Maybe ten empty feet stood between them, and he was the first one to take a step forward. “Ella…”
“Hi.” A blush tinged the word as much as it did her cheeks.
Bishop licked his lips, and he tore his eyes away, only to steal them back to her. “It’s one thing to see you pictured in a magazine like this. Damn, it’s another when you walk out.”
The pulsing thumps in her neck jumped. “Thanks. You look…” Was there even a word that could do him justice?
“Like I’ll blend in,” he finished for her.
Not if his life counted on it. “More like—”
“Are we ready?” Tara popped her head in the door. “Because by my watch, we’re late. Are you following or riding with us, Bishop?”
Bishop checked his watch. “Riding with. My truck’s already on-site.”
They made their way to the elevator, Tara standing in between them. Ella couldn’t look away from the tips of her toes that popped out from the bottom of her dress. Because if she did, all she would see would be Bishop.
The doors opened, and Tara led the charge.
“You know who she reminds me of?” he asked as they crossed the hotel lobby.
“Who?”
“Our P.E. teacher, senior year.”
Ella laughed. “That bitch.”
“Right?” He chuckled, holding his hand out as they passed through the automatic doors and arrived at the side of a waiting Escalade. “Give her a whistle, and they might be one and the same.”
Relaxed, Ella climbed in first. They all rode in silence for the short drive to the awards show location. She tried to hide her clammy palms against her dress as the driver pulled up next to the curb for their grand entrance.
There they were at the Bloggies. Deep breath in. It was time to go to work.
Tara turned from the front passenger seat. “Smile, Ella.” She snapped a quick picture and posted it to her social media outlets. “Done. Good, okay. The comments are rolling in; people are already spotting you.” She pivoted to check the window. “I’m hopping out here. You look golden.”
Her phone buzzed with a thumbs-up text from Jay. He was already inside, working the crowd, revving up her fans, and making sure all was a well-oiled machine on the inside.
Tara held out her hand. “Give me your phone, Ella.”
Ella put her phone in the purse and handed it over. The driver paused, and Tara bound out. Ella knew the plan. Two car lengths away, Tara was out first. When they pulled up, red-carpet staff would open her door. Tara would be in front of her, working the reporters and crowd. Bishop, who sat quietly next to her, would exit street side as she made her entrance, go deep around the back of the car, and trail her. Tara had her front from a PR point of view, and Bishop had eyes on her security. She was covered in all things.
Bishop shifted on the leather seats. “Ella?”
“Hmm?”
“You ready?”
“Always.”
“Take a deep breath and don’t give me the bullshit Tara-answer.” He leaned close to her in the backseat. “Are you ready?”
She drew in a shaky breath and let her eyes sink closed. “I’m nervous.” The words she’d been repeating all day that she was not nervous. “But you’re with me, so it will be fine.”
His large hand took hers, and her eyes fluttered open. It was an unexpected touch. A personal one, unlike anything they’d had since she made a fool out of herself and kissed him the week before. “I’m with you, and it will be fine.” He squeezed her hand. “And you look amazing—”
The door of the Escalade swung open, and there was the mouth of the red-carpet entrance. The loud calls of paparazzi filled the noisy air. The constant sound of people shouting names and camera lenses clicking were a rich cacophony that Ella had always thought didn’t blend well.
A hand reached in to help her out.
“This crowd is fine,” Bishop reassured her. “The press has been vetted, screened, and patted down. The fan section is fine.”
She swallowed away a note of unease, taking reassurance from his steady voice and the firm hand at her back.
“Go do your thing. I’m a few feet away.”
She smiled weakly, knowing a feeble grin like that would earn the wrath of Tara. “Thanks.”
“Hey, Ella.”
She turned slightly. “Hm?”
A head ducked in. “Ma’am?”
Bishop urged her on. “You’re safe.”
Surely, underneath his black jacket was enough ammo to start a coup, but for the moment, he looked like a large, overbearing, slightly out-of-place better half instead of a bodyguard.
