The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(55)
Author: Alice Clayton

“Holly?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yep. They just got here, probably twenty cars behind us in line.” He put his phone away and inclined his head toward the car door. “Looks like it’s our turn.”

I took a deep breath, or as deep as I could in my green skin suit, as he opened the door. Stepping out first, he turned to take my hand and help me out of the car as the sounds of the crowd broke over me.

Wow.

A smile I didn’t have to fake spread across my face as I looked down the red runner that cut through the beautiful chaos. As my dress swirled around me, caught in a sudden breeze, I saw flashbulbs pop everywhere. Me! They were taking pictures of me.

I could hear my name being called from all directions, and I turned to see the stands of fans, people who had come to watch and cheer on their favorite stars. They said my name! They were screaming for me, for me.

I felt the energy wash over me, tugging from all directions. It was heady. Feeling Michael’s hand at my back, friendly and grounding, I willed myself forward and we made our way through the crowd. I smiled at faces I recognized—faces I realized I recognized only because they were famous! Holy shit! Everywhere I looked I saw someone I knew. Either I grew up with them on television, or I watched them on my favorite shows now.

I took Michael’s arm, squeezing it, trying to keep my face in check and resisting the wild urge I had to jump up and down, dance and twirl and shout, “Christ on a crutch, how is this my life?”

He totally seemed to get it, and he squeezed back, enjoying this moment with me, totally on the same wavelength. I think we handled it well. We mingled and met, stopping periodically for pictures with some of the biggest names in entertainment.

Handlers ushered me on to the step and repeat to pose for pictures. I stood there, the light from hundreds of cameras popping and snapping from every direction, and relished in the feel of silk whispering against my skin. I felt good, I looked pretty, and I was out of my mind happy.

Once I took my turn, I stepped back into line with Michael, who accompanied me farther down the red carpet. It was like a sparkly but well-oiled machine, with reporters and cameramen lined up and waiting to talk to everyone as they made their way inside.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the first reporter.

“Grace Sheridan, so nice to see you tonight!” she oozed. “You look fabulous. Who are you wearing?”

I smiled and nodded and played the game. I answered questions about my dress, my jewelry, the weather, who I was excited to see tonight, what award I was presenting, what was coming up on the next season of Mabel’s Unstable?, who I was here with. Who was I here with? That was the question they asked as craftily as possible. One even went as far as to ask, “We see that Jack Hamilton is also presenting tonight. Anything you want to say about that?”

I smiled big, showing my teeth. “I’m excited to see all the stars here tonight. The more the merrier.”

I was getting really good at this.

Michael moved with me down the line, some reporters asking him a few questions when they realized he was the writer behind Mabel’s Unstable? We were almost done when he stepped away from me to take a call. One last reporter in the line, and then I was free and clear to head inside. But just as I stepped in front of her, I heard the crowd roar louder than they had all night. I turned around and saw him.

In front of his limo, there was Jack Hamilton. He waved to the crowd, and the orchestrated chaos became like a sonic boom. Girls screamed and yelled, bounced and shimmied, and those who had signs for him waved them frantically. He laughed, and the photographers went ballistic, flashes popping as he sauntered over to sign some autographs. Alone.

No Holly.

I turned to where Michael had gone, and when I caught his eye, I raised my eyebrow. He came back to my side, still on the phone.

“Sweetie, it’s fine. No, really, it’s fine. They’ll be okay. It’s not like you have any control over it,” he said into the phone, then covered it to lean over to me. “She got sick in the limo right before they pulled up, so she had to stay in the car.”

“Oh no. Is she okay?” I said, wrinkling my nose at the thought. Getting sick in a formal dress? I bet she was not very comfortable.

“She’s fine. She’s more pissed than anything, but what are you gonna do? Leave it to my girl to get morning sickness only in the afternoon.” He grinned and returned to his phone conversation with Holly. “Yep, there are saltines in your purse. I put them in there just in case . . .”

If you were watching at home that night, here’s what my interview sounded like, seventeen seconds after getting this news:

“We’ve got Grace Sheridan here with us tonight, star of the new hit Mabel’s Unstable? Grace, how are you?”

“Um, what?”

“Grace, how are you tonight? You look great. Excited to be here?”

“Excited? Wait, what?”

“Um, yes, well, you look excited. Overwhelmed even a bit, maybe? Happens to the best of us, right? So, who designed your dress?”

“What? Oh, they’re from Van Cleef and Arpels.”

“Okay, that was Grace Sheridan. Go ahead and head on inside. Grace Sheridan, everybody!”

I stumbled off the pedestal and back over to Michael, where he was just hanging up the phone. “Holly’s pregnant?” I asked. My mouth was still hanging open, so it came out in a slur.

He stopped in his tracks. “Dammit, I thought she told you! She told me she was going to tell you. Oh, I’m dead.” He shook his head as a giant grin split his sweet face in two.

I could feel tears burning as a lump formed in my throat. “She’s going to have a baby?” I could feel my own grin springing up. A baby?

“Well, yeah, we are.” He nodded. Proud papa already.

Oh my. Before I could say anything else, a woman with a clipboard approached and began ushering me toward the entrance. “This way, Ms. Sheridan.”

A baby. And look how happy Michael was. He was with the one he loved.

The world narrowed, focused down. The crowd quieted to a dull roar in my ears. I saw Michael’s face, still smiling. I saw the woman with the clipboard waving me forward. But I spun, catching sight of Jack at the other end of the red carpet. There were countless people between us: handlers, stars, reporters, cameramen, awards-show staff with their clipboards, but through them all, I could see Jack.

With a reporter. He was only in profile, but I could see him. His jaw was clenched, and he was running his hand through his hair repeatedly, worrying it. He looked flushed, on edge.