“It’s late.”
“Okay. Are you alright?”
“Yes. I’m great. But I need to get to bed.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks for tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Very welcome.” He leaned in and gave me one more little peck on my lips. It was soft, sweet. He lingered for a moment and broke away, leaving me tingling all over. A kiss like that from any other person in the world would have had zero effect on me. I fumblingly opened my door, gave him a little wave, and closed the door behind me. I leaned against it and then locked it, in part to prevent myself from running back out there. I listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
“Please stop talking to yourself,” I whispered back.
I put away my coat, kicked off my shoes, and changed into pajamas. My dress was still clean so I hung it up in my closet so it wouldn’t become wrinkled. I washed my face and brushed and flossed my teeth. Throughout it all, my heart raced. I could try to talk myself out of liking him, but my body clearly had other plans.
“You just like him because he’s stereotypically hot,” I said to my reflection as I dabbed on some eye cream.
“I don’t know about that. But even if it’s true, is that so bad?”
“It’s shallow. It’s just your hormones or pheromones or whatever talking.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
I didn’t answer myself. Instead, I crawled into bed. I would be lucky to get five hours of sleep at this point. I had a fleeting, nervous feeling just as I drifted off, that if I didn’t get my talking to myself problem under control, it could end up embarrassing me when I was on television. “If I’m on television,” I murmured aloud, finally falling asleep.
Chapter 8
The call came in as I was leaving my meeting with Mrs. Fillmore, queen of houndstooth. I was walking to my car, enjoying the fresh, brisk air after having spent the past several hours in her overheated, powder scented home. I fumbled with my phone, nearly dropping it as I pulled it from my purse. “Hello,” I said, trying to sound confident, indifferent, busy.
“Hello, is this Emma?”
“This is she,” I said professionally, instantly wishing I’d been flirtier and more upbeat.
“Emma, this is Christine. From Bellamy’s Redemption. Are you sitting down?”
“Uh, yeah,” I lied.
“You made it! You’re on the show!”
“Are you serious?” I stopped in my tracks and set my design portfolio on top of the snowbank next to me.
“I’m completely serious! Congratulations. We get started filming on Thursday, but we’d like you out here Wednesday. I will be emailing your tickets and all the details to you. See you in a couple of days, Shar!”
“Shar? This is Emma.”
“Oopsie. Sorry about that. I got ahead of myself on the list. See you in a couple of days, Emma.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said weakly. I picked up my portfolio and numbly continued to my car. I got in and sat there, taking it all in.
“You should call someone,” I decided aloud. But who first? This was huge news.
I called me mom. She answered right away. “Emma! I was just thinking of you! How’s it going, Bug?”
“It’s good, Mom. How are you?”
“Oh, you know. Not much new around here. Your dad is in the den trying to put a bookshelf together. He’s going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t take it easy.”