Love Unrehearsed (9 page)

With traffic, it took almost twenty minutes to drive back to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Ryan squeezed and kissed my hand as I tried to get him to calm down and focus, thanking him for loving me and apologizing in between. My poor man was spun up and in worse shape than I was and it was time for him to put his game face on. Our car was pulling up to the curb.

This is it. Go time. I have never been this nervous in all my life.

Ryan left out a long, laborious breath, locking his eyes on mine. “Remember what I said. Eyes and ears open. Ready?”

As soon as Ryan’s foot hit the sidewalk, fans started screaming. I froze from the shock of hearing the deafening volume coming from the crowd. Ryan waved quickly, fastened the button on his jacket, and then turned back to my open door to give me his hand.

Holy shit.

There are no words, no preparations that could ever be instructed, for what I was experiencing at that very moment.

Thousands of people, like a thrashing sea of undulating bodies, were screaming, packed in tightly behind the barricades that barely held them back. Many of them were waving posters, books, and pictures for Ryan to sign, shrieking at the top of their lungs to get his attention.

The words “frantic mob” and “oh my God, I’m going to die” quickly came to mind.

No wonder Ryan panicked earlier. Having so many people in such close proximity, shrieking for your attention, was ten steps beyond terrifying. I feared that at any moment the dam could give way, allowing the horde to breach our small plot of land and stampede us to death. I started to shake. My first survival instinct clicked in and I found myself desperately searching the rolling red carpet for all possible exits.

There were so many others inside the confines of the barriers, wandering, looking, it was confusing and overwhelming. Huge movie posters for
Reparation
were standing like statues, towering overhead.

A few people were speaking into Ryan’s ear already, instructing him where to go and leading him forward. Hand in hand, we took our first steps, forever protected by our faithful bodyguard, Mike Murphy.

Photographers lined the other barriers, pushing, flashing, and yelling for us. Not only did they have expensive cameras, but I noticed there were quite a few with laptops as well, beaming the first pictures of us instantly to their tabloid and press feeds.

Trish hurried to Ryan’s side. “I just received a call from Marla . . . she said I’m supposed to leave? I . . . I don’t understand.” Her eyes toggled back and forth between Ryan’s face and questioning the cell she held in her hand.

“Marla and I are done,” Ryan informed her quickly.

“What? Um . . . I . . . ,” she stammered.

Ryan signed a few more autographs in between smiling, posing, and greeting his fans.

“You want a job?” he asked her privately, seizing my hand in his.

“Mr. Christensen, this way please,” some man in a suit instructed, ushering us to follow him.

“Trish, I need a publicist—now,” Ryan said, maintaining his focus amid all the chaos that surrounded us.

Trish’s mouth opened but no words followed. Much to my relief, it only took her several seconds to finally nod and switch to full-on business mode, handling Ryan’s appearance skillfully.

Ryan held me at his side, always within inches of him, even when he stopped to greet more adoring fans.

“Ryan, we have
Access Hollywood
and the ReelzChannel up first,” Trish informed. “Taryn, you stay back here. Focus on Ryan as he speaks because you will be on camera. I need extra security right here.” She pulled Ryan along by the elbow to keep him moving.

I stood off to the side, proudly beaming at my fiancé as he gave brief interviews. His smile, charm, and humbled enthusiasm never faltered even when Trish guided him from microphone to microphone.

Time and time again each reporter asked when we were getting married, to which he happily and repeatedly replied, “I don’t know. We just got engaged. We haven’t discussed it yet.”

Just like that, with three simple sentences, our engagement became officially confirmed news.

After congratulating us on our pending nuptials, the
Entertainment Tonight
interviewer asked for my thoughts about the film. The intimidating microphone tilted in my direction and somehow my mouth turned into the Sahara and all of the saliva inconveniently disappeared from my mouth. I felt Ryan reassuringly squeeze my hand.

“I haven’t had an opportunity to see it yet. Tonight will be my first screening,” I answered with a smile, relieved that I didn’t sound like an idiot.

“And I’m just looking forward to seeing her reaction.” Ryan beamed proudly at me.

