Page 85 of All of You

“If you must.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Ben

The crowd of people screamed from either side of the tinted windows, phones, flashes, everything shuttering as the driver pulled forward in the line of like limousines and town cars toward the red carpet.

Whit squeezed my hand, and I turned my attention to her.

Dazzling.

Not a word I’d ever thought before, but she was. I’d felt winded upon seeing her coming out of her room where I waited for her.

She had an old Hollywood wave to her long, dark hair, diamond earrings probably worth something north of what I’d earn over a lifetime, and a blazing red dress just shy of what would be considered scandalous on someone with a more voluptuous body. The dress plunged low in front, though not as low as some I’d already seen from the window, and came to a few inches above her knee. It was far more revealing as she sat, but I didn’t let myself linger on the smooth lines of her thighs.

Nope.

The Grammys, I’d been told, were always a little more expressive in terms of fashion—not as uptight as The Oscars. Since Whit was performing, she’d be changing clothes before she took the stage, and somewhere, a car was delivering Amanda and Damon and probably Nikki to a backstage area where they’d assist in her change of costume and then back into her gown.

Whit’s hand was warm, dry, and steady. I knew she was nervous—I could see it in the pull around her mouth, the perfect lines of her lips highlighted in a matching red of her dress, but they pulled flat just a bit.

“You all right?” I asked, squeezing that hand, relishing the fingers laced with mine.

“Yes. I’m ready.” Her voice sounded sure.

She’d gone somewhere mentally in the last twenty minutes since we’d gotten in the car. She’d been nervous, even a little short, though not with me. Everyone understood—in many ways, her nerves were reflecting everyone else’s.

For my part, I was nervous as hell. I wore a black suit that fit me better than anything I’d ever worn—I looked great, I could admit. If I made it out of this without sweating through the jacket, I’d reward myself somehow.

When Whit saw me, I’d rolled up my comedically dropped jaw while she’d just shaken her head and said, “You do clean up nice, Lieutenant Holder.”

At that point, of course, I couldn’t kiss her—her makeup had been applied and perfected, and I didn’t dare face Amanda’s, or Nikki’s, or Whit’s wrath.

I wished I’d had some great speech prepared, but I didn’t. I wanted to tell her everything I felt for her, how amazing she was, but I wouldn’t get it out right, not now, and not as we were pulling up to the red carpet.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, feeling strangely emotional.

“Thank you for being here. It means so much to me.”

One last ounce of pressure on our hands together, and then, it began.

The initial barrage of cameras overwhelmed with flashes in every direction, and the sound of shutters snapping—it almost sounded like gunfire. It occurred to me then that there was definitely a possibility for someone to experience trauma just from going through a gauntlet like this. But Whit’s smile blazed as she stepped out of the car at the hand of the person opening—it’d been decided she’d go first, though I would have liked to be the one to help her out.

Then I came out, and it seemed everyone knew my name, all shouting for me like they were on my short list of friends. More screams were for Whit, and all the cameras, the microphones that waited in the first area, vibrated with energy and excitement.

We made our way through, my hand at her back as we moved, then watching as she hit the mark for the posed photographs, then I’d join her for an interview, avoid saying much at all, and we’d move on. The person escorting us through the gauntlet on the carpet was nice, and that helped me relax. Finally, we made it inside, and I could breathe.

Or I thought I could, but then we started mingling, Whit introducing me to everyone who was anyone in her industry. It was overwhelming. I kept it together, not lapsing into ridiculous fan-induced idiocy like I had with Jamie Morris, but I maybe said twenty words in that half hour of chatting.

I’d met just about everyone in Country music between the events we’d been to and her tour and socializing in the last few months, but this was different. This was everyone who was anyone, and it was names I didn’t even realize I knew until I was shaking a hand. It was wild.

Mostly, though, it was amazing to see Whit in this environment, so clearly comfortable with herself in the context, so sure, and so alive. I kept the thoughts about my belonging there at bay, not wanting to betray any of my insecurities by turning inward.

When it was time to take our seats, I’d grown more than exhausted. I wasn’t an introvert by any means, but making small talk, chatting with this many people, proved insanely draining. I was relieved to have a chance to sit down and watch a show.

Except I didn’t find relief when I did sit, because I became obnoxiously anxious. Whit was nervous, just sitting quietly by me, and that made me nervous right back.

“Everything okay?” I whispered, ducking my lips to her ear.

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