7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Willow

When my heels sink into the red carpet, gasps ripple through the crowd before I'm met with the typical shouts and pose requests. Cameras click and flash. It's impossible to make out anyone's face.

My backless Chanel dress slinks down, grazing the red carpet as I take my first few steps. The front has a decent plunge, nothing too scandalous, but shows just enough of my skin for me to feel sexy. With a slit that hits the top of my thigh, my muscular legs are on display with each step. I'm wearing one of my favorite pairs of Christian Louboutin heels; the pair Dexter would throw a fit over if I wore them. He didn't want me to be near his height. And definitely not taller than him. That was tough when he was only 5'8", even though I'm only 5'4'' on a good day.

The satin top of the dress clings snugly to my skin, its fabric shimmering subtly under the lights and camera flashes. As I run my hands down the sides, I feel the structured boning of the dress, highlighting my curves. This type of top is perfect for my shape and I know it. I've never fallen into the too-skinny-popstar stereotype. I've always been all thick thighs and, as Claire says, "tits that don't quit".

With each second, I feel more and more rejuvenated. I move through poses—grateful for muscle memory. It's only a matter of time before the barrage of questions hit me like a wave: "Where have you been?" "Is your heart still broken?" "Did you go to rehab?" "Are you still in contact with Dexter?" The lack of boundaries at events like this is staggering, which is something I definitely didn't miss.

I'm almost near the end of the walk when the energy and focus shifts from the carpet to a black car pulling up. Sometimes, the paparazzi feels like a living thing, a monster with a camera trying to capture their prey.

I slowly turn my head to see who it is.

My stomach drops.

Tripp Owens—I'd know that face anywhere. The night of the Super Bowl comes roaring back. I still can't believe he jumped in and helped me when I didn't even know his name.

The media was all over Tripp Owens after that night.

First, it was the most adorable photo of him and his mom right after his team won the Super Bowl. They're both crying and he leans into her like he needs her to help him stand. She pulls at his jersey. It's the sort of picture you couldn't stage if you tried.

Second, it was him being the Super Bowl MVP. The tears on his face when he held up the trophy.

Third, it was the video coverage, and photos, of him going wild with Champagne for me to make my exit. Something he absolutely didn't have to do.

I know there was speculation about Tripp being an alcoholic after the Champagne incident. Who knows what shrew started that rumor. Here's the thing, I remember him in the locker room. He was having a good time, but he had it under control. I'd put money on him being sober but one hell of an actor, all in the name of helping a complete stranger.

I never got to thank him.

I pause for my last set of photographs, still looking in his direction. He catches my eyes with his, flipping my stomach again, and I smirk in response. When I offer a tiny wave, I swear his cheeks get a little pink, deepening his olive complexion. He nods to me in recognition, wearing a full smile, before turning back to the cameras because we both know if we have too long of a moment, it will be all over every single website and trash magazine tomorrow.

Smart.

Ridiculously hot.

He's wearing a dark gray suit. And I mean wearing . His tailor deserves some sort of award. Do they have those? This suit is a perfect fit, showing off his muscular build in a way that I'd love to see him take that jacket off, roll up his sleeves…

Wow. That escalated quickly.

Tripp pulls on the front of his suit jacket before putting a hand in his pants pocket. From here, I can tell he's much taller than me, even as I wear my highest heels. His chest is broad, and there's no way this man can buy a jacket off the rack. He lifts his face towards the cameras, his jawline is strong, and his lips pull into a coy smirk before he winks at me.

Before the wide smile, and my flushed cheeks, are caught, I slink into the awards show, leaving the paparazzi with Tripp.

Tonight is what you'd expect: excellent wine, solid food, and truly decadent desserts. And I'm never one to turn down dessert, no matter how many times the tabloids get a photo of me enjoying one and pair it with a disgusting headline about my weight and lack of discipline.

I'm thankful everything was pretty lowkey as I sat with some industry friends and acquaintances. We've kept in touch while I've been out of the public eye, but I'm relieved when no one asks about Dexter .

