Page 100 of I Think He Knows
I don’t even think about later, when we get to be alone together. The desire coursing through my veins for Carter—for the way he looks, and smells, and touches me, and kisses me—is a brand new feeling to which I am in grave danger of becoming addicted. It’s like a whole new part of myself is bursting through the surface, a side of me that is no longer a confused teenage girl, but a sensual, desirablewoman.
“You can make it better by kissing me,” I tell him boldly as I look at him from under my lashes.
He gives me an impish look. “Aren’t you worried about ruining your makeup?”
“Areyou?” I counter.
“Screw the makeup!” he proclaims. And then, he kisses me wildly, in a way that confirms that he, too, is feeling a bit unhinged right now.
When we finally come up for air, the limo is coming to a stop. He brushes his lips against the sensitive skin of my collarbone before giving me a rueful look. “Should we just get Ted to turn the car around?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Tempting, but no. This is your night. Let’s go celebrate.”
“As long as it’s with you, I’m there.” He brings the pad of his thumb to my mouth and drags it along the line of my bottom lip. Smiles. “Good as new. You ready to do this thing?”
“Born ready,” I reply. And this time, I mean it. Because we have tonight, and the lights, cameras, and the buzz of people are all background noise for me. It’s me and him.
Him and me.
At this moment, nobody and nothing else matters.
* * *
We step out of the limo to a roar of screams and cheers. There are throngs of people pressing up against the barriers for a better look at Carter Callahan in the flesh. Security are physically restraining people. Flashbulbs are going off, and cameras are rolling, and I even catch a glimpse of a girl with a “Marry me, Carter” sign in the middle of the crowd.
Sorry girlie, he’s taken.
Carter, slightly ahead of me (protective as usual), reaches for my hand. Squeezes.
But despite the cheering, and the people, and the lights, and the cameras, I feel… totally fine. Nervous, sure. Who isn’t nervous walking down a red carpet in front of the entire world in four-inch heels? Kendall Jenner, probably.
Yet, underneath those nerves, I don’t feel much anxiety.Anyanxiety, in fact. That voice in the back of my head telling me that I’m not good enough, that I’m unworthy, is silent.
And sure, Carter and I haven’t talked about what’s going to happen next, haven’t addressed the role inIf Onlythat I’m assuming he accepted this morning,and how everything will unfold for us after this trip is complete and he leaves again for work. But I’m trying to just stay in the present tonight, focus on the fact that right now, I have my hand in his. That’s all I need.
I squeeze, then tug on his hand, signaling for him to slow down. He doesn’t have to worry about me. So, he takes his time. Stops to talk and pose for pictures with fans. Sign an autograph for a pre-teen boy. Smile and wave at the cameras. And while he gives his fans the love and attention they deserve for showing up for him tonight, I watch the whole thing with a grin on my face. Becausehe’sthe one who’s always shown up forme.
When we get to the top of the carpet, there’s a bunch of press waiting. He grabs my hand again, pulling me in close to his side.
He smiles down at me affectionately as the cameras click away, and leans down as if to kiss my cheek, but instead, brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “You look so hot right now, I am having a very hard time keeping my hands off of you.”
I bite my lip, hard, as my stomach turns to jelly.
Click. Click. Click.
Carter smirks at me, clearly pleased with himself and the reaction he’s invoked, and I resist the urge to poke my tongue out at him. Revel in the fact that, though he touches me and kisses me and says sexy little things like that to me now, he’s still my best friend in the world.
We finish posing for pictures, then move down the line towards the video cameras and interviewers standing by to ask questions. I attempt to step out of the way, let Carter take the spotlight, but he holds onto my hand tightly. So I stay next to him, running my thumb along the edge of his hand.
“Hi, Carter!” A peppy woman in a double-breasted lipstick-pink suit jacket beams at him. Then, she looks at me, still beaming. “Lana Mae.”
“Hey, Angie,” Carter says easily.
“Hi,” I squeak. How bizarre that she knows my name. And that she actually got it right and didn’t call me Alana.
Angie then asks a few questions about the movie and Carter’s role in it, and what he hopes people will love about it. He answers with a dazzling smile, natural self-confidence, and that touch of boyish charm mixed with self-deprecating humor that made every red-blooded woman in America swoon in the first place.
Angie is holding the microphone towards him, looking like she’d happily rip all her clothes off and beg him to have her babies. In the background, people are still screaming Carter’s name. Cheering and clapping for him. The cameras are still flashing.