5. The Detour #3
Blaire picked up her own glass and leaned in. She tapped the rim against mine. The faint chime of the crystal was followed by a burst of white flashes through the window as the paparazzi captured the toast.
“Oh, it absolutely will, Hayes,” Blaire said, maintaining her camera-ready grin. “The fans are going to eat this up and beg the studio for a sequel.”
I brought the glass to my mouth and took a sip.
The dry, crisp taste of the wine did nothing to soothe the raw ache in my throat.
As Blaire continued to pose for the lenses, I dropped my free hand beneath the edge of the table.
I slipped my fingers into the pocket of my trousers, sliding the phone out.
I kept it hidden in the shadow of the wooden table and pressed the side button with my thumb.
The screen illuminated. The harsh backlight revealed the digital clock, but my eyes locked onto the calendar date displayed right beneath the time. I froze with the wine glass raised halfway to my mouth as the numbers glared up at me.
Today is our anniversary.
Sutton was sitting at home, likely waiting for me to walk through the door so we could celebrate. I had forgotten the date. I stared at the illuminated numbers, squeezing the phone so hard the metal dug into my palm.
She knows how the European tours work, I reminded myself, forcing the guilt down.
I swallowed a sickening spike of guilt. This dinner was supposed to secure our future, but missing our anniversary for a PR stunt felt entirely unforgivable.
I could fix the oversight in the morning. I would have Toby call the private jeweler before my flight to London and purchase the diamond tennis bracelet Sutton had admired last month. A sincere apology and an expensive gift would smooth the evening over.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket, burying the evidence. I lifted my head, finding Blaire still smiling for the photographers outside.
“Good,” I replied, keeping my posture loose. “If I have to deal with an annoyed wife before I fly out, it better be worth every single penny the studio is paying us.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the cameras and swallowed the rest of my wine.
I pushed my empty glass away and slid out of the booth, waiting for Blaire to navigate the narrow aisle.
The strobes outside the window illuminated the dining room in erratic bursts of white light.
Patrons paused their meals to stare as we passed their tables.
I kept my posture rigid, bracing for the inevitable assault on the street.
“Keep your head down until we clear the vestibule,” I instructed.
Blaire adjusted the strap of her purse, her heels clicking against the floorboards. “They’re right outside the glass, Hayes. Just walk.”
I pushed the vestibule door open. The ambient roar of the Los Angeles sidewalk washed over us.
A dozen paparazzi stringers clogged the pavement between the brick facade and the idling SUV at the curb.
The strobes erupted in a blinding, overlapping barrage, cutting through the shadows on the sidewalk.
I blinked against the glare, forcing a relaxed, charismatic smile for the lenses.
“Hayes, look right here! Blaire, give him a kiss for the fans!” a stringer shouted.
We took two steps toward the vehicle before Blaire stepped close, sliding her hand down my arm. Her fingers slipped between mine, intertwining our hands in a tight grip. She pressed her side tightly against mine. I stopped dead on the concrete as her perfume invaded my personal space.
Pull away. Every instinct told me to step back, but the camera shutters fired in a frenzied mechanical rhythm.
A public rejection would only give the tabloids ammunition, dragging out my PR obligations and delaying my flight to London.
I held my ground, tolerating the unwanted contact.
I reminded myself that Sutton knew this was all fake, and that enduring the cameras tonight secured our future.
Blaire rose on her toes. She leaned closer and pressed her lips against my cheek.
The flashbulbs flared white-hot. She lingered there for three seconds, guaranteeing the fake kiss would be on every feed by morning.
I stared straight ahead, my jaw tight, calculating how fast I could buy a diamond apology gift and board my flight.
“Just smile, Hayes,” Blaire whispered against my ear, her breath warm against my skin. “Eleanor is going to love this shot.”
I turned my head and stepped back, pulling away the second I decided the photographers had enough material. I grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, desperate to escape the cameras.
“Get in the car, Blaire,” I said, keeping my voice tight. “We gave them enough for tonight.”
Blaire offered one last glittering wave to the cameras and ducked into the dark cabin.
I followed her inside, sliding onto the bench seat.
The icy air conditioning hit my skin, providing instant relief from the suffocating pavement.
I reached back for the metal handle, eager to leave the spectacle behind.
I yanked the door shut, plunging the cabin into darkness as the SUV finally pulled away.