“Ready for this?” I say, turning to Bre. She looks better than before, but I know her well enough to know her calm facade is taking alotof work.
She gives a subtle nod. “Let’s do it.”
I climb out first. The shock of flashes almost takes my breath away—so many, all at once. Bre follows, and together, we make our way toward the venue’s entrance. Spotlights that match the sunset illuminate the expansive exterior granite wall, with theGirl on the Vergeand Fanline logos projected in gigantic bright white letters.
The questions blend together:Liv! Can you tell us any details about the reunion special? Liv! Is it true—are we getting a reboot? Liv! There are rumors circulating that Ransom bought a ring for Gemma Gardner—any comment? Liv! Can you confirm that Sasha-Kate is in negotiations to take a more prominent role in the reboot, if there is one? Liv! Liv! Liv!
They fly like arrows, the questions, burrowing straight into my thick, scarred heart—especially the one about Ransom, and to a lesser extent, Sasha-Kate. These questions don’t mean any of it istrue. Reporters like to get a rise out of us, spinning up eye-catching headlines that will pull traffic to their sites.
I give a demure smile, even though I’m a mess on the inside. “You’ll just have to watch and see!” I say over and over again, swallowing all that Icouldsay but very much shouldn’t.
All at once, there’s a commotion at the end of the carpet as everyone turns, collectively, looking at something behind me. I turn to see what’s caught their attention, and—
“Ohmy gosh, Liv!” Bre’s hand squeezes mine so tightly I’m surprised my bones don’t crack. “Ransom’s here, and he looksgood.”
My heart stutters. Bre’s right—hedoeslook good. Very, very good. His tux is midnight black, tailored in a way that’s both elevated fashion yet still perfectly, casually Ransom; black oxfords gleam at hisfeet. His hairstyle is extremelyGQ—thanks to his shoot with them earlier today, no doubt—and he’s got just the right amount of stubble darkening his jaw.
In all the hours I spent turning this moment over in my head—what it would be like to see him again, in the flesh, after all this time—I never imagined it feeling likethis. I expected nerves, or regret, or the lingering sting of bitterness. Not once did it cross my mind that it might feel like returning to a favorite place, like going home—if said home had undergone some substantial upgrades, anyway. Gone is the Ransom I knew in our teenage years, with his boyish charm and adorable boy-next-door vibe. In his place is a full-fledgedman, one who radiates confidence and looks like he knows his way around bourbon and bedsheets and yachts off the coast of various glittering European vistas.
He’s also, notably, alone.
At the exact second I register this observation, he looks up through the sea of flashbulbs. His eyes lock with mine immediately, and they light up.
Ilight up—I can’t help it. It’s been so many years, and old instincts die hard.
“Ransom, where’s Gemma tonight?” a reporter asks, his voice cutting through all the others.
Before he gives an answer, though, the sound of my own name pulls me out of my head. “Ms. Latimer!” someone is saying, just off the carpet in front of me. “May I inquire as to whether you’re considering any more roles in independent features?” It’s an impeccably dressed reporter, extremely polished and polite in her British accent and tailored black dress. “You were stunning inLove // Indigo.”
This catches my attention, and not in a bad way. Hardly anyone mentionsLove // Indigo—it was the second independent film I did, a low-budget romance with more silence than actual lines. The cinematography was beautiful, with a distinct melancholy tone to it, all set largely on the shore of Bay Head Beach in the dead of winter. I took the role because it had fantastic range to it, and a small, intimate set. I knew it would be a quiet release—and quiet turned out to be an understatement—but it’s possibly the role I’m most proud of.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting her eye. “I loved that film, loved Vienna’s vision for it. I’d love to work with her again in the future.”
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 sogood, 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.