Now's the time when everyone goes their separate ways or to the after-party.

Dexter would never entertain the idea of going to the after-party, and that was if he even accompanied me to the event. When my tablemates ask if I'm going to join them, my cheeks flush a bit when I say yes. I'm excited to do something I haven't done in what feels like years.

Emilie joins me and I can tell she is absolutely beside herself. She smooths her dark red hair in the car and fixes her lipstick. This is the first real event I have brought her to, given the whole season of hiding away. I can tell she's trying to keep it together, and I love her for it.

We get a few steps inside the after-party before I see a band I know Emilie loves. I practically know all their music considering how much she plays it at my place. When I introduce her, I laugh as her mouth is doing everything it can to not be on the floor. I throw a wink her way.

I giggle when I hear someone ask where she's from. She looks down at her hands, wondering if she does the hand thing to pay homage to her home state of Michigan.

I feel like the air is different here; it's exciting and refreshing. I think I've missed events like this. I look around and take in the room but don't get farther than the bar when I see him. Tripp. Smirking at me in all that dark-gray-suit glory. Ironically, he's all alone.

I make a split-second decision before my brain can talk me out of it. As I approach the bar, it's hard not to stare at his smile. It's contagious. I feel my own lips pulling up. My legs strut, and I tip my chin up.

"We were never formally introduced," he says while putting out his hand. "I'm—"

"Tripp. Tripp Owens," I interrupt, putting my hand in his. "Super Bowl MVP. Recently traded to the bright and shiny-new Upstate Cosmos." With each word, his stare gets a little more intense. But in a good way. He bites his lip and tilts his head as he listens and shakes my hand .

He. Bites. His. Lip. I am a puddle on the floor.

"Wow. Not even going to try and lie. I fucking love that you know who I am." He laughs to himself as he runs a hand through his hair, which looks almost black in the dim light. "My turn." He shakes his shoulders and pretends to crack his neck. "You're Willow. Ten albums. Possibly the driving force behind cassettes making a comeback. The first artist to sell out every NFL stadium during a single tour." His hands are on his hips as he takes me in.

His eyes on me make my skin prick and burn. I realize I'm holding my breath.

"Want to know a secret?" he asks, leaning into me, close enough that his voice is barely above a whisper. I move in, closing the rest of the distance. "I was fucking pissed I missed your halftime show. Well, I did catch the end of the last song." His voice is low, and I can hear the smirk in the way he speaks.

I remember the clip of him dancing out of the tunnel—he knew some of my tour choreography. It made me laugh but I was mostly envious of him. How he was unapologetically himself even during one of the most important games of his career. Clearly, doing what he wanted on what's arguably the biggest stage he'll ever touch.

"You seemed to be having your own fun, you know, winning a championship and all."

"You're right. I was. And it was a fucking blast."

Instead of doing the thing where he awkwardly plays down the accomplishment, he soaks in the compliment. I love it.

"What can I get you to drink?"

"Sauvignon blanc, please."

"Want to find a spot?" His voice is smooth like velvet as he gestures to the array of sitting areas around the after-party. This is one of the safest places in the sense of being able to have real conversations. No cameras allowed. Of course, there will be people lined up when everyone makes their exit, but for now, we're all safe.

This gorgeous man, who put himself in a precarious position to help me out, seems like a worthwhile way to spend my time this evening. Didn't see this coming.

I grin at him before I turn and walk towards a booth in the corner. I wonder if he's watching me. The venue is all dark fabrics, velvet, and the lights are dim. As I sink into the booth, my heart catches me off guard.

Quick. For the first time in months.

Honest excitement.

There's no part of my brain trying to come up with a way to win a fight. Or begging someone to go out or stay out a little longer. And if we were out, Dexter would be so concerned about how we were going to end up getting out of there.

My brain feels quiet. The only thing I feel is my heart beat picking up.

And it feels good.