He turns to face me. “Look at you,” he says. “You’re red-carpet ready.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop a smile from creeping across my face.
He steps forward, and then his arms are wrapping around me, and I’m being careful not to smudge my makeup on his handsome suit.
I feel like this hug is his apology for Dex, though he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t need to.
“Is Jordan here?” I ask. I’m hoping she and Alisha might be lingering around somewhere. It’d be nice to have them here, if only for subtle emotional support.
“Yeah. Last I saw her she was at the buffet bar.”
“There’s a buffet bar?” I’m hungry from not eating breakfast. My nervous nausea has calmed down enough that I could probably eat something now.
“I’ll grab you a bite,” Ashton says. “Best to eat now before you get your dress on.” Then she’s gone, and Michael and I are left alone.
“Where’s the wardrobe person?” I ask, not seeing any movement in the racks of clothes.
“Went to get a coffee. He should be back any minute now.” Michael slips one hand into his pants pocket, and his eyes soften. “Nora . . .”
Here it comes. I can see it written all over his face.
He knows.
“I’m sorry about Dex.”
The words hang there between us. I think about giving him a fake smile like I did Sebastian, but somehow, that doesn’t feel appropriate here. So instead, I nod, wrapping my arms around myself.
“I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing,” Michael continues. “He won’t talk to me. He’s shut me out.”
“It’s fine,” I start to say, but Michael shakes his head.
“It’s not. I told him not to mess around with you.” He raises a hand as if to run it through his hair, then stops. I’m guessing the hairdresser wouldn’t be happy if he ruined the perfect dark coif. “I just don’t get it.”
“What’s there to get?” I ask. My eyes want to mist over, so I look away, try to distract myself by counting sequins on the closest sparkly top. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Nora. The way he looks at you . . .” He pauses, seems to search for words. “It’s different. That’s what I don’t get.”
I want to ask what he means, but before I can respond, the trailer door swings open, and a small well-dressed man steps in.
“Ms. Miller!” he says. “Finally, the star arrives.”
A laugh bursts unbidden from my lips. “The star? I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Mm-mm.” The man shakes his head and makes a beeline for a clothing rack against the wall. There’s a single garment bag hanging there, and he takes it down carefully. “Once you see this dress”—he turns to face me, eyebrow quirked knowingly—“you’ll understand.”
And though I don’t want to admit it, he’s right. The dress is . . .
“Stunning.”
The stylist, whose name I’ve learned is Eric, gazes at me in the mirror, clucking his tongue quietly to himself.
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?” I ask, voice a bit dreamy. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from my reflection.
“Knew it’d look perfect.” He puts a hand on my elbow and offers me a small smile.
The dress is a rich shimmery silver, and it catches the flecks of green in my eyes and makes the contour on my cheeks even more prominent. The silky fabric hugs my figure, tight like a glove. When I turn to see it from another angle, the split in the dress shifts to reveal my bare leg all the way up to my thigh.
And my first thought—my first stupid, stupid thought—is that Dex would like it.
But I shouldn’t care what he likes anymore, shouldn’t give him a second thought.
Trouble is, it seems like he’s mostly my first thought, and everything else comes second to him. Everything is backward and upside down. And I hate it.
There’s a small gasp from behind me, and Ashton is standing there, mouth gaping open. She brought me food earlier, as promised, then had to dash away again for something or other. But now she’s drifting across the trailer, hands out as if she wants to touch the glimmery silver material.
“Eric,” she says, still staring at me, “it’s perfect.”
He gives me an I told you so look.
“Is she ready?”
“She’s all yours.”
“Fantastic, because the director is ready for you.”