Fortunately that was the only question she asked before we had to move on to the next microphone.

As we walked the gauntlet of reporters, it became blatantly obvious why Ryan had freaked out earlier. Stand, pose, smile, turn, look, interview, sign this—all accompanied by excited screams and shrieks from thousands of enamored fans.

Seeing Ryan interact with his fans was both fascinating and scary. I feared for his safety as one after another reached for him. A moment of reprieve couldn’t have come sooner. I was escorted by two hulking bodyguards over to Ryan’s family, where I waited while he conducted more interviews and posed for photographers. The VIP area, where I tried to look like I belonged while a few very well-known celebrities passed through, seemed to be a safe place. It was also the place where I was able to catch up with some other familiar faces, namely Cal Reynolds and his wife, Kelly Gael. I was so happy to see that they came out to support Ryan’s premiere.

While we were talking, a well-dressed woman with stick-straight, shoulder-length brown hair approached me. She looked to be in her forties, very fit, but true age was deceiving in L.A. As I took in the sight of her, I noticed that she had the most fetching smile and the rosiest cheeks I had ever seen.

“Excuse me. Hi! You must be Taryn?” she asked.

“Yes! Hello!” I returned her cheery greeting.

She held out her hand. “I’m Anna—Anna Garrett. I’m one of the film’s executive producers. A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes it is!” I said, glancing around. “And spectacular and amazing as well.”

“I’ve heard so much about you; it’s nice to finally meet you. Oh, I believe you’ve already met my husband?” she said in a very distinct British accent. One tiny tinge of panic crept up my throat as I hoped not to get falsely accused of anything. She tugged on a man’s suit coat and the moment he turned around I immediately recognized him. He was the only film director I knew personally.

“Oh, yes! Yes of course. Mr. Follweiler. It’s so nice to see you again!”

“Taryn my dear!” Jonathan Follweiler smiled, hugging me awkwardly. His rough gray beard pricked my cheek. “Oh, it’s good to see you, too! How have you been? Well, I hope?”

I nodded quickly.

“You look absolutely radiant,” he complimented, admiring me sincerely.

“You look quite dashing yourself, sir,” I replied. His sapphire hankie and necktie suited him well.

“‘Sir’? No, no, Taryn, please call me Jonathan. So how’s our boy doing these days?” he asked, craning his neck in Ryan’s direction.

“He’s great.” It was the most benign answer I could give, considering the earlier circumstances. “And he’s anxious to get back to work.”
And away from this insanity
.

“Good! So am I,” he admitted on the sly. “Are you coming to Vancouver with Ryan?”

“Yes. As soon as we come back from the European press junket,” I said.

Jonathan smiled warmly. “That’s wonderful news. Then you and Anna can keep each other company.”

I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was Trish. “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt. Taryn, we’re ready for your photo op with Ryan,” she said.

“Right. No worries,” Anna said with a wink. “We can catch up later.”

“I look forward to seeing you at the after-party,” I said, reaching to give them both a hug goodbye. It was almost pure elation to finally feel accepted by some of the influential people in my new life—in our new life.

Ryan smiled and seemed relieved to see me again, but as soon as I was next to him, his brow furrowed and he appeared wary. “You ready for this?”

I gave him a reassuring smile and a quick nod. “I’m ready.”

Ryan led me by the hand to stand in front of a huge wall emblazoned with the
Reparation
movie logo. He quickly stepped behind me, standing on my right side instead of my left.

“Okay,” I giggled nervously, confused as to why he repositioned himself.

Ryan placed his lips right next to my ear. “Put your hand on my chest.” He laughed lightly to make it look like we were sharing a private joke. “I want
everyone
to see your ring,” he said emphatically, gazing into my eyes with a certain tenderness that was mesmerizing. “It’s time to go big or go home. I want everyone to know you’re mine, Taryn.”

We smiled and posed while the press took our picture a million times. The photographers were yelling our names so often that I didn’t know which camera I was supposed to look at.

Ryan’s grin was infectious. “Did I tell you how exceptionally beautiful you look tonight?”

