Chapter 47
forty-seven
Rowan places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. The warmth of his touch against my bare skin sends a shiver up my spine.
“How are you feeling about all this?” he asks softly as we step outside.
“Good,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what we’re about to do. “Nervous.”
The limo waiting for us is sleek and black, with a uniformed driver who opens the door with a respectful nod.
I slide in first, soft leather cool against my bare legs. Even though there is more than enough room, when Rowan follows, he scoots in close pressing our thighs together.
“Why isn’t Evo driving us?”
“Gave him the night off.”
As we pull away from the house, I keep my focus on what’s outside the tinted window.
Seeing Rowan all dressed up had me wobbling in my four-inch black stilettos.
The way his suit hugs his broad shoulders and tapers at his waist makes my mouth water. His hazel eyes glow in the dim light of the limo; the light stubble gracing his jaw giving him a rugged edge that contrasts perfectly with his polished look.
“What are you thinking about?”
His voice is low, intimate, and I have to suck in a quiet breath before I can speak. “Just wondering what I’ve gotten myself into,” I admit, smoothing my dress. “This is all so... surreal.”
He chuckles, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. “You’re going to be the most beautiful woman there tonight. And I’m not just saying that.”
My heart flutters at his words. “You’re biased.”
“True,” he admits with a grin. “But I’m also right.”
The limo glides, taking us from the Hollywood Hills toward the city. As we get closer to our destination, the traffic picks up right along with my nerves.
“So,” I say, trying to distract myself from the butterflies in my stomach. “What exactly should I expect tonight? Will there be a lot of people there?”
Rowan’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing small circles over my skin. “It’s one of the biggest events of the season. There’ll be celebrities, industry people, art collectors...”
“Great,” I mutter. “No pressure or anything.”
His laugh is soft as he squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
The way he’s speaking to me, with warmth and sincerity, makes my chest tighten.
“Okay.” I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
The look he gives me is so intense, it steals my breath away. His eyes trace over my face, lingering on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “I’ll be right beside you the entire time.”
The way he says those words makes my heart constrict. This doesn’t feel like an act anymore. Not to me. The sincerity in his eyes and the way his thumb is still stroking my hand—it feels real. Too real.
Before I can dwell on that conundrum any further, the limo slows to a stop. Camera lights flash and a red carpet extends from the sidewalk to the entrance of a tall, elegant glass building, taunting me.
“We’re here,” Rowan says, giving my hand one final squeeze. “Ready?”
When the door opens and Rowan gets out, the crowd goes nuts. I can barely hear him over the cacophony of noise as he holds out his hand. Lights flash as people call out, vying for his attention.
I take his hand, trying to push down the panic rising in my throat. The instant I straighten after stepping out, I’m momentarily blinded. My entire being wants to dive back into the safety of the limo, but Rowan’s steady hand at the small of my back keeps me grounded.
“Just breathe,” he whispers in my ear. “Smile and follow my lead.”
His breath grazing my skin centers me. Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, forcing my lips into what I hope is a confident smile, and we begin our walk.
The red carpet feels like it stretches on for miles. Photographers line both sides, shouting Rowan’s name as their cameras click, frantic and loud. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, terrified I’ll trip in these heels and face-plant in front of everyone.
“Rowan! Over here!”
“Rowan! Is that your childhood sweetheart?”
The noise is overwhelming, but Rowan handles it like a pro.
He smiles, nods, and occasionally stops to pose, arm securely wrapped around my waist. Each time we pause, he pulls me closer, our bodies fitting together perfectly.
Heat radiates from his body through his suit, contrasting sharply with the cooler evening air grazing over my bare back.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving as we continue our slow procession.
Up ahead, I spot a line of recognizable faces—actors I’ve only ever seen on movie screens and TV. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize I’m about to meet people whose posters I had up on my wall as a teenager.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, gripping Rowan’s arm even tighter. “Is that—”
“Yep,” he confirms with a slight grin. “Just act normal.”
Easy for him to say. This is Hollywood. He works with all these famous people. I just tattoo college students, tourists and locals back in our hometown.
As we approach the entrance, a tall blonde in a stunning silver gown waves at us enthusiastically.
“There you are!” she exclaims, air-kissing Rowan’s cheeks before turning to me. “Lizzy, you look absolutely gorgeous!”
Carrie Southern is dressed to kill.
“Thanks,” I manage, still overwhelmed by everything happening around us. “So do you. Love your dress.”
“Ah, shucks. This old thing? Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Linking her arm through mine, she pulls me forward, Rowan following close behind. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite. Well, except for Martin, but only after his third martini.”
Her easy confidence is contagious, and I find myself relaxing a little as she guides me into the gallery’s main space.
Its walls are adorned with striking contemporary art pieces illuminated by soft, glowing spotlights.
The crowd is a sea of designer clothes, champagne flutes, and a gentle hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.
“This...” Carrie says, tugging me forward with a Vanna White wave at the sea of people blanketing the room, “...is where the real fun begins.”
She introduces me to a dizzying array of names and faces. An Oscar-winning director whose latest film I’d watched just last month, a famous novelist whose books line my shelves back home, and a tech billionaire who mentions he’s here looking for some new art for his yacht.
