Page 80 of All of You

Flint’s jaw flexed, and he nodded. “You don’t owe me. Don’t believe that for a minute. If nothing else, you helped me get my head on straight about Erin, and for that, to you, I’d be forever grateful. But you’ve been a friend to me, even when it didn’t make sense and when I’m not the warmest guy.”

We shared a knowing look, because that was saying it lightly.

“Anyway, we’re good. And I suspect Erin won’t let me lose touch with you, even if I try.”

I chuckled at that. “I think you’re right.”

“Or, if you keep dating my cousin, I guess I’ll never be rid of you.”

Inevitable, of course, but I’d thought maybe we weren’t going to work around to the subject of me and Whit after all the emotional thanksgiving.

“Well, I hope I do keep on. I’m flying out to be her date to the Grammys this weekend.”

I couldn’t suppress the smile that covered my face just thinking about it. I’d be nervous, but I was mostly excited to be with her.

“Saw the leave form.” Flint, though, didn’t seem as excited. “You ready for all of that? As soon as you’re out with her at something like that, your anonymity is gone. And there will be judgement and speculation and cruelty. Are you ready for that?”

He wasn’t saying it to scare me away or to try to school me about Whit’s life. He’d visited her, seen glimpses of it, and I’d gathered maybe she’d confided in him once or twice about the pressure she felt.

He didn’t say it because he didn’t want me with her—I didn’t think so. He said it because he knew I hadn’t always borne pressure well, and was checking.

“She’s worth it,” I said, a gentler smile on my lips.

Flint laughed once, an amused little sound, and then his eyes filled with a smiling pity. “Ah. So that’s how it is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Whit

If this guy didn’t back up off me, he was going to get an elbow to the ribs, and I would not be responsible for any cracks or breaks.

We’d been rehearsing for twenty minutes, and already, Colton Danes had bumped into me, or come up behind me trying to look all cozy. The last straw was when he came up and set a hand on my hip and his chin on my shoulder, standing close enough that his whole body was pressed against my back.

Not cute. Not funny. Definitely not welcomed.

I kept my outward smile, not interested in making any more of a scene than this could turn into, and kept my attention in the direction of the choreographer who was explaining something I couldn’t focus on, and I said in a low, lethal voice, “If you don’t back up and stop touching me, we’re going to have problems.”

His smooth, crooney voice—which should have been pleasing, but I found to be grating since I knew what was behind it—came too close to my ear. “Aw, baby, you know you like me bein’ close.”

I took an exaggerated step forward, tearing myself away from him, then turned to look, gave him the best do not touch glare, and moved closer to one of the other performers. After the meeting, I’d planned to approach the choreographer and ask if there was any way to have Danes share a mic with someone else, but she’d disappeared before I got off stage.

I could manage one more rehearsal and the actual performance. He was unlikely to make any moves when the cameras were live, but if I got a chance, I was going to talk to him and make sure he knew I had no interest. Maybe I’d been too polite. Maybe I’d smiled at him too warmly once.

Or maybe he was just an idiot.

Whatever the case, I’d make the lines clear.

A car was waiting for me outside the arena. I let my eyes shut on the trip. Though it should have been short, the traffic in LA made the two-mile drive turn into something like twenty-five minutes. I dozed off and only startled awake when the car came to a stop.

“Miss Grantham, we’re here.”

The driver was someone I didn’t know, and that was fine. I liked having Ru, but he was dealing with an ailing parent and had taken a leave of absence.

The driver held out a hand, and I happily took it. I was toast and didn’t know if I’d even be able to get food in me before passing out. Between still being on central time despite having been in LA for a few days, and generally feeling exhausted, plus not sleeping well thanks to nerves and everything floating around in my head, I was usually asleep by eight. That meant I was up early, but I didn’t mind.

Somehow, I woke still exhausted, but was able to get a workout in with Kendra over video chat and feel some semblance of normalcy. I was eating meals planned out for me and delivered to my hotel room, another small mercy in itself—I could eat whatever was on the plate, and I should eat all of it, and that was that.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I was nervous and trying not to bite heads off the people who asked me questions or tried to make small talk. I knew the nerves, that I was going to feel better in forty-eight hours, but I couldn’t lock down the feelings.

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