Page 20 of Flipping the Script
Quinn found herself smiling despite the ticking clock in her head. "I have three options that span the complete range from 'please ignore me' to 'someone call security.'"
"Show me everything."
Twenty minutes later, Quinn stood in her bathroom wearing the forest green dress while Solen worked on her eyeliner with surgeon-like precision. The close proximity required Quinn to grip the marble countertop as Solen's fingers steadied against her cheek, warm and gentle and entirely too distracting.
"Stop thinking so hard," Solen murmured, her breath soft against Quinn's temple. "I can literally feel your brain spinning from here."
"I'm calculating optimal photo angles and mentally reviewing talking points about our relationship timeline. Standard pre-event preparation."
"Mmm. And what does your preparation say about the part where I put my hand on your lower back during photos?"
Quinn's breath caught as Solen's thumb traced along her jawline, ostensibly checking the eyeliner's placement. "That it's an excellent way to demonstrate comfortable physical intimacy without appearing overly sexual for family-friendly media coverage."
"Right. Completely strategic." Solen capped the eyeliner and stepped back to examine her work. "Your turn to fix my hair situation. I may have stress-touched it during the drive over."
Switching places felt like an intricate dance in the small space. Quinn gathered Solen's auburn waves, working her fingers through the soft strands to restore their styled shape. In the mirror, she watched Solen's eyes drift closed at the gentle touch, her shoulders relaxing in a way that made Quinn's chest tighten.
"Much better," Quinn said quietly, though her hands lingered at the base of Solen's neck longer than necessary.
"Thank you." Solen's eyes opened, meeting Quinn's in the mirror reflection. "For all of this. I know having your timeline disrupted probably makes you want to reorganize something alphabetically."
"I reorganized my spice rack this morning, actually. Feeling much better."
The laugh that bubbled up from Solen was genuine and infectious, transforming her face in a way that made Quinn's carefully planned composure flutter dangerously.
The black car Iris had arranged felt smaller than anticipated. Quinn sat with her back perfectly straight, reviewing her mental checklist while trying not to notice how Solen's dress had riddenup slightly, exposing a stretch of thigh that the car's leather seat seemed designed to highlight.
"Okay, if they ask about our first kiss," Solen said, practicing breathing exercises that made her collarbones rise and fall in Quinn's peripheral vision, "we stick with the story about the late-night script session, right?"
"That's the agreed-upon narrative. Romantic but professional, spontaneous but not inappropriate workplace behavior." Quinn checked her phone for the seventh time. "Traffic is optimal. We should arrive within our target window."
"And if someone asks what you love most about me?"
Quinn glanced up from her phone, meeting Solen's eyes directly for the first time since getting in the car. The question hung between them, loaded with implications that extended far beyond their rehearsed talking points.
"Your creative instincts," Quinn said, the prepared answer feeling strange on her tongue. "The way you bring unexpected depth to every scene."
Solen's smile was soft and unreadable. "That's a good answer."
"It's an honest answer."
The Golden Horizon Theater rose before them like something from old Hollywood dreams, all art deco glamour and sweeping curves. Photographers lined the red carpet three deep, their camera flashes creating a constant strobe effect that turned the evening into something surreal and overwhelming.
Quinn's analytical mind immediately began cataloguing details—camera positions, interview stations, the strategic placement of step-and-repeat backdrops. But when Solen's hand slipped into hers as they stepped from the car, warm and steady and real, everything else faded to manageable background noise.
"Ready?" Solen's thumb traced across Quinn's knuckles.
"Ready."
The first few photo stops felt like underwater choreography—Quinn's careful posture adjustments, Solen's practiced angles, both of them finding their rhythm under the blazing lights. But somewhere around the third backdrop, something shifted. Solen's whispered comment about how stunning Quinn looked wasn't delivered to the photographers; it was meant for Quinn alone, soft against her ear in a way that sent warmth spreading through her chest.
"That's perfect, ladies! Now give us something more intimate!"
Quinn felt Solen's hand settle at her lower back, precisely where they'd discussed. But the gentle pressure, the way Solen's fingers spread against the silk fabric, felt nothing like their practiced positioning sessions.
"You're doing amazing," Solen murmured, her smile bright for the cameras but her words meant only for Quinn. "Look at you, completely owning this."
The encouragement steadied Quinn's racing pulse in a way no breathing exercise ever had. When fans called Solen's name from behind the barriers, Quinn felt the slight tension that ran through Solen's frame and instinctively stepped closer, offering silent support that Solen accepted with a grateful glance.
