Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
MIRANDA
“Huge fan, Jen… I mean, Ms. Aniston. Can I call you Jen?”
Miles’s words tumble out in a flurry as he clutches the actress’s hand far too long, shaking it so vigorously her polite smile falters.
I jab him in the side, and he finally lets go. “Sorry,” he blurts, breathless. “I’m just so honored to meet you.”
The actress’s smile softens—this one genuine—as she steps away from the overeager fan also known as my date. “Have a great night,” she calls, hurrying off with her entourage.
Miles turns to me, gripping my arms. Leaning close, he half whispers, half shouts, “That was Jennifer Aniston. Oh my God, my mom would die! We grew up watching Friends reruns every night. I can’t believe I just shook her hand.” His excitement vibrates through my arms.
“So you’re happy to meet her?”
“Yes! Are you kidding? This is like—” He stops, narrowing his eyes. “You’re joking.”
I laugh. “Obviously. You’re clearly ecstatic.”
“Thank you so much for bringing me, Miranda.” He wraps me up in a hug that nearly unpins my updo. “This is a dream come true.”
“I honestly thought you’d be a little more chill,” I tease, patting his back. “And Miles—my hair.”
“Sorry.” He releases me, stepping back. “I’m just…so excited.”
“I can tell.” I smooth my hair, checking for casualties.
“Still perfect,” he assures, eyes scanning. “Exactly like when we left the hotel.”
“Good,” I exhale. “Gentle hugs from now on. This hair has to survive the after-parties.”
He grins. “The after-parties. Who do you think will be there?”
His boyish enthusiasm makes him look younger and so sweet. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of actors for you to fangirl over,” I tease.
“Nice.” He draws out the word with a slow shake of his head before his gaze drifts over me. “Have I told you how stunning you look? Seriously, you’re a goddess.”
I dip into a playful curtsy. “You have, but feel free to keep saying it.”
“Oh, I will. It’ll be hard not to.” His eyes sweep the red carpet. “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight, Sunshine. That’s the truth.”
I arch a brow. “More beautiful than your new friend Jen?”
He smirks. “Fine—you’re tied for most beautiful.”
“I’ll take it.” I gesture toward the entrance. “Should we find our seats?”
“Sure.” He offers his arm, and I loop mine through.
But when he starts down the same path Jen took, I tug him back. “We’re going the other way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that way is for the stars—the ones walking the line of photographers and interviewers. We peasants take the path behind the chaos.” I point toward the corridor where publicists and staff funnel guests.
Miles frowns. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. That’s how it works.”
He shakes his head. “No one puts my goddess on the back path.”
I giggle. “Love the Dirty Dancing reference, Miles, but we’re not allowed.”
“Says who?”
I nod toward a man in a suit with a headset and a clipboard. “Him.”
“Eh, he’s harmless.” Miles straightens and strides toward the main carpet.
As expected, Clipboard Guy blocks our way. “Name?”
“Miles Keller,” he says confidently, “star of the NHL Crane Hockey Team. And this is Miranda Sinclair—the woman behind Annalise Sterling.”
The man flips through his pages. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t—”
“Keep looking,” Miles interrupts, already steering us forward.
“Miles,” I hiss, mortified.
“Walk and smile, my goddess. Just walk and smile.”
“He’s calling us back,” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. Clipboard Guy is speaking into his headset.
“What’s he gonna do—tackle us? Let him. I can take him.”
I groan. “This is so embarrassing.”
“For him? Definitely.”
“If we get dragged out by security and I miss my best friend’s name being called, I swear—”
“Sunshine baby, I already told you—I can take him. I’ve handled guys twice his size on the ice.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to end up on gossip sites brawling at the Oscars.”
Miles ignores me, guiding us straight to a reporter with a microphone and a cameraman.
“Hello,” he says smoothly. “I’m Miles Keller from last year’s Stanley Cup champion team, The Cranes, and this is Miranda Sinclair. We’re here tonight with nominee Annalise Sterling.”
At Anna’s name, the reporter perks up, her smile brightening. “Hello! You both look incredible tonight. Who are you wearing?”
Miles nods toward me, and I summon my professional smile, then rattle off the designers.
Thankfully, as the one who coordinates Anna’s red carpet attire, I’m able to give appropriate credit to the designers.
The shimmery golden dress clinging to my every curve didn’t make Anna’s final cut.
Lucky for me, because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had on my body.