As I gazed up into his eyes, personal vanity was low on my emotion chart. Instead, I said what I truly felt. “I am
so
proud of you.”

My smile broadened as he rested his forehead on mine.

“I love you,” he whispered, his fingertips gently holding my raised chin. “Never doubt that.” And then, in front of hundreds of cameras—softly, adoringly—he kissed me.

Party

Once Ryan’s public appearance outside was over, we made our way into the plush theater for the screening of
Reparation
. Gone were the feelings of doubt, replaced by new confidence about my role as his fiancée.

I tried to concentrate on the film but it was difficult, knowing that Ryan was mostly watching my reactions instead of the screen. He had already seen the film during private screenings when he had to do voice-overs and I knew he didn’t like watching his own movies. He said it was the narcissistic aspect of it that bothered him.

Ryan whispered with disbelief into my ear. “Are you
crying
?”

“Shh.” I elbowed him gently and wiped the moisture from my cheek. I couldn’t help it; Ryan’s character had just saved a bullied teenage girl from committing suicide when she tried to hang herself in the school cafeteria. To say it was heart-wrenching was an understatement.

Ryan was overly concerned by my emotional reaction, laughing uncomfortably and nudging me as if to break the hold the film had on my attention. When I didn’t give in to his provoking, he looked past me and sighed when he saw that his mother was crying, too.

I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips. I didn’t know how else to tell him how awestruck I was.

“Oh my God!” Marie breathed out, turning around to face us when the movie was over. Both she and Tammy were wiping their fingers under their eyes from the tear-jerker ending. The credits were rolling when I grabbed Ryan’s lapel to pull him in for a quick kiss. I nuzzled up against him, wiping my tears away, trying to regain my touch with reality after that emotional roller-coaster ride. My future husband was absolutely remarkable. I had never felt so much pride for a man before this moment.

Less than an hour later, we arrived at the hotel where my first lavish after-party was being held.

Before our car came to a complete stop, Ryan focused on me, whispering last-minute instructions. “Stay with me, okay? Do not let go of my hand. And do not look at the paparazzi or say anything to them. Just follow my lead.”

My pulse was thrumming at a dizzying pace. Paparazzi landed on our car from all sides, yelling, shouting, lighting up the nighttime sky with thousands of bright flashes. I anticipated that Mike would immediately open my door but instead he halted, yelling at the paparazzi to back up. Moving Ryan from place to place was a daunting task, to say the least. The three or four annoying paparazzi who hounded him while he was in Rhode Island with me were nothing compared to the fifty or more that swarmed us now. A few cameramen were shoving in closer, constricting around us like hungry vipers at feeding time, while brawny event security guards helped Mike move us along. I felt Ryan’s hand tense as he speed-walked us toward the entrance.

Ryan’s agent, Aaron Lyons, immediately collected us when we entered the lavish ballroom, giving me a warm hug and an adoring kiss on the cheek. Another welcomed relief. At least his agent wanted to be friendly and play nice.

Aaron knew exactly how to work a room full of Hollywood money and power, introducing us to everyone important and steering us away from those deemed unworthy of our precious time. Aaron treated me with kindness, continuously referring to me as “Ryan’s fiancée, the lovely Ms. Taryn Mitchell.”

We chatted with producers, studio executives, screenwriters, scriptwriters, cinematographers, sound editors, and every girlfriend, wife, husband, and partner who came with them. Business cards were flashed and I gladly took them when offered. This was high-profile networking—Hollywood-style. A far cry from the demands of owning a simple stand-alone business, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

I at least had enough business sense to know that regardless of the particular industry, business is business—and it comes with a predefined set of rules. Most of the time, the power to make you or break you depends on your ability to make a good first impression.

This was Ryan’s world and if I had any hopes of surviving in it, I had to start paying attention to how the game was played. So I started with the basics. Easy to do, since the majority of the room was male. And at the core, men are easily swayed by good ol’ fashioned charm.

I laced in there another no-brainer that was as comfortable to me as breathing—the first rule of business. You want to know how something works, you follow the money. You find out how it’s made and who controls it. And then you speak the language.