Stripped (Stripped #1)(60)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

Gone With the Wind was a box office smash, tying with Avatar for the highest-grossing film of all time. I wasn’t even in the credits, but I couldn’t care less. I worked on it, I helped make it. I sat next to Jeremy Allen Erskine during most of the shoot and watched, listened, and learned. I ran errands for Dawson and Kaz and Jeremy, and I took lots of notes. Through it all, Dawson and I worked things out. He hasn’t proposed yet. I try and tell myself that I’m not in a rush. I love him, and that’s all that matters but deep down, the doubts pick at me. What if he doesn’t? What if he’s changed his mind about marrying me?

He had his contract modified when we got back to L.A. from our trip to Macon. He would kiss Rose, but he wouldn’t do any explicit love scenes, and that also went into his rider. So, even though the remake was much darker and grittier and more graphic, including a sex scene that nearly got us an NC-17 rating, it was almost entirely a body double and computer effects, after the initial kiss.

And that kiss between Dawson and Rose? I kept it together despite my stomach thinking otherwise. I had to watch it, over and over again, take after take, until Jeremy was finally satisfied. Dawson was just as upset about it as I was, which was all that really got me through it. If he has any other roles that demand a kiss, I might have to take a long vacation and not see the movie.

Except I’ll probably work on all his movies.

All this runs through my head as Dawson shifts his weight in front of the podium, adjusts the mic, and clears his throat. “God, this is awesome. Thanks so much, everybody. The Academy, obviously. Jeremy, you rock. Rose, Armand, Carrie: You’re the best co-stars I could ask for. Dad, for getting me into movies when I was four.” He holds up the statue, and my heart is in my throat. Will he mention me? “Um, so…I know I don’t have long, but I’ve got something else to say, and you’ll just have to adjust your schedule, ’cause I’ve got the mic.” People laugh at this, and he licks his lips, a sign of nerves.

What’s he doing?

He finds me, his eyes locking on mine. “Grey? Get up here, babe.” I shake my head, but I can’t deny him. I get up, shake the skirt of my dress loose, and approach him. He comes to the stairs and hands me up, then takes his place by the mic, my hand still in his. He digs his free hand into his pocket, and his eyes burn into mine. “Grey, baby. You’ll probably get mad at me for this but…I’m doing it anyway. I love you. So much. You’ve given me my life back.”

The crowd is chattering, whispering laughing, awww-ing. I hear, but I’m not aware of them, except as background noise. I realize what’s coming. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe. I can only watch as Dawson pulls out a black box from his pants pocket, opens it, and shows me a huge, glittering diamond ring. It’s got to be at least four carats, but even the brilliance of the ring can’t keep my gaze from Dawson’s.

“Grey? Will you marry me?” He says the words, then sinks to one knee, holding the box up to me.

I stare at the ring, then at Dawson. There’s only one answer, of course. “Yes.” I say it quietly, and my voice cracks at the end. I try again, louder, leaning toward the mic. “Yes, yes! Dawson, baby…you’re crazy, but yes, I’ll marry you.”

The audience howls and cheers, and for the first time I glance out at them. It’s a mistake. There are thousands of people, famous people, important people, all watching me. I’ve never been in front of a crowd like this, and my knees buckle. Dawson catches me as I stumble, and he laughs as I stare up at him in perplexed shock. The reality of what he just did, what just happened, is sinking in. He just proposed to me during his acceptance speech at the Academy Awards. He just proposed to me. At the Oscars. Most of the world is watching. Live.

I start to hyperventilate.

And then warm wet strong lips touch mine, and I give myself over to the kiss, to Dawson’s mouth taking mine, giving me my breath back. I hold on to him, to his broad shoulders that are hard beneath his silky suit coat. He breaks the kiss, slips the ring onto my finger.

And then Morgan Freeman is beside us, tall and imposing, speaking to Dawson in that amazing voice of his. “Well, John Travolta and Rachel McAdams were supposed to be the next presenters, but you and your new fiancée here might as well do the honors.”

Dawson’s arm clamps me to his side, and I lean against him, trying not to look out at the crowd or the cameras. Dawson reads from the prompter, introducing the next award, for Best Actress. My head is whirling and spinning, so I hesitate when Dawson nudges me with his hand. Then I realize he wants me to read the list of names. I clear my throat and read the words on the prompter, the names of the actresses and the movies they were in, which includes Rose for her role as Scarlett.

I’m proud of myself for getting through the presentation without stumbling over my words, and then Dawson is taking an envelope from a black-clad stage hand with a headset on. He rips it open, flips the flap up, and reads.

“The Oscar for Best Actress goes to…Rose Garret!” He grins and points with his Oscar at Rose as she rises in her seat. “Rose, you’re amazing. You deserve it. And now, I’ll finally leave the stage. Y’all can have your program back now.” Everyone laughs at him, and then he’s sweeping me off-stage and into the darkness of the back-stage area. We’re in a far back corner beneath a red-lit exit sign, and his features are bathed in the glow. He’s deliriously happy.

And so am I.

“Are you mad?” he whispers to me, his voice in my ear, low and intimate.

I let him press me up against the door, and I plant a soft kiss to his jaw. “No, I’m not mad,” I whisper. “Surprised. I was starting to wonder if you were ever—”

“I wanted it to be something you’ll never forget.”

“I don’t think there’s ever been a proposal like it.” I giggle as his mouth descends to my neck, to the hollow of my throat, and then down to my cle**age. I stop him there, though. “Not here.”

“No?” He glances around us, to the bustle at the entrances to the stage, the black-clad stagehands scurrying back and forth, quiet whispers in headsets. We’re isolated here, but still visible.

I shake my head. “No. Too public.” His mouth doesn’t leave my skin, and I have to wrench myself out of his grip, laughing. “Come on, Dawson. Not here. Take me somewhere more private, and you can do whatever you want to me.”