Page 11 of Take 2
Chapter Nine
Ten Years ago
T he sounds of the red carpet coverage reach me from Ryan’s living room as I pour champagne in the kitchen. “Sacha Baron Cohen came in character,” he tells me.
“Of course he did.” My heels don’t make a sound on the cheap college apartment carpeting as I go to join him on his couch. I place the glasses on the coffee table and tuck the gauzy purple skirt of this year’s Oscars dress under myself as I sit.
He holds out a bow tie. “If you please.”
“We don’t have to do all this.”
“Of course we do. It’s the Academy Awards.” The feigned indignation in his voice makes me smile. “And you look way too gorgeous to be next to a guy who isn’t wearing a bow tie.”
“I don’t have to do all this either.” I wave a hand toward my dress.
“You really, really do. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my intentions for all your Oscars dresses.” He licks his lips, and I giggle stupidly because two years in, I’m still a little confused as to why he wants me.
“All right, come here.” I flip his collar up and wrap the tie around it.
“At least this year I don’t have to worry about your parents hearing us.
I expect you to take full advantage of us being alone.
” I finish tying the almost familiar knot (I had to watch the YouTube tutorial again) and glance back up to find him frowning.
“We could have had a party, Bella.”
“We don’t need a party. This year was so crazy I haven’t even read all the nominated screenplays or watched the roundtables. I’m not fully recovered from winter break, and you’re under so much pressure right now.”
“I’m probably under no pressure right now. Except to start thinking about a plan B.”
“Ryan.” I turn to straddle him, my skirt pooling between us. “You had an incredible season and a great college career. You went to the Rose Bowl.”
“And lost. Anyone watching me might think my injury isn’t fully healed.”
I glance at his ankle and back to his face. “It is, right?”
“Bella.” He dips his chin in a patronizing look.
“Well, you never complain about stuff like that! I have to worry.”
“It’s fine. Really. But no one wants to offer a contract to someone who might not be at the top of his game.”
“You’ll show them you are at the top of your game.”
He sighs. “I think this training schedule is going to leave me a blob on the ground at Combine.”
Next weekend will be hell for him, but at least training for it will be over.
They’re running him ragged. Combine sounds like the ultimate interview from hell.
The four-day camp will give NFL scouts the opportunity to evaluate him, and I don’t know which one of us is more nervous about it.
Not that I’ve said anything other than how sure I am that he’s going to be successful.
“You’ll do great,” I say. “And the Colts need to draft two tight ends.” This type of research might be a reason I’m not as prepared as I’d like to be for the Oscars.
“Fuck the Colts. Who wants to live in Indianapolis?”
I clasp both sides of his face, and stubble prickles the heels of my hands. “I want to live wherever you are.” I press my mouth to his but he doesn’t kiss me back. Against his lips, I mumble, “I will keep doing this until you kiss me.”
A laugh rumbles his chest, and he gives in, wrapping his arms around me as his lips move with mine. But when he pulls back, he shakes his head. “You’re wrong, though. You need to go live in California. You loved it there.”
My shoulders sink. I did love it there. CalArts felt like imagination had been mixed into the mortar that held the buildings together.
Touring the school was as exciting as the Hollywood and Highland Center, which had been an out-of-body experience, even if the theatre where the Academy Awards takes place is kind of nameless at the moment.
CalArts is a place where people are learning to wield that movie magic—innovating it.
It was inspiring, if intimidating, and felt full of possibilities.
The only thing that could have made our trip in January better would have been a win at the Rose Bowl. That was a bit of a buzzkill. Ryan tried to enjoy our time afterward, but he took it hard.
“I’m not upset that you loved it,” he says. “It suited you.”
“Is it even possible for a Wisconsin girl to be suited for LA?”
“They have cheese there, too.” He winks and glances at the TV behind me. “Showtime. Here comes Billy Crystal.”
“It’s his ninth time hosting. I’m not really missing anything.”
“You don’t want to miss The Artist ’s big win.” He shifts me off to his side and lays one arm over my shoulders.
“ The Artist is not winning best picture.”
“Wanna bet?”
“We do not bet on the Oscars, Ryan.”
“Right, yes, of course. Never betting. Always champagne.”
“And always sex in the dress,” I add.
“The most important rule of them all.”
Billy Crystal is a delightful host, and I recall the tears that both the book and movie versions of The Descendants pulled from me when it wins adapted screenplay . My smile doesn’t leave my face, which is a nice change from the past month and a half.
Ryan pulls me closer and kisses my neck. “You are so sexy when you’re excited.”
“Ah, so it’s the excitement, not the actual dresses, that inspired the Oscars-dress-sex rule.”
“It’s all of it.” He drags his lips down to kiss my collarbone, and I shudder.
Slow kisses continue to pepper my neck, jaw, ear. The show blurs even though my eyes are still pointed at the screen. “Ryan.” His name is no more than a sigh.
“Enjoying the show?” His hand slides up my thigh, and my body clenches against my will.
“Mhmm. I’ve never been so happy to be distracted.”
“I’m glad I’m learning about movies from you, but it’s still your thing. I have other interests that take priority.” He brushes his fingers over that priority, and my own interest rushes there too.
“You know,”—I gasp as he lays me down—“it’s not that movies out-rank you.”
“I know, babe. I’m kidding.” He pulls my panties down, and I squirm.
“I love you more than movies.”
His lips bruise mine, and I arch up against him. He pulls back and rakes his eyes over me. “I love you more than anything.”
“You say that like you’re one-upping me, but for me that’s the sa—”
“I know.” He kisses a path up my inner thigh. “Watch the awards. I’m going to need you to tell me who wins later.”
Of course, when he sets to work undoing me with his mouth as he does so well, I can only drop my head back and close my eyes.
“Fuck, Ryan.” I squeeze fistfuls of my skirt.
My hips circle and thrust as he chases my orgasm.
His tongue strokes up my center, and everything seizes up before I explode and melt.
I pant as the licks and kisses soften, bringing me down.
Ryan emerges from my dress and arranges us so he’s sitting with my legs in his lap. “That’s my new favorite Oscars app.”
I laugh through the lingering orgasm haze. Words are out of reach as I watch the man I love take my high heels off and massage my feet. How did I get so lucky?
“Wow. Jean Dujardin can speak?”
What? I turn my head to see Dujardin accept the award for actor in a leading role. The two words he said in The Artist are more than I can say now, so I’m in no place to judge. I reach for the remote and turn the TV off.
“There are still two more awards.”
I sit up and wrap myself around ‘Love Of My Life Ryan,’ as he’s listed in my phone. I’m ‘Bella My Love,’ now, which I never tire of seeing. Similarly, I never tire of his skin against mine.
“We can check online tomorrow. Take me to bed.”
He doesn’t seem to mind that he missed the first time he was right about best picture.