“And what are your thoughts on Ms. Sterling’s nomination?” the reporter asks.
“That one’s easy,” I say, genuine pride threading my voice.
“I love that it’s an empowering true story.
She plays a brilliant woman in the 1970s who becomes the first female CEO of a major company, fighting against the deeply rooted sexism of the era.
Anna’s performance captures the courage it takes to break barriers and be taken seriously in a male-dominated industry.
She deserves all the recognition she’s getting. ”
“Wonderful. Best of luck to her—and enjoy your night, you two,” the reporter says before shifting to the next celebrity.
As Anna’s right-hand woman, I’m used to staying in the background. My job is to make her shine, and I’m good at it. Still, our little impromptu interview seems to have worked. Clipboard Guy’s back is now turned, checking in the next wave of guests.
“That was fun, yeah?” Miles beams.
“Totally,” I deadpan.
“Over here! Right here!” photographers shout.
Miles and I turn toward the flashing lights, smiles poised, the red carpet gleaming beneath our feet as the clicking of cameras sounds off. I smile and pose in a way I’ve seen Anna do a thousand times. At least, I hope I’m posing correctly.
I look up at Miles, and my smile grows. He’s effortlessly handsome and a natural behind the camera. The team has given him the nickname Hollywood, and I can see why. He was born to walk red carpets and look stunning doing so.
As for me, I’ve had all the attention I need in this lifetime. I’m more than happy existing behind the scenes. While Miles thrives on attention, I feel suffocated. Terrified to be recognized.
I squeeze his arm, and he tilts his chin, his big blue eyes assessing. “You ready to go in?”
“Yes, please.”
He nods toward the photographers, thanking them, and we continue down the carpet.
“You’re not a fan of the spotlight.” His words aren’t a question.
“Not really.”
“I find it so odd because you’re so charismatic and beautiful. Plus, you’re literally in the film industry. I would think you’d love it.”
“Anna’s in the film industry. I’m in…management, I guess.
Completely different. Now…” I pause my step and wait for Miles to turn and face me.
“There are assigned seats. We’re not on the main floor with Anna and Jaden and the other nominees.
We’re on the second level. You can’t just decide where you’re going to sit, or we’ll get kicked out. ”
Miles chuckles. “I know how assigned seating works.”
“You sure? Because that rogue red carpet run says otherwise.” I raise a brow.
He waves a hand between us. “That’s completely different. But don’t worry. I promise to be on my best behavior.”
I narrow my gaze, causing Miles to laugh.
“From now on,” he clarifies.
A second group of photographers, toward the end of the carpet, calls for us to pose for another round of pictures.
Miles and I linger on the carpet just long enough for a dozen flashes to explode around us before a coordinator waves us toward the entrance.
Once inside, the roar of the exuberant red carpet chatter softens into a low, elegant hum.
We’re surrounded by glamour, and the air smells faintly of perfume, champagne, and polished wood.
The theater is breathtaking. Golden sconces line the curved walls, casting honey-colored light across red velvet seats that sweep upward in perfect rows.
The ceiling is domed and glittering, a galaxy of tiny bulbs that make everything feel cinematic.
I’ve seen this place a hundred times on TV, but being here in person is something else entirely.
We start our climb to the second level, following an usher in a crisp black suit. Miles practically vibrates beside me, craning his neck to take everything in—the chandeliers, the celebrity clusters, and the cameras flashing below.
“Do you realize,” he whispers, leaning close, “that we’re sitting in the same building as Meryl Streep right now? Meryl freakin’ Streep.”
I bite back a laugh. “Try to breathe, Miles.”
He smiles widely, taking everything in. “This place is sick.”
Our seats are near the front of the balcony, close enough to see the stage. The view is stunning; the giant velvet curtains are still drawn, but the glow from the footlights paints everything in amber warmth.
Miles settles in beside me, still buzzing. “Maybe they’ll pan the camera this way, and my parents will see me on TV.”
I shake my head, amused. “Your parents see you on TV every week, Miles.”
“I know, but this is different. I’ve told you how much we loved movies.
Any time a movie was filmed in Detroit, my dad would take me to watch the production whenever possible.
In my house, the Oscars were a bigger deal than the Super Bowl.
We’d watch all the pre-show coverage of the red carpet, and my mom would rate all the dresses.
I was always allowed to stay up late, well past my bedtime, to see the last award of the night—Best Picture.
Prior to the show, we’d see as many of the movies as possible so we could have our own opinions on the winners. ”