boy in her next song.” For some reason, she swallowed the last word, like she wanted to cut herself off—maybe she’d been too honest.
For my part, I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Taylor doesn’t do it for me.”
Her blue-green eyes danced. “No?”
“Nope. Not really at all, but certainly not if I’m there with you.”
I could hear my voice had done that low, kind of gritty thing she seemed to respond to, and I knew I had a smug little grin on. But I wasn’t quite done. “You understand that I am completely gone for you, right? Pretty much always have been.”
My heart raced as she drew in a surprised breath.
“There’s no way that’s true.”
“What do you mean?”
“I remember you being kind of shocked to see me at Reese’s, but otherwise, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you… I do n’t know.” She moved her attention to something behind me, clearly not wanting me to see too closely.
“So you think that because I didn’t act dumbstruck like I did with Jamie, or fall all over myself when we were fake-dating, that I’m not into you?” I set a hand on the rise of her hip and shook her a little to try and lighten the mood.
She gave me a regretful grin. “Yes?”
“Whit, darlin’, I don’t want to date Jamie Morris. Playing it cool gets me nowhere with him. If I’d been a bumbling tongue-tied mess when you asked me to that first thing in October, would you have asked me again?”
She pursed her lips. “No. Admittedly, I would not have.”
“Exactly. And you wouldn’t have let me take you on the tour of post if I’d been all over you the very first time we met. In fact, my little stuttering greeting was a fraction of the disbelief I felt, but some beautiful part of me for which I will forever be thankful recognized that the only way to impress you was to act like you didn’t impress me.”
She still just watched me.
“And if I told you how brain-meltingly beautiful I find you every time I see you, whether you’re dressed up or lounging next to me on the couch, or if I told you how more than once, your voice has brought me to tears, even before I knew you, would you have wanted to sign a contract for me to be your fake boyfriend?”
She swallowed, her face all serious now.
I dipped my head and told her one last truth. “And if I told you that I want you so much, sometimes when you’re near me, I find it hard to breathe, that my mind curses myself for ever making a vow of celibacy that keeps me from having you every way we both want, would you believe me? ”
She studied my face, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming fast, just like mine. Then, out of the clouds and tearing us away from that fraught moment, she loosed a wide, brilliant smile. “So you think I’m pretty amazing, huh?”
I shook my head and didn’t stop as I appealed to the ceiling. “Lord save me. What have I done?”