Page 25 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Lots of practice.”
“Explains the killer calves,” he teased.
“The gym helps, you should tag along sometime.”
“Cardio isn’t an issue for me.”
I threw him a nasty look.
“Jumping around on stage, Dove. It’s a workout,” he winked.
“So is managing you,” I rolled my eyes. “My brain’s like a private coach.”
He leaned closer. “I could use some extra sessions.”
“The joke’s dead, dumbass,” I laughed, just as we hit the ground floor.
He chuckled, pushing the small of my back as the elevator doors slid open.The lobby was bursting with light, and we hurried through before anyone could catch the next biggest scoop. Ryden’s driver, Barnett, and Morty were waiting by the Escalade.
“Good evening Mr. Spectre, Ms. Emory-Blake.”
“Oh, Morty, you’re always so formal.” I teased, swatting his arm. “Call me Scarlett.”
“It’s in our contract Ms. Emory –”
“I wrote the damn contract, Morty. Do you see me calling you Mr. Tollerton every time we cross paths?”
He sighed, scratching his forehead. “Your wish, Scarlett.”
The mood lightened as the car ride went on. No idea how we got on the topic of my conversational skills, but Ryden could not stop grilling me. “And remember that time, the coat clerk pissed you off so you hung your blazer on his head?” Even BARNETT was laughing.
“He said my roots were showing,” I countered.
“So you used him as a human jacket rack?” Ryden’s cheeks were stiff with glee. “Scar, you’re like a fucking firecracker.”
“Eat a dick.”
His hands flew up. “I’m complimenting you!”
“Don’t waste your breath,” I checked my nails, “I do it enough myself.”
His laughter was replaced by a warm smile. “Diva.”
“Princess,” I retorted.
We held hands.
Ten minutes later, Barnett parked in front of a brick building, pearly hues emanating from within the glass doors. Two sets of velvet ropes lined the walkway, security guards stationed at every corner.
The evening air greeted me as I stepped out of the car, grabbing hold of Ryden’s arm as we made our way to the carpet. Dozens of frenzied paparazzi flocked like scavengers, calling out for the rock star plastered all over GQ’s latest article.
“Remind me to bring earplugs next time.” I spat, slipping on my Prada sunnies.
“Oh come on.” He dropped my arm to sign a few autographs. “They’re just in awe.”
It was an admirable trait of Ryden’s, one that reminded me every day why he deserved the fame. God did something right, giving him a shot at this life –usa second chance at living. Not once did he ever ignore his supporters, making sure they felt the love he felt every single day.
“They see you on screen every day, what’s left to gush about?” I teased, grabbing hold of his sleeve.