“You look beautiful. Stunning. Relax.”
Her cheeks heated.
“Now you’re camera-ready. Go.”
All part of the job. Nicely done. He winked. Holy wow.
“Ready?” Tara, her publicist, appeared out of nowhere, sticking her head in the Escalade. Dressed all in black with her publicist credentials hanging down, she gave Bishop a sideways glance. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Ella said.
“Give me ten seconds to back away so you have a clean exit out of the car for photos.”
Ella inhaled slowly, letting it drift out. “Got it.”
Tara didn’t leave. “This will be a piece of cake. You owe thirty seconds to GreenTV and whatever E! wants. Deal?”
Another deep breath. “Of course.”
“Ten seconds, then off you go.”
“Tara,” Bishop growled. “She’s got it.
Once Tara stepped away, Ella took a breath, counted to ten, painted on her smile, and made an entrance worthy of the red carpet. She concentrated on not tripping over her dress. The skirt wasn’t the problem. She wore maxi-length dresses all the time. It was the damn heels.
It wasn’t her first entrance. She moved along in front of the backdrop covered in sponsorships and the Bloggie logo. Walk, wave, pose, repeat. She pivoted, looking over her shoulder and waiting. Bishop watched. Ella angled her face, changed directions, then did the same thing. Every time she saw Bishop, his eyes were trained on the crowd, rotating the way they had that night in the bistro.
At the end of the step-and-repeat, Tara pushed her around the corner, and the cheers from the rope line started.
“Eco-Ella!”
“Ella Leighton!”
Click. Click. Click.
“Ella! Big Under the Roof fans over here!”
“Ella! Over here!”
The lights and cameras glared as she walked the line. She’d done it before, and with Hollywood in town for the award ceremony and dinner, she knew she would see her favorite and not-so-favorite reporters.
Hellos were said. Talking points were done. Over-the-shoulder looks were ordered and given. But with each passing step, her anxiety grew. The slime, the flowers, whoever was messing with her knew she would be there tonight. Was he there? What did he want? Could he see her now? Had she talked to him already on the rope line? Her breaths became shorter and tighter.
At the end of the red carpet, after she’d done every possible pose on the step-and-repeat, every inch of forward momentum became a challenge. Her heels felt heavy. She couldn’t make it to the end. Was this a panic attack?
Bishop locked eyes on her, mouthing, “Come here.”
He was a lifeline, exactly what she needed while Tara was bitching and moaning about who knew what. He didn’t even notice Tara at his side. The strength of his intense stare was Ella’s oxygen.
He didn’t break eye contact as though she were the most precious thing in the world—of course she was. She was his job. How did she keep forgetting? Her stomach fell like an A-lister who had committed social suicide. But his reasons didn’t matter. Bishop did what it took to get her out of the line of sight, where no photographers could catch a glimpse of her panic. For that, she should be grateful.
As soon as she was safe, Tara led the way, oblivious to the disaster Ella had almost brought on herself. Bisho
p followed. Ella could sense his proximity even as she tried to ignore him. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw his green eyes hunting, searching.
The three of them crossed a threshold into the auditorium, which had been transformed into a banquet hall for the awards show. Circles of tables covered the impressive room. Music played, and the stage was close. Ella had a primo seat. Their VIP table had seats for other industry folks joining them, who Tara had expertly arranged. The night would be perfect.
The crowd of who’s who buzzed with flocks of people, but Ella didn’t fit in at all. Though she did. It was her night. Apparently, even Vegas had bet on her to win big. Her palms sweat at the thought, and she closed her fists. Where was Jay? Having her friends around felt like a security blanket, especially in this crowd.
“Here we go,” Tara chirped. She pulled her phone from her bag and scanned a few video clips that they would use for B-roll. “Ready?”
