Freddie: No it wasn’t.
The bus pulled off onto the road and I typed away furiously, trying to prove to him how naive he was being.
Andie: You’re engaged for god’s sake, Freddie. I don’t care if you don’t love her. The WORLD loves her. And if anyone finds out about last night, it’s me they’ll go after.
Freddie: I’m betrothed, not engaged. And it won’t be for much longer.
He didn’t get it.
Andie: You’re missing the point. I need to focus on the games, not embroil myself in an international scandal. I suggest you do the same.
Freddie: I’ll be at the cocktail party tonight.
Andie: Great. You stay on one side of the room and I’ll stay on the other.
Freddie: No. I have nothing to hide.
I didn’t bother texting him back. Clearly, he didn’t understand. I shoved my phone deep into my workout bag, so far down that I wouldn’t notice the buzz if he texted me again. I leaned back against the bus seat, stared out at the Rio de Janeiro landscape whipping by, and tried to figure out how exactly I was going to avoid him at an intimate cocktail party without causing a scene.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Freddie
WHEN I’D LEFT Andie at the club, we’d been on the same page. We’d breathed the same air, felt the same things, and agreed that this thing between us wasn’t done—far from it. When I read her text after swim practice, I was shocked to find that so much had changed overnight.
I guessed she’d had time to think on it and in the morning, our actions seemed to take on a new light for her. As for me, I’d woken up wanting her just as badly as I’d gone to bed wanting her.
Which was why I had to ignore her text.
She didn’t know what she wanted, but I knew what I didn’t want to miss.
The cocktail party was something I’d been dreading the last few days. Any event where I had to dress up, plaster on a fake smile, and walk around like a twit answering questions from the press was an event I’d be all right with skipping altogether. But then I took another look at the invitation and saw Andie’s name printed beneath The United States of America. She had been chosen to be their flag bearer. They wanted someone new, with a fresh face and a perfect record. To the world, she was Andie Foster, beautiful American girl ready to take on the world from the front of a Wheaties cereal box. To me, she was more.
I stepped out of the car that had shuttled me and fixed my suit jacket. It was a new one my PR team had packed for me and I wasn’t yet comfortable in the thick navy material.
“So we’ll walk the red carpet, and you’ll answer a few questions and pose for a few photos.” The media consultant was telling me what to expect, but I was only half listening. I’d spotted Andie getting out of the car in front of me. It was pure luck. Fate. She extended one long leg from the back of the car and her own media consultant rushed forward to help her. He was a tall, skeletal bloke with a giant nose and a mobile attached to each hip. He held her hand as she stepped out of the car and I froze, taking in her simple blue cocktail dress. It was modest compared to what I’d seen her in the night before, but it didn’t matter. Her tan legs were enough of a distraction on their own.
“Mr. Archibald, are you prepared to walk?”
My media consultant stepped forward, trying to usher me forward, but I stepped past her grasp and headed for Andie. She didn’t notice me until I was there, taking her free arm in mine and gently pulling her away from her media consultant. Her hands were soft and shaking. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous about the event or about me.
Her coordinator shook his head forcefully. “Ms. Foster is set to walk the carpet alone.”
I smiled and nodded, acting as though I knew exactly what I was doing.
“I’ve got her,” I told her coordinator. His jaw dropped and his gaze flitted frantically between us, but his protests came too late. I was already leading her around the corner, where a hundred photographers were waiting to snap our photo.
“Stop it,” she hissed from the side of her mouth. She tried to pull back gently so that no one could tell, but I kept my arm wrapped around her lower back and dipped down to whisper in her ear.
“I won’t let you avoid me all night.”
“Let me walk the carpet alone and I promise I won’t.”
I could feel her shaking beside me, and when she glanced up, I realized it wasn’t with nerves, it was with rage. She was seething.
“Fine,” I said, loosening my grip on her waist. “Wait for me inside.”
She promised she would and then her media consultant whisked her away to walk the red carpet in front of me. They had me wait so it wouldn’t look as though we’d arrived together. I stood there out of sight, watching as they shouted for her attention. She smiled so beautifully even I couldn’t tell if it was real or fake.
“Andie! Andie!” they shouted.
“Look here!”
Her media consultant pushed and prodded her along and when it was finally my turn to take the carpet, I waved and smiled for a photo or two, but not nearly as many as Andie had. These cameramen weren’t my mates. They’d shout and beg for a photo one minute and then sully my name in the gossip pages the next.
My consultant flitted around me, trying to get me to stop and pose in specific spots. “If you could stand here for one—”
I shook my head. “That’s enough.”
I skipped the dozen or so reporters set up at the end of the red carpet, posed with microphones and cameras. They shouted questions as I passed, but there was nothing I wanted to answer. Was I still betrothed to Caroline Montague? On paper. Did I plan on breaking my world records? Isn’t that the bloody point? Was I enjoying my time in Rio? What was there not to like?