Page 5 of False Start, Real Passion
“Jaxon! Jaxon! Over here!” they shout, vying for his attention.
He obliges them, turning this way and that, while I try my best not to blink like a deer in headlights. Smile, Tori. Just smile and don’t trip.
We make our way down the red carpet, Jaxon’s arm never leaving my waist. His touch is warm, steady, and I find myself leaning into him despite my best intentions.
Every brush of his fingers sends heat curling through me.
“Relax,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear. “We’re supposed to be in love.”
I roll my eyes, mostly to stop from blushing. “Try not to get carried away, Jaxon. We’re here to convince them, remember?”
“Right. That part. But…is it, really?” His thumb strokes just above the curve of my hip. I nearly stumble.
“You really do look amazing,” he says, his voice dipping low enough to make me question every sane thought I’ve ever had.
I straighten my spine and try to channel some professionalism into my bloodstream. “Not so bad yourself. Almost didn’t recognize you in grown-up clothes.”
As we near the entrance, a particularly persistent reporter thrusts a microphone in our faces. “Jaxon, Tori! Can you tell us, just how serious is this relationship?”
My mouth goes dry. Serious? We’ve barely begun this charade and they’re already throwing around words like ‘serious’? I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
Jaxon, however, doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s very serious,” he says, his voice deep and sincere. He pulls me closer, his hand splaying possessively across my hip. “Tori’s special. I’m a lucky man.”
I nearly choke on my own tongue. Special? Lucky? What happened to ‘strictly business’? I glance up at him, ready to protest, but the look in his eyes stops me cold.
The reporter coos, clearly eating up every word. “And Tori, how does it feel to be the woman who finally tamed the notorious Jaxon Reid?”
Tamed? I nearly snort. If only they knew. But I force a coy smile, leaning into Jaxon’s embrace. “Oh, I don’t know about tamed,” I drawl. “Let’s just say he keeps me on my toes.”
Jaxon laughs, the sound rich and warm. “That’s my girl.” He presses a kiss to my temple.
My breath catches, my skin tingling where his lips touched. This is all for show, I remind myself sternly. None of it is real.
He offers his arm like it’s an inside joke, like he’s daring me to find him irresistible. “Shall we?”
We shall. Apparently.
His hand warm and solid at the small of my back, I can’t help but wonder...How much of this is just an act? And how much trouble am I really in?
We make our entrance and it’s like walking onto the field at the Super Bowl—chaos, lights, and the deafening roar of a hundred camera flashes. He takes it all in stride, while I hold onto my fake smile like a life preserver. The man could thrive in a hurricane. I just hope I don’t end up its casualty.
The gala is as high-end as it gets. Crystal chandeliers dripping with opulence, tables groaning under the weight of their centerpieces. A string quartet plays in the background, nearly drowned out by the symphony of noise. My anxiety spikes, imagining the headlines if this turns into a PR disaster. We can’t get tangled up. Not in each other. Not in his reputation.
Jaxon takes the lead, talking to reporters like he’s on the set of a GQ shoot. He’s charming, relaxed, every inch the polished superstar. I watch him, amazed at how effortless he makes it all seem. Maybe there’s hope for this plan after all.
But then it happens, the first big test of the night. A reporter with the persistence of a terrier pushes through the crowd, camera poised. “How serious is it between you two?”
I freeze. My brain short-circuits, flickering through possible answers but landing on nothing. Silence stretches painfully. I can almost feel the headlines writing themselves: TORI FAILS TO HANDLE HER OWN CLIENT.
Then Jaxon slides an arm around my waist, pulling me against him, answering like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “As I told the previous reporter, it’s very serious.”
A breathless second. Maybe ten. The flashbulbs go off again like a firing squad. My heart does a swan dive, while panic and confusion take the medals. I’m drowning in a hundred mixed signals, my body betraying me by shivering with excitement at his touch.
“Let’s dance,” he suggests, rescuing me from the onslaught of questions with an infuriatingly cool demeanor.
I nod, desperate to escape. He guides me to the dance floor, where the music is slow, the lights dim. Too intimate, too much like a real date. Panic flutters in my chest. Dancing wasn’t part of the deal. I’m about to protest when the first strains of a slow, sultry number float through the air.
Oh no.