I nod and smile, trying desperately not to say anything stupid as I shake hands and make small talk. Through it all, Rowan remains a steady presence at my side, his hand never leaving mine, squeezing gently every few minutes as if to say, “You’re doing great.”
“And this,” Carrie declares, steering me toward a statuesque woman with a sleek silver bob and dramatic black glasses, “is Vivienne Chen, editor-in-chief of ArtScene Magazine.”
“Pleasure,” the woman simpers, her critical gaze sweeping over me. “I assume you’re the artist Rowan mentioned to me?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “I, um—”
“Yes, she is,” Rowan cuts in smoothly, his arm sliding around my waist. “Lizzy’s work is a cross between traditional tattoo and contemporary visual.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. That actually sounds... pretty accurate.
“Interesting,” Vivienne murmurs. “I’d love to see your portfolio sometime.”
Before I can respond, Rowan tells her we’ll be in touch, and I’m whisked away to another cluster of guests, one of whom includes a pop star whose music I happen to dance to when I’m alone in my studio.
“You’re handling this like a pro,” Rowan whispers in my ear as we approach, lacing his fingers with mine.
“I’m terrified,” I admit under my breath.
He laughs. “Nobody can tell, trust me.”
After another round of introductions, we excuse ourselves to take a break and grab another glass of champagne.
My feet are already starting to throb in these heels, but I’m determined to power through.
“How are you holding up?” Rowan asks, voice low.
“Barely,” I whisper back, taking a generous sip. “How do you do this all the time?”
His eyes crinkle, amusement lighting them up. “Practice. And plenty of alcohol.”
I snort into my glass, earning a raised eyebrow from a well known socialite hovering nearby.
“Come on.” Rowan squeezes my hand. “There’s someone you need to meet.”
Guiding me through the crowd, he nods and smiles at people as we pass. I can practically feel multiple sets of curious eyes burning into me as we weave our way through.
It’s disconcerting being the center of attention like this, especially when I catch whispers of “Rowan Cole’s new girlfriend” from people as we pass by.
There’s even a stunning red-headed woman who, after not even trying to hide the fact that she’s eye-fucking Rowan, gives me a once-over before turning her nose up at me.
Whatever, bitch. He’s mine.
For now, at least.
We come to a stop in front of a tall, elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly tailored navy suit. He’s standing in front of a massive canvas splashed with vibrant colors that somehow form a cohesive, striking image of a naked woman when you squint at it from a distance.
“Marcus,” Rowan says warmly.
The man turns, his face lighting up. “There you are! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”
They embrace briefly, clapping each other on the back.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rowan replies. Pressing his hand against the middle of my back, he gently urges me forward. “I’d like you to meet Lizzy Cade. Lizzy, this is Marcus Crane, owner of this gallery and one of the most influential figures in the contemporary art world.”
Marcus’s piercing blue eyes lock onto mine as he extends his hand. “Rowan turned me on to your Instagram. I’m impressed.”
My mouth goes dry as I shake his hand. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Indeed.” His eyes crease deeply at the corners when he smiles. “Your fusion of traditional tattoo aesthetics with modern artistic sensibilities is quite intriguing.”
I blink rapidly, trying to process the fact that this famous gallery owner has actually seen my work. “Thank you. Um... I’m flattered you took the time.”
“Rowan insisted,” he says. Gaze flicking briefly to my date, they exchange a look I can’t quite decipher before he dips his chin. “He was quite persistent.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I glance up at Rowan, who’s looking down at me with pride in his eyes.
“Well, then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lizzy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”
As Marcus walks away, I turn to Ro, eyes wide.
He grins. “Told you.”
“Rowan! There you are!”
Startled, we both turn to see Carrie hurrying in our direction. Slightly out of breath, her blonde hair is just a touch disheveled as she rushes up in a flurry of sparkle and shine.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she pants, flashing me an apologetic smile before turning to Rowan. “But Vanity Fair is doing impromptu shots with celebrity pairs, and they specifically asked for you and me.” She grabs his arm excitedly. “It’ll be great publicity for both of us.”
Rowan immediately shakes his head, his hand tightening protectively in mine. “Not now, Carrie. I promised Lizzy I’d stay with her.”
“But it’s Vanity Fair,” Carrie pouts, her blue eyes pleading as they bounce between us. “Their photographer is only here for another thirty minutes, and they specifically asked for us. You know how rare these opportunities can be.”
Body tensing, Rowan hesitates. He glances down at me, conflict written all over his face.
“It’s fine,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice is. “You should go.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes search mine, genuinely concerned. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
Even with my stomach knotting at the thought of being left all by myself in a sea of celebrities and artists, I wave my hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Go do your thing.”
“It’ll be quick, I promise,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Ten, twenty minutes, tops. Then I’ll be back.”
“Take your time,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I’ll just... wander around.”
She beams at me. “You’re the best! I promise I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
Arm linked through his, she leads him toward a group of photographers set up in the corner as Rowan cranes his head over his shoulder, mouthing “Sorry” as they disappear into the crowd.