After stepping out of the cab, we’re admitted to the red carpet by security. I’m blinded by the photographers’ flashes and their reflections on the metallic walls of the Disney Concert Hall. The paps, however, soon realize we’re nobodies, and the clicking craze stops.

At the end of the carpet, there’s a small press area with other correspondents from magazines and TV. We’re early. The big celebrities will start arriving a bit later. Presumably in a slow trickle that will carry on for at least an hour. Events managers time the arrivals so that all the guests will get their dedicated moment in front of the photographers and with the press.

“I should wait here,” I tell Richard. “See who gets in, do some interviews…”

“I’ll get started on the champagne.” He winks at me and disappears inside.

Alone and with work to do, I regain some presence of mind—meaning only half of my brain cells are being fried by the memory of Richard’s smile.

Plus, red carpets are fun! All the celebrities I meet are incredibly down-to-earth and exciting to talk to. They make jokes, tell me wardrobe malfunction anecdotes, and I record more than a few good quotes to publish in a bubbly article on the evening. Even if I’m from a relatively unknown magazine, no one snubs me. And the first part of the night flies by in a series of incredible conversations, swooshing gowns, and some fan-girl moments on my part. When no one new arrives for twenty minutes, I move inside to finally join the real party.

I queue with some other guests at the wardrobe. Nothing can be brought upstairs. Phones, bags, jackets… everything has to be checked in.

I’ve just dropped my clutch when I find myself face to face—more face to chin—with my nemesis: Aurora Vanderbilt.

Aurora’s lips part in an evil smirk as she says, “Blair, good to see you. I didn’t know amateurs were invited.”

We haven’t seen each other since she stole my promotion, so my reply is pure vitriol. “You mean you thought it was a party reserved for toddlers still attached to their mother’s skirts?”

As if on cue, Rebecca Vanderbilt appears at her daughter’s side. “Who’s your friend, dear?” she asks.

Aurora gives me a look of death. “No one,” she says, steering her mother away.

Blood pulsing, I let them go and wait at a distance for the next elevator. Aurora being here isn’t the only reason I’m edgy. Richard is waiting for me upstairs. In the last hour, I’ve met and spoken to a good chunk of the sexiest men alive top-ten chart, but no one gave me goose bumps the way only thinking about Richard does.