Page 98 of The Boss I Can't Stand
I frowned. Would Sierra even want to be seen with me? I pulled out my phone, checking all the messages I’d sent that had gone undelivered since she’d blocked me.
Can we talk?
Please, Sierra. I’m so sorry. Let me make this right.
The next was a photo of French toast.Went to Café du Soliel and thought of you.
The next was a photo at the Santa Monica Pier.I still owe you a ride on the Ferris wheel.
Grace says hi.I’d sent her a photo of me and Grace in San Francisco.She’s going to be helping with the costumes for her school play and would love to pick your brain if you have time.
I miss you.
I’m sorry.
Would love to know what you thought ofEvery Dayif you managed to catch it in theaters.
Just know I’m rooting for you to take home the Oscar for Best Costume Design. It is so, so deserved.
It was a record of my life unraveling without her. I swallowed hard, tearing my eyes away from the screen, and stuffed my phone in my pocket.
“Can you stop scowling?” Jillian murmured.
I lifted my head, my face automatically shifting into my usual public-facing mask—confident, lightly amused, utterly unbothered by any problems. Then my stomach dipped as I caught sight of a familiar head of auburn hair.
Sierra?
Her black floor-length gown sparkled as it clung to her curves, the open back showing off the creamy expanse of skin from the top of her neck all the way down her spine. Her hair had been twisted into a pretty, braided knot at the back of her head, and her makeup was dark and smoky. She was gorgeous, ravishing, stunning. There was nothing I wanted more than to take her into my arms and whisper how sorry I was.
But before I could even consider which of the many apologies to start with, a group of security clad in black suits surged between us, escorting some high-profile someone into the venue, and by the time they’d cleared, Sierra had disappeared.
I shouldn’t have been this annoyed by the seating arrangement, but instead of listening to the host make his corny jokes, I was cursing the seven seats and two rows between me and Sierra. Close enough to see her, to hear the sound of her laughter, but too far away to catch her eye or say anything without making it a thing.
I drummed my fingers against my armrest, the urge to close the distance tugging at me. But this wasn’t the moment to pull her attention. Tonight was hers as much as it was mine, and despite how wretched it was to be this close to her and not be able to tell her everything, she deserved to bask in the spotlight of being a nominee without having me sour the moment for her.
As far asEvery Daywent, it had been a mixed bag so far, with us losing out on Best Supporting Actress and Production Design but taking home awards for Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Makeup and Hairstyling.
I’d clapped appropriately for the wins and losses, smiling appreciativelywhen our winners thanked me by name, but the truth was I’d hardly given myself a second to celebrate our successes.
All I could do was wonder what Sierra was thinking way over there. What had she just whispered to Ro next to her? Had she actually thought that last joke was funny, or had she just laughed because it was expected?
I was spiraling hard and anyone watching me would think I was stalking her—or worse—the way I was attempting to memorize every little nuance she made. I was losing my mind and it would only get worse if I couldn’t speak with her. Tell her how sorry I was. How important she’d become to me.
How Lord Meowington was still pissed at me that I’d been foolish enough to let her walk out of my life. I didn’t think the cat angle would work, but I was willing to try anything at this point if she would simply stand still long enough to let me speak.
The orchestra played the end-of-sequence number and I tried to turn my attention back to the Oscars. This was everything I’d worked for. My career’s crowning moment.
And all I could think about was her.
36
FINN
Anew presenter took center stage to a round of applause. I recognized that slicked back, ice blond hair. It had been in almost as many tabloids as me. Theo Martin, a British actor who’d garnered some buzz for his off-screen method dressing, had recently been cast inThe Dying Hour, a period picture that featured him as a brooding vampire detective.
I tilted my head, taking in his attire, having to admit that he was just charming enough to pull off the Regency era breeches.
“The Oscars are a celebration of extraordinary performances but also the craftsmanship that brings characters to life,” Theo said, his voice velvety as his intense gaze swept over the audience.
