Page 127 of Faking the Pass
“The limo’s double-parked,” the desk clerk said in an apologetic tone.
“We’ll be right down,” I told her.
It was a good thing the limo ride was a short one. Any longer and I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from jumping Rosie in the back of the car.
Which would have been bad, since as far as she knew, nothing had changed between us.
She didn’t seem to remember the things she’d said while under the influence of the seasickness medication, and she hadn’t made a single move on me physically.
As far as she was concerned, we were still pretending.
Her hand clenched mine like a vise as we pulled up at the curb in front of the Cosmopolitan Museum, sobering me up and reminding me of my function at this event.
Do whatever was necessary to protect what was mine.
Chapter 30
Just Go With It
Rosie
Presley got out of the car first, turning back to offer his hand and help me exit the limousine gracefully in the voluminous dress.
For a second there before things got crazy, he was all I could see, and I was possessed by the fervent wish that it was just the two of us—him in those pornographic breeches, and me in something far more comfortable than this wearable work of art.
And then I was on my feet, and Pres moved to the side, and there was utter chaos surrounding us on the red carpet.
The crowd was enormous. People called my name from every direction, but Presley kept one arm around my back and held another out like a blocker, keeping me from being jostled.
I covered his hand on my waist and squeezed it, and he squeezed me back.
“Doing okay?” he asked, dipping his mouth to my ear.
“Yeah, you?”
“I’d rather face the Eagles’ defensive line with no pads, but yeah. Piece of cake.”
I actually laughed, in spite of my nerves. Thank God I hadn’t come here alone.
The celebrity press was present in full force of course, and Randy’s attack dog of a publicist appeared from the throng of bodies, ready to escort me through the gauntlet of hot microphones.
“You showed,” she said, sounding a bit surly.
“I work for him, just like you do,” I said, and to my surprise, Maggie snickered.
“Touche. Let’s get this thing over with,” she said. “He is in amoodtonight.”
And then the interviews began.
Reporters were crowded along the edges of the red carpet on both sides, and Maggie picked the ones we’d talk to, guiding me to each of them and telling them they’d get two minutes.
Eventually we would make our way to the museum’s iconic wide central staircase, where I’d have to join Randy and we’d make a slow ascent, stopping every step or two and posing for photographs together.
I wasn’t looking forward to that part, but at least then I wouldn’t be expected to answer any questions.
“Rosie, you look stunning. Tell us about that incredible dress,” asked one of the anchors of an entertainment show I’d been watching for years.
That was an easy one. I gushed about the designer and his artistry and said the obligatory stuff about how happy I was to be there. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
