Chapter 13
MADDIE
From the back of the ballroom, I watch Rio personally greet several journalists as they enter. He's confident and full of charisma as he shakes hands and even signs a few album covers.
But his confidence only makes my anxiety about public speaking grow.
Then there's the delicate issue of getting my point across. These reporters will write about our love affair. We'll have to make it convincing.
Given that stupid "delicious" remark, I'm reasonably sure I can make my passion for Rio come off well.
But can Rio speak of me without sarcasm? Or making me the butt of some joke?
Just then, Rio appears by my side, as if by magic.
"Ready to join me on the dais?" he asks. "I'm going to get settled in."
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and grab Rio's wrist.
"Rio," I say, my voice shaky and pathetic to my own ears. "I've never done a press conference before."
I realize I'm still holding his wrist, my fingers pressed against his warm skin. His arm feels solid under my grip.
"Don't worry, Maddie-girl. You'll be fine," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
"My voice might disappear. My mind might freeze—"
"Stop it."
He cuts me off with a sharpness that makes me blink as his eyes lock onto mine.
"You'll be just fine. Follow my lead. You'll be great."
Before I can respond, he smacks my butt. Hard.
I don’t even know what hit me until I feel the resulting sting.
My eyes dart around the room to see if any of the journalists caught that.
But as if to add insult to injury, he pinches my ass for good measure.
I glare at him, my cheeks burning hot. My mouth opens, but no words come out.
That impossible arrogance. The way he just assumes he can touch me like that.
But I have no choice other than to follow Rio up to the dais with Snorty in my arms.
As I settle in, nerves cause my armpits to grow damp under the designer blazer. Strange, because the air conditioning vent above me blasts cold air like crazy.
Even Snorty, sitting on a cushion on the seat beside me, curls himself in a ball to keep warm.
I try to display charisma, like Rio, by smiling at the journalists sitting in the chairs in front of me.
But not one smiles back.
Some tap on their devices. Most just stare. Like I’m a painting, not a person.
"Is the press always like this?" I ask Rio out of the side of my mouth.
"Rarely. My guess is that the sponsor assembled the press list from more conservative publications. It fits, because the concert’s benefiting a charity."
"Ah," I say, feeling like a good taunt is in order. "That must explain why the female journalists aren’t ripping off their panties and throwing them at you."
"Don’t make assumptions. Male journalists do that as well," Rio retorts.
As I burst into laughter, Snorty turns his head toward us with an inquisitive yip.
When I look back at the journalists, I wonder if they can see through our ruse. Do they already know this is fake? Can they smell desperation?
Antoine calls for quiet, and makes a quick introduction.
Then he invites the journalists to ask questions.
The first question comes from a balding man in the second row. "Where did you two meet?"
Before I can answer, a woman with a severe bob cut and an even more severe expression cuts in. "This engagement is rather sudden, isn’t it?"
Rio leans into his microphone, all charm. "Maddie and I met at a party. I saw the most gorgeous woman in the room, and I went right for her in true Rio style."
Another reporter stands. He is younger, with a faded band T-shirt under his blazer.
"But true Rio style is usually ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma'am,’" he says. “Apologies to the future Ms. Wilder. But why Maddie, Rio? What makes Maddie different?"
I cringe. What a question.
Rio's smile doesn't falter as he turns to me. "Well, why don’t we ask Miss Maddie?"
My stomach lurches. I wasn’t prepared for this. The lights feel too bright. The room too quiet. All those once-bored eyes, now fixed on my face. Challenging me.
My legs feel like jelly as I stand.
"I'm in fancy clothes and makeup because I was told photographers would take my picture. But when I’m not at work teaching autistic children, I’m just a regular girl."
"If that’s the case, what were you doing at a party with celebrities like Rio?" A guy with a receding hairline shouts this question from the back of the room.
My cheeks burn. "I was invited by a friend." I glance at Rio, who's watching me with his intense eyes.
"I had no clue any famous people would show up. Lucky me, right?"
From the back of the room, Antoine nods encouragingly.
I take a deep breath. "When I saw Rio across the room, it was like..."
I hesitate. I’m totally making this up as I go.
“Like the world just stopped. Like you see in one of those slow-motion movie scenes. I know that sounds super cheesy, but it's true."
My hands shake under the table. "You just know when Cupid hits you with an arrow. Not logical. Just instant. You just know."
The journalists burst out laughing, and my stomach drops. I sink back into my chair, mortified.
Rio takes over, answering their questions with his usual smooth talk. Yet even he seems off his game.
His charisma isn’t lighting a fire in the room.
This is going horrifically. If these journalists figure out we're faking it, all hell will break loose.
Then Snorty wheezes slightly. He gets up from his cushion, then waddles over to Rio.
He lets forth a high-pitched yip right in the rockstar’s face.
"Hey folks," Rio says. "What do you think this little guy wants?"
Snorty yips twice more, now shivering visibly.
Rio's shoulders tense for a half-second. He glances at me. Just a flicker of hesitation.
And then he steps back into the moment.
"Are you cold, fella?" he asks with genuine concern. Then he looks up at the journalists with a wink. "The Las Vegas air conditioning is brutal."
To my shock, they laugh, amused.
Then I watch as Rio unties the signature black skull patterned bandana he wears around his neck. And wraps it around my puppy like a tiny designer poncho.
"There you go, buddy. Better?" he asks, tucking the fabric around Snorty's stubby legs.
Snorty snuggles against Rio's arm, letting out a contented little yip.
Half the journalists raise their devices to capture pictures of Rio and Snorty together.
I must admit, Snorty looks adorable wearing Rio's accessory.
One of the reporters calls out, "Whose dog is he? Yours or Maddie’s?"
"Looks like he's mine now," Rio laughs—and suddenly, the whole room transforms.
The journalists fire questions about Snorty—his age, his breed, whether he always travels with us. Rio answers like he’s known my dog forever.
Then he lifts Snorty overhead and positions the dog’s back legs around his neck like a toddler.
Snorty lets out a happy little doggy giggle.
The room erupts in laughter and flashbulbs. Photographers pile closer.
"Can we get a picture with all three of you? A picture of the happy family?" one shouts.
Rio’s arm slides around my waist, warm and solid. Snorty nestles between us, still wearing that ridiculous bandana
And for one second—it’s not fake.
The look in Rio’s eyes, the care in his hands, the way he holds my dog like he cares about him makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
I can suddenly see it. Walking in a dog park. A grocery store run. Snorty trotting between us, stub of a tail wagging.
Maybe I’ve been too quick to write Rio off.
Maybe under all that rockstar swagger, there's someone worth getting to know again.
Someone who might actually be good with a dog.
Or maybe, someday, with a kid.