Page 90 of Dream On

I blink up at him. “What?”

“It’s my charity. We provide scholarships and mentorship programs for underprivileged kids in the arts. Music, dance, acting—that sort of thing.”

My heart skips. But I don’t have time to respond because Rudy is bouncing in front of us like a kitten who just discovered catnip for the first time.

“Remember, keep things subtle. A little hand-holding here, some swoonyeyes there.” He gives Lex a slap on the shoulder. “No making out in front of the cameras. Save that for the after-party. Or the coat check.”

My hairline starts to sweat as I wiggle my hand free from Lex’s. “I think we can control ourselves. Thanks.”

Rudy holds out his fist to me.

I stare at it for a beat before weakly bumping it with mine.

“Attagirl,” he says. “You look fucking fantastic, by the way. Did this asshole tell you that?”

“Um—”

“Anyway, I know this is new for you, but just follow Lex’s lead. Let him do the talking.”

“Rudy?” Lex interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“Please kindly fuck off.”

Rudy points a finger at him, grin widening. “That’s what I like to see. Harness that passion.” He reaches for a glass of champagne on a waiter’s tray, then swallows it down in one chug before spinning away.

I frown at his retreating back, a wall of pale peach. “He’s…”

“An idiot. Ignore him.” Lex places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward. As we near one of the round tables, he dips his lips to the shell of my ear. “Hey.”

Goose bumps scatter across my skin at his proximity, at his breath tickling the side of my throat. I don’t dare move.

“Cameras are on us.” I can hear the faux smile in his voice.

“Oh,” I breathe out.

We hold the pose for a moment, and I’m certain I’m stiff, rigid, ruining the shot. I’m going to have to dig deeper than I thought for this.

When Lex breaks away, I let out a breath. Celebrities are scattered throughout the room, elegant in their designer gowns and tailored suits, as waitstaff glide between the tables, offering champagne flutes and an assortment of gourmet hors d’oeuvres. Photographers discreetly capture little moments, and I try to act natural, maintain the easy smile.

A half hour rolls by, a fog of glitter and sequins, a cloud of vanilla and musk.I shake hands with important people, actors and actresses I’ve revered through television screens and magazine pages. Lex remains at my side, introducing me as his old friend from high school, the inspiration behind “Sylvia Simmons.”

I force my lips to stay in an upright position, beg for my hands not to shake. I’m a tightly banded ball of sticky tape, but I’m determined to sell this.

Not for him—for me.

He balances our physical contact with subtle gestures, nothing too overt. Knuckles brushing, his hand occasionally lifting to the small of my exposed back. A lock of eyes, blue on green.

I’m nursing a glass of champagne to ease my jitters when a familiar woman approaches. She’s not immediately recognizable, as the only two times I’ve seen her, she had mascara lining her cheeks and tsunamis in her eyes. But I know exactly who she is.

“Well, well,” she quips, gliding toward us in a red gown that looks painted on her slim frame. Long golden hair is knitted in a prim bun, a few tresses curled and framing her face. She’s tall, regal, and intimidating. “Stevie.”

Lex seems to disintegrate from my side, taking a full step away. I tip my chin and straighten my shoulders, as if trying to match her six-foot height. “You’re Lex’s mother, right?”

I outstretch my hand for a greeting.

She glances at it like it’s a piece of wilted lettuce on a fancy dinner plate while heat scorches my cheeks.