“Sure.” She took the phone that Tara handed her and drank in a deep breath, pressing the button to go live. The screen counted down—three, two, one…
“I’m here, warriors!” Ella rotated partially to show the enormity of the room. “Before the Bloggies start. Another night where I throw the flip-flops to the side and step into the limelight”—she made a face—“which is really not my thing, to bring to light everything we’ve done. Thanks for doing the heavy lifting for our cause, and I promise that no matter what happens tonight, I’ll keep up the fight. So, signing off…”
Dang.
There were a lot of questions and comments about Jay. He’d always popped into the awards show videos and most of the other ones too. Since when was a lack of Jay on the red carpet conversation-worthy? When did her social life become part of the topic list?
“Sorry, everyone. Jay’s working the room somewhere.” She read the scrolling comments and questions then looked off camera. “No, I don’t see him.” Though Bishop was there, and if her fans wanted to see a handsome man in a tux, he knocked Jay out of the arena. “But there’s plenty of things to look at.”
She slowly panned, walking in a circle, eyes on Bishop. Until he realized what she was doing. His hand shot out, and that man moved fast.
“Well, you’ll just have to trust me. I have to go. Chat with you later. Like, comment, and share.” She ended the feed.
Bishop scowled. “What the hell—”
Tara clapped her hands together. “That was amazing!”
“It was just an idea.”
“Brilliant.” Tara took the phone back. “If he’s part of the team, he has to contribute.”
The tightness in his jaw was enough to strangle Tara. “She’s insane. Your publicist is fucking bonkers.”
“All right, you two. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea that, with the benefit of hindsight, was maybe questionable.” She rubbed her nose. Something foul lingered very faintly in the air. “I won’t do it again. Sorry, Bishop.”
Tara rolled her eyes. “Pussy.”
Ella’s eyes popped so hard, she was sure her fake lashes would fall off. “Tara.”
Palpable restraint deepened the tension in Bishop’s jaw. His lips flattened, and his hand slapped down on a chair, pulling it out. “Ella. Your chair, babe.”
Oh no. This was bad. He was going to sit her down and strangle Tara, for good reason too.
“You and I need to have a word,” he ground out before giving Ella a curt nod, excusing them. Then he all but physically moved Tara aside with a glare.
Even Tara paused, maybe oblivious that her brash attitude problem had gone a step too far. All-business-Bishop took three powerful steps forward, and Tara backed up with every one, until her retreat was stopped by another table. Dang it, Ella couldn’t hear their conversation. But she could see Tara’s face. The woman didn’t get a word in.
Oh, yes she did. One word. Sorry.
So was that… a miracle that Ella had just witnessed? Yes, it was. But… God! What was the putrid smell? Faint enough to be indistinguishable amidst thousands of peoples’ perfume and cologne, mixed with the scent of coffee and champagne being served by waiters, but still present enough to bother her hyper-senses.
The lights flickered to signal a start time of so many minutes away, but Ella wasn’t sure how many.
Her tablemates joined her, distracting her from the Bishop-Tara show. As soon as she did the polite hellos, she turned to see Tara coming over.
“I won’t be a bitch to him.”
Well, wow. What had he said? “That’s good.”
“I have to go run and check on my other clients. You good for a bit?”
“Sure.” She hadn’t expected Tara to stick around this long. Just like at the hotel, she usually hopped around but always came back. Ella was one of her top clients. “I’m fine.”
Bishop took a seat next to her and shooed away a waiter offering wine for dinner. Tara took off, and Ella said please to the vino.
She downed a big sip and turned to Bishop. “Did you hear back from anyone about my flowers?”
His face darkened, giving her a no.
“I was just wondering, since you all had so much technology, and the Feds were all like thanks.”
“Feds and Titan talked. Our tech guy talked to theirs.”
“And…?”
“It wasn’t a flower company. No one in their right mind would sell that shit, anyway. Someone posted and paid anonymously through Monarch on a local forum.” He made a face. “IRL again.”
