Chapter Four: First Public Appearance

“Tonight” turned out to mean two hours from then, which was exactly enough time to get dressed and not nearly enough time to get used to the idea.

The car dropped us half a block from the restaurant, and even from there I could see the crowd already gathered along the curb, phones up before we’d even opened the door. Cole was quiet beside me, staring straight ahead like he was bracing for something.

“You could try looking less like you’re walking into a firing squad,” I said.

“I could. I’m saving my energy for the cameras.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t trying to be comforting. Wasn’t in the contract.”

The door opened before I could answer that, and the noise hit first, shouted names, my name, his, questions stacked on top of each other so fast none of them made sense as words anymore. I put my public face on out of habit, chin up, small smile, and stepped out onto the sidewalk like I did this every night of my life.

Cole’s hand found the small of my back before I’d even fully straightened up, steering me a half step to the left, away from a man with a camera leaning in too close, too fast. I hadn’t asked him to do that. He didn’t make it look like he was doing anything at all, just walked beside me like it was natural, like there was nowhere else his hand belonged.

“Rhea! Is it true you two met at the coffee shop on Fifth?”

“Who’s the mystery man, Rhea?”

“Cole! Any comment on the leak?”

I kept walking. Cole kept walking. Somewhere in the crush of noise I felt my shoulders creep up toward my ears, that old tightness that showed up whenever there were too many people wanting too much of me at once, and I hated that it still happened after all these years, hated that some small stupid part of me still felt fifteen every time a crowd like this closed in.

“Breathe,” Cole said, low, just for me. “You’re doing the thing where you stop breathing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can see it from here.”

“You’ve known me for two days.”

“Doesn’t take longer than that to notice someone’s holding their breath.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, kept his eyes on the door ahead like the whole conversation was nothing, but his hand pressed just slightly firmer against my back, and somehow that was enough to make me actually exhale. By the time we reached the door, the noise behind us had already started arguing over which photo they’d gotten, whose angle was better, and none of it mattered anymore because we were inside, and the door was already swinging shut on all of it.

Inside, the restaurant was hushed in the particular way expensive places always are, low light, low music, every table angled so no one’s face was fully visible from the door. The maître d’ recognized us before we even gave a name and led us straight to a table near the back windows.

We sat. A waiter appeared, disappeared, left us with menus neither of us opened.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “Outside.”

“Do what.”

“You know what.”

He picked up his water glass instead of answering, turned it a quarter turn on the tablecloth, a habit I was starting to recognize. “Force of habit. I notice when people are struggling. Comes with the job.”

“Which job? Reporter or fake boyfriend?”

“Both, apparently.”

The waiter came back before I could push further, rattled off specials neither of us was listening to, and left again once Cole ordered for both of us without asking what I wanted. I opened my mouth to argue and he beat me to it.

“Steak, medium. Same thing you ordered at the label’s holiday party two years ago. I read the article.”

“There was an article about what I ate at a party?”

“There’s an article about everything you do. Most of it’s wrong. That part happened to be right.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“Welcome to dating a ghostwriter.” He said it flat, no smile attached, and somehow that made it funnier than if he’d tried to sell the joke.

I almost laughed, and covered it by picking up my own menu, scanning words I wasn’t actually reading. “You read a lot,” I said, nodding at the book he’d set on the edge of the table, same coverless spine as always. “What is it this time?”

“Does it matter?”

“You never let anyone see the cover. Feels like it should matter.”

“It’s easier if people don’t judge the book before they judge me.” One corner of his mouth lifted at his own joke, then flattened again fast, like he’d broken a rule he’d set for himself, and I filed that away the same way he’d filed away my nail-biting, evidence of something underneath the flat, careful surface he kept showing everyone.

“That’s not an answer either.”

“No. It’s not.” A ghost of something crossed his face, gone before I could name it. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Of being a singer?”

“Of surviving this industry.”

Something shifted in the way he was looking at me then, less guarded, like the words had landed somewhere he hadn’t expected. He reached for the bread basket at the same moment I did, and our hands brushed, quick, barely a second, warm skin against warm skin before we both pulled back like we’d touched something hot.

Neither of us said anything about it. I stared very hard at my menu. He stared very hard at his water glass.

“You should pick something,” he said finally, voice a little rougher than before. “They’re going to want a photo of us eating. That’s usually how these things work.”

“Right.” I didn’t move.

“Rhea.”

“I heard you.”

I picked up my fork just to have something to do with my hands, cut into food I had no appetite for, chewed and swallowed without tasting any of it. Across the table, Cole did the same, both of us performing a normal dinner for an audience of nobody in particular, because that was the job now. Eating like it meant nothing, when every bite felt like it was being watched.

Across the room, a flash went off, quick and quiet, the kind meant to look like it hadn’t happened at all. I looked up in time to see a man lower his phone and slide it back into his jacket, already walking toward the door like he’d gotten exactly what he came for.

“Did you see that,” I said.

Cole followed my gaze, and whatever was on his face wasn’t performance anymore. It was something closer to alarm.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I saw it.”