“Say it again.”
I laugh. “I love you, Dash Black.”
“I love you, too, cupcake.”
There’s a knock on the door and Tina pokes her head inside. “We’re a go.”
Dash releases me and draws a breath, and gives Tina a wave of readiness. Turns out, the press and photo op are in a private room that is quite large. I sit in a row of what must be fifty seats, all filled with book and entertainment reporters.
Dash sits on a stage with someone named Alex and answers his questions, which range from his books to the movies, before Alex takes questions from the crowd. All the while, cameras flash, from all sides of the room. And all the while I wait anxiously, nervously, for Brandon or Dash’s father to show up, or perhaps both.
When finally, Alex announces, “Nathan Black is in the house. And the crowds outside are ready for food, prizes, and signed books.”
Dash stands and walks down the stairs, motioning for me to join him. He reaches for my hand and cameras flash. Someone calls out, “Who’s your lady friend, Dash?” but Dash keeps walking.
We exit to a private hallway where Tina meets us. “They’re opening the doors right now. We need to get you to your table.” She motions for us to follow and hurries forward.
We enter a room lined with windows that open to a view that is ocean blue brilliance. The room itself is decorated with Halloween décor and there are little tables of cupcakes and finger foods.
“Thank fuck,” Dash says, when he realizes his father’s table is on the far side of the room. They literally cannot interact, nor can I interact with his father. I can’t even really make out what he looks like from this distance. That’s how big the room is. That’s how far away he is. I don’t think Brandon is here either. I guess he stirred the caldron with a little acid and then left us all to fall in. The problem is that Brandon isn’t someone who leaves anything to chance.
Even if he’s not here, he has a plan to make that acid burn.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Dash sits down at his signing table and pulls a chair up for me beside him. I claim it eagerly and say, “I know how crazy signings can get. I’ll help you manage the craziness. I love this, Dash. The readers. The books. Focus on this being your life, not your father.”
“Good advice, cupcake. Good advice.”
And no sooner than he says those words, the doors open and the crowds rush forward, security guards forming lines. Before long, Dash and I are talking to his fans, and he’s not the only one in the pictures. I’m with him so the fans want shots of me, as well. It’s kind of silly but I go with the flow. Time ticks on and the lines don’t ease, but Dash’s father’s line is not anywhere near as long as his. I feel a pinch of discomfort for him. I mean, it has to be hard to be second best, but then again, shouldn’t a parent have pride in their child?
Dash’s ex-editor, Ellen, checks on him several times, giving me a side-eye as she does. Guess she knows I get to read his books first now. I kind of can’t help but get a thrill from that after she had me edit his book and took the credit way back when.
Hours pass, and the crowd disperses. Tina reappears and kneels between us. “I want to get you and your dad in a few photos, Dash.”
I glance over at his father’s table and he’s already left the signing area, which I can assume means he’s already at the photo op. Dash isn’t getting out of direct contact with him, but then neither is his father with him.
Tina’s phone buzzes with a text and she glances at it before saying, “Okay, I need to talk to security. I’ll meet you in the hallway.” She hurries away.
I rotate to face Dash, my hand on his leg. “Just do it and get it over with. Take the photos. Say nothing. Come back to me.”
He stands and pulls me to my feet. “I need you to wait in the holding room, Allie.”
“Dash—”
He presses his hand to my shoulder. “Please.”
My belly flutters with worry and I reluctantly say, “Yes. Okay.”
He laces the fingers of one hand with his and starts walking. He doesn’t stop until I’m in that holding room.
“This will be fast.” That’s all he says, and then he’s gone, exiting the room and shutting the door. I start to pace, fretting over what could go wrong. If either of them shows animosity with each other, they’ll be all over the internet. But I’m only pacing five minutes when the door opens and Dash reappears.
“He’s not feeling well,” Dash announces of his father. “No photo op. We are free to get the hell out of here.”