The Reunion by Kayla Olson(9)
Her entire face lights up. “I hope you do,” she says sincerely. “Her writing is so underrated. If you ever do team up again, here’s my card. I’d love to do a piece on it.”
She effortlessly produces a card from her handbag and slips it to Bre. Wow, she’s good—I never give a commitment on the carpet, but I will absolutely take this woman up on it if anything happens down the line.
“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.” I flash my best smile before Bre and I move on.
The rest of the carpet is a sea of insipid questions, one of them actually quite hostile—Liv! Don’t you think you should just sit the reboot out and let Sasha-Kate finally have her time to shine? I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? Nothing they want to hear, that’s for sure.
Just when I think Bre and I will make it all the way through without someone going too far, it happens: “Liv!” a reporter calls out, a thin man in a trim navy suit. “What do you think your father would say if he could see you now?”
My poker face slips ever so slightly, and suddenly it feels like I’m fourteen all over again on that blisteringly hot September afternoon. A rash of heat climbs my throat—
A hand closes gently around my arm, just above the elbow, steadying me.
It takes a moment to register the scent—it’s subtle but sensual, cedar and citrus and spice—most definitely masculine. Unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
“Liv’s done some amazing work in the years since the show, yeah?” Ransom says with an easy smile, not so subtly redirecting the conversation. Chastened, the reporter gives a curt nod, tucking his voice recorder back inside his jacket pocket as if he never said anything at all.
Heat radiates from the places where Ransom’s fingers rest on my arm, searing my skin even though his touch is featherlight. And he seriously smells so good, distractingly so. A heartbeat later, he presses in ever so slightly, a silent reminder that my Louboutins are not, in fact, one with the carpet.
Wow, Bre mouths, just to me, as the three of us move on without another word.
I’m tangled inside, gossamer spiderwebs linking old wounds to the pleasant reality of what just happened. What’s happening. Being this close to Ransom is everything I never wanted to lose—and I still have no explanation as to why he’s here alone, why Gemma Gardner isn’t by his side with the rumored engagement ring sparkling under all these lights.
As if Ransom can still read my mind, his fingertips fall away from my skin as suddenly as they settled there. Only the ghost of feeling lingers, a chill in the absence of his warm touch.
“Well, that was an experience,” Bre says under her breath once we’re finally through the gauntlet. “It looks so much more enjoyable in pictures.”
“It’ll be smooth from here,” I say, to myself as much as to Bre, nodding to the pair of security guards who stand still amid the bustle. “No press past those guys.”
Fanline went all out with the decor, and we haven’t even made it inside yet—there’s a posh-looking cocktail area off to our left, including a strategically lit photo op wall made of live succulents; our bright pink GotV logo is emblazoned on it in curving, curling neon lights.
From just off the carpet, one last reporter calls Ransom’s name.
“Excuse me for just a minute,” Ransom says with another light touch, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my lower back. He leans in close, like there’s a secret he can’t wait to share. “I can’t help but notice,” he says, breath hot in my ear, “the distinct lack of botched tattoo on your back.”
I can’t help it, I laugh—and he flashes me his moneymaker smile before breaking away to go answer the reporter’s question. That smile is megawatt bright, the kind that would stop traffic (possibly even of the space travel variety). Despite all our complicated history, I’ve missed it.
“Okay,” Bre whispers, once he’s out of earshot, eyebrows so high I worry they’ll leap right off her face. “What was that?”
“It’s nothing.”
The alternative is that it is something, which is impossible, because Ransom has Gemma and I have a scarred heart.
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
I glance his way, watch the reporter’s eyes fill with stars as Ransom answers her question. He’s always been good at making a person feel like they’re the only one in the room; his natural charm is magnetic, and it’s intense. It’s impossible not to feel safe with him.
“Well, if it isn’t Livvie Latimer—girl of my dreams!”
My head whips up at that distinctive drawl. There’s only one person who’s ever called me girl of my dreams.
“Ford Brooks!” I greet him. “It’s been a million years. What have you been up to over there in London?” He’s got a smile that rivals Ransom’s, though it’s lopsided and usually goes hand in hand with whatever joke is on the tip of his tongue.
Ford politely thanks the reporter he’d been talking with and heads our way. When he pulls me into a hug, I look over his shoulder to see Bre mouthing, wide-eyed, Girl of my dreams??
One week in our third season, Ford and I were shooting some tennis scenes, and he started having the most bizarre dreams. One night I was riding a triceratops onto the court, another night we were both mermaids playing tennis with our fins. This went on for a solid week, then stopped as suddenly as it started—ever since, he’s called me girl of my dreams.