Page 22 of Love Unscripted
Ugh.
Liam places his hand over mine and massages the back of my wrist with his thumb. “It is.”
Goosebumps climb my arm. The warmth of his palm creates tingles over my skin, and I shiver.
“Are you cold, sweetheart?”
I nearly choke out a bark of laughter, but I manage to keep it together. Sweetheart? Weird coming from Liam. He’s not as great at this acting thing as playing ball.
I remove my hand from his. “I’m fine.” The fake fire is creating plenty of heat.
The waiter pours sparkling grape juice into our wine glasses. Before filming, I told them I didn’t want real wine. Water or soft cider will do. I plan to stay in full control of my actions both in front of the camera and behind the scenes. I touch my stomach. Just thinking about sharing a room with Liam makes me uneasy.
Dinner goes by fast. They only let us have a few bites of our meal. Gee, if this was a real honeymoon, it would totally suck.
In seconds, staff floods the space again and removes the food. We’re escorted into the living area and situated before the fireplace. A make-up artist touches up my lipstick. Slow jazz plays, and everyone moves into position.
Nicholas steps forward. “Again, we only need two minutes of you having a first dance together. If conversation flows, we’ll keep the cameras rolling. Adlib.”
“Adlib?” I ask.
“Improvise,” Nicholas says. “Show America you’re connecting intellectually and emotionally.”
“Right.” Liam mumbles. “Easy to do with all of you in our faces.”
I snigger.
Nicholas ignores Liam’s complaint. Perhaps he didn’t hear it. He waves for crew to zip it and pretend they’re invisible. Silent descends except for saxophone.
Liam takes my hand and places his other palm on my back.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t know how to dance. Give me any other sport, and I can do it. But dancing is not my jam.”
His smile is warm. “Me neither. We can sway and talk.”
I nod and let out a breath. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I ignore how solid his frame is. Good heavens, that’s not an easy task. My hand itches to explore his bicep and tanned neck, but I squash the unwelcome temptation. Sure, he is my husband. I have a license to touch him, and he’d think I’m doing it for the show. But I would know. Bad idea. More than bad. Stupid.
In my peripheral vision, a cameraman moves around us, and the red light is on. I flick my bangs from my eyes and smile up at Liam. I hope he knows what to say. My mind is drawing a blank.
His grin comes easy. “So, tell me more about your life growing up.”
What am I okay with America knowing? Not that I have anything to hide. I’m overthinking all of this and need to relax. “I lived and breathed sports. Field hockey was my favorite.”
Liam raises one brow.
“I even made it into a state youth team.” I glance at my feet, then focus on his shoulder. “But that year, I had a motorbike accident while on vacation. Trail bike. Campsite. Hit a rock and went head over heels. Broke my collar bone and fractured my ankle. Huge setback.”
Liam pauses his movements. “Trina,” he whispers.
I’m drawn into his green eyes. I find compassion there.
“That’s terrible.” His large palm moves to the center of my back like he’s trying to steady me.
“Yeah. My family sacrificed years of weekends and drove me all over the country. They backed my future in hockey one hundred percent.” I shrug. “Not meant to be, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.” He sways us into dancing again. “Did you return after you recovered?”
“They had to replace me for the season. Then I lost heart. Realized at any moment, everything could be lost. I decided to focus on my studies and chase a solid career. Aced my exams and got into...” The word “journalism” almost left my mouth. That’s a detail I’d prefer America didn’t know. There’s likely a million Smiths out there, so I should be fine in keeping my Kat Smith reporter profile under wraps. “...something sustainable.”