Page 84 of Sixth Sin

ANGEL

“I don’t know why you look like you’re about to throw up. It’s my ass on the line. You’re just arm candy.”

I look across the limo to find a crooked grin tugging at Noah’s mouth. “Sorry,” I mumble, smoothing my fingers over the red beads of my gown. “First red carpet jitters.” Then catching myself, I add, “You know, that I remember.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Piece of cake as long as you follow three rules.” Straightening his already perfect bowtie, he ticks them off on his fingers. “Don’t trip, smile like you’re at Disneyland, and don’t trip.”

“You repeated rules one and three.”

He nods, taking a generous sip of champagne. “Then you should listen.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

“So is taking out an entire row of ABC affiliates.”

I laugh, breaking the tension and my nerves, which never seem to settle these days. In the two weeks since our confrontation on the balcony, Dominic and I have existed in a calm and even-keeled state.

I hate it.

I miss the old Dominic. The one who threw out sarcastic comments and dared me to come back at him. The one who riled me up just to watch me burn, then turned up the heat and melted me into oblivion.

I know he still wants me. The passion is as potent as ever. It’s the presence that’s gone. We may be together, but he’s not with me. He’s somewhere else, and I don’t know how to bring him back.

“Don’t worry, doll,” Noah says, covering my hand. “He’ll be here.”

Yeah, lurking in the crowd pretending not to know me.

I force a smile. “I know. However, I’m happy to be your date. Even if it wasn’t by choice.” As always, my timing is impeccably bad. Noah’s good mood fades, the reminder drawing a scowl to his chiseled face.

Our pairing is another Greg Rosten publicity stunt. After Noah’s announcement sent our ill-fated “romance” down the toilet, Rosten has taken every opportunity to get back at him by putting me on his arm, making sure Brent stays hidden in the shadows.

Case in point, tonight—the red carpet premiere of Noah’s latest movie. A moment Noah should be sharing with the man who owns his heart, not me.

It’s not much easier for me. Dominic and I are still forced to sneak around like teenagers. The world may love and adore me, but Dominic insists they aren’t ready to accept him. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I just wish he didn’t, either.

We ride the rest of the way in silence. By the time the car stops, my hand is on my stomach, and my lunch is threatening to come up.

Ever the professional, Noah plasters on a brilliant smile while exiting the limo then turns and offers his hand. “You ready to do this thing, Romanov?”

I blow out a shaky breath and take his hand. “Not in the least.”

The red carpet is everything like it seems on TV, only a hundred times worse. Noah is right, the carpet is boobytrapped with snags and rolls that catch my heels more than once. Thankfully, I have a tight grip on his arm, or I’d have long been paparazzi roadkill.

Every stop, every camera flash, every call of my name, I search for the man who’s become my island in this storm. I don’t care if he won’t acknowledge me. I don’t care if he’s here under the guise of a BTN reporter. I just need to see him.

But there’s nothing. No wild, dark hair. No thick stubble. No tattoos. No smirk.

My eyes sting with the threat of tears, and that’s when they start.

The voices.

“Stop crying! Tears are a tool not a weakness.”

The static.

“My name? It’s…it’s… Angel.”

The zigzag lines and unbearable scratching.

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