“Oh…” She knew enough about Monarch profiles. People either used them legitimately or not. And when they didn’t, it was troll heaven.
“They’re tracing IPs and whatever,” Bishop continued.
“It’s not going to turn anything up, will it?”
He pursed his lips together. “Internet ghosts with burner phones, Visa prepaid cards to fund Monarch Money, and accounts that last for five minutes? Nah.”
Her stomach turned. Not great news, but she shrugged—and her stomach turned again.
Whatever the food option was for tonight had to be disgusting. Where was the smell coming from? It smelled as if they were readying to wheel hunks of meat out, completely overpowering. Tara would’ve signed her up for the vegan option, but it didn’t mean that she could handle the foul aromas overwhelming her now. Whatever was on the menu was too much.
The music shifted, and the emcee bound onstage and took the mic. “Welcome to the international blogger awards! The Bloggies! The world’s most exciting, most daring, most enigmatic people are in this room! And tonight, we’re going too…”
Salad plates were collected, and Ella sipped her water, ignoring the wine. Maybe that would help. The room was uncomfortably warm. The smell of dinner was uncharacteristically robust.
Bishop leaned close. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she whispered, rubbing her temple.
His arm draped over the back of her chair. She liked having him around her, but at the moment, not so much. Her clammy, sweaty hands were back. Maybe her dress was too tight. She couldn’t think. Her head spun, and it wasn’t her schoolgirl crush on Bishop that had her feeling queasy.
“So dig in to dinner—one that is worthy of a few blog posts and videos! We’ve done our best to create a great show for the people who know entertainment. As you watch the best video bloopers the Internet has to offer—”
All around them, waiters emerged with giant slabs of meat on large sticks. The crowd oohed and aahed at the visual delight. Each waiter was partnered with another, carrying the equivalent of kitchen swords.
The aroma hit Ella like a tsunami. Where was Tara? How hadn’t she known this was coming?
“Oh…” Ella gagged quietly and queasily, turning into Bishop.
Right now, she needed him to fortify her, protect her from this as much as from the stalker. It was a reaction she couldn’t help, and he wouldn’t understand. But it was visceral. She took mouth-breaths to avoid the smell. The taste plastered itself to her tongue. This wa
sn’t good.
“Bishop,” she whispered, faltering in her seat.
He leaned closer. “You doing okay?”
“Yes, of course.” Even though the answer was absolutely not. The smell of animal flesh that had been seared, seasoned, sliced, and skewered made her ten shades of woozy. He wouldn’t understand, and now wasn’t the time to explain. “But…”
He took her hand, and she tried to focus on how large it was, how protective the gesture. She squeezed it, and her eyes shut, feeling a migraine coming on yet knowing that she needed to make it through this award dinner. Eco-Ella had come too far. She had worked too hard. And tonight, she wanted to nab every award she was nominated for, including best of bloggers.
This was work. Mister Rough Around the Edges had manned up and put on a tuxedo, and the mental picture of that first image was deliciously scored into her mind. That was what she would concentrate on.
“Hey, Ella.” Bishop leaned forward, and his hot breath on her ear should have done something magical. But it didn’t lesson the urge to vomit. “You’re not looking so hot. I mean, you’re hot. Just that—are you going to hurl?”
“Maybe.”
A waiter with a tower of meat walked to their table, gesturing for them to choose their fresh cuts.
“Please make him go away,” she begged.
Bishop waved the waiter off. “We’re good, thanks.”
But the others at the table weren’t clued in on her problem. They laughed and took pictures of the offerings. One wanted “the rarest” part. Another, not so much. Ella’s head spun, and with a shaking hand, she reached for her water.
“Ella?”
The waiters and their chunks of meat left. The scent, the sight—everything—was like nails on a chalkboard except it made her ill. How had Tara not known?
Then it hit her. Of course Tara had known. But Ella wouldn’t have come if she’d known the meal was going to be a show centered around skewered meat, and Tara knew that.
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