Page 132 of Bishop's Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The limo eased up in the line, waiting for the red-carpet exit. Ella’s nerves jumped in her throat as she watched the coverage of the event on her phone. With the volume on mute, she saw a reporter in front of the Jumbotron, which was adjacent to a bleacher full of fans. Then Alia Bardi, someone who Ella would totally fangirl, exited a limo, waving to the crowd. A moment later, the rumble of cheers roared from outside the limo. It was unreal to watch and live the live coverage—very meta. Ella may never get used to this world.

Locke was already inside the event, and Bishop sat across from her. At least her emotional tailspin had numbed while sitting near the brooding, angry, tux-clad badass.

“Four vehicles until us,” the driver said.

“All right. Smile,” Tara ordered, doing the final social media prep.

Ella did, letting her snap a few photos that they all agreed would be uploaded in real time because obviously, everyone knew she was at the Capri Awards, and part of her job was to hype up her fans.

“Now, random candids.” Tara asked for different poses.

Ella glanced out the window, in her purse, at Bishop… He had shifted to watch her, and their eyes locked.Shit.One glance held too long, and the waterworks threatened to ruin hours’ worth of makeup.

Tara noticed too. “Nope. Cut that shit out, you two. Dab your eyes, Ella. Come on.”

Whatever his intense look had been, it wasn’t a nice mushy one, but it still sliced deep inside her heart. Ella dropped her chin and blankly held her phone. “It’s nothing.”

“Then don’t mess up that eyeliner or those lashes.” Tara rifled through her bag and pulled out a tissue. “Cry or kill each other later. Not until I have this event done.”

These drop-off lines took forever. Four limos didn’t seem like much. But pulling up, waiting, the big exit, the pull away—even though they ran it like a machine, there was still time, and it ticked by like molasses on a frigid day.

Her phone burned a hole in her hands, and hell, she needed to talk to him before all of this started. Ella flipped to her text messages. Rarely was Bishop one to text. Not unless she was at the beach or dropping location updates. Definitely not for conversations, but now he was going to have to figure it out.

ELLA: Is this how it’s going to be? All night?

ELLA: ???

BISHOP: I’m working. You are too.

ELLA: HA. Good thing social media is part of my job. As you reminded me.

BISHOP: Low blow, babe.

ELLA: YOU BROKE UP WITH ME OVER A VIDEO

BISHOP: If that’s why you think I can’t deal, then you need to think again

Tara cleared her throat, obviously catching on that she and Bishop were texting. “One limo up, one in the hole. Only two, Ella.Twoin front of you, so don’t screw up your makeup.”

“Got it.” Her thumbs hovered, ignoring Tara. Bishop was right. She knew it wasn’t the video.

“One and then us,” Tara whispered. “Head up and game face on. You have an exclusive almost immediately with GreenTV.”

“Got it,” Ella mumbled to appease Tara.

Bishop didn’t walk away over the video. It was Ella’s words, her location, the actions after all his warnings, and what was common sense. She’d never set foot in that room with a live feed. What had she been thinking?

“Ma’am,” the driver said as he paused.

“That’s my cue.” Tara reached for her phone. “Hand me whatever you want me to carry inside.”

BISHOP: If that’s all you came up with? Blaming the video? That *sucks*. I loved every second hanging with you though. Least we can say we tried.

Nowhe could channel emotion via text? Dumbstruck, Ella couldn’t fathom a response. It didn’t matter. Tara was scooting, and Bishop too, pocketing his phone and readying to exit the car. Numbly, she handed over her cell to Tara.

The limo eased up and paused again, and Tara pulled her credentials, emblazoned with “publicist to Eco-Ella,” around her neck. She popped up as her door opened opposite the red carpet. “See you on the inside.”

Bishop—who was clearly the muscle and didn’t need a badge hanging around his neck—said zip, leaving out the same door as Tara.

“Ready, Miss Leighton?” the driver asked.

“Yes, sir.” This was work. She was a professional. The tears could come later when she could find a bathroom and fall apart privately at a better time. Until then, she would fake the next few hours, even if she couldn’t see past the pain and distraction that made her arms numb and her legs drag.

They eased to another stop, and the red-carpet security opened the door. The Jumbotron’s camera zoomed in on her face, and she beamed, as happy and carefree as Eco-Ella could be.

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