As the night wears on, we do a few more interviews, keeping to the script Stevie so boldly improvised. We dig ourselves deeper, minute by minute. When the cameras are on us, when people are watching, my hands are all over her. I play with her hair, kiss her cheek, drag the tip of my nose down the soft, porcelain arch of her throat, inhaling her scent, feeling her pulse point flicker and pound as we fall into character and sell the story.
And when there’s a distraction, a break in the attention, I pull away, my hands slipping into my pockets as if they’ve suddenly forgotten their place. Stevie’s smile falters, just for a moment, before she catches herself, putting on that dazzling grin again.
But it’s like a light switch, flipping on and off—on when we’re performing, off when we’re alone in the brief seconds between flashing cameras and badgering stares. I see it in her eyes, the uncertainty, the swirl of doubt that wasn’t there before. She’s questioning everything: her choices, her courage, and probably me. All while I’m questioning how the hell we’re going to keep this charade up without it blowing up in our faces. Because every touch, every staged whisper, every stolen glance is burying us deeper in this fabricated romance.
And the deeper we go, the more I remember those few burdenless months in the Chicago suburbs. Passing out beneath her walnut tree, the autumn breeze mingling with the sound of her voice, lulling me to peace. Piano chords and twinkling stars. Long talks on her roof, her heart bared and mine raw. The scent of hay and well-loved vegetable gardens, so wholesome and pure.
A feeling.
A soul-settling feeling I haven’t been able to replicate, not here, not in this blackhearted city, draped in false light and disguised as dreams.
The feeling of being alive.
Fear inches its way inside me the longer we mingle, the longer we stand side by side, shoulders glued together, her hand in mine.
Fear that there might come a time when I forget where the acting stops and the truth begins.
Chapter 25
Stevie
There’s a pounding on my door the next morning, and I forget where I am. I startle awake, my hair caked in hair spray, my skin still reeking of candy-misted perfume. Disoriented, I glance around the room, taking in the vintage photographs on the walls, the glittering surfaces, and the sun streaming in through the high-rise window.
Then I remember the rest.
My awful interview. The lie I spun. The six-foot hole I might as well have dug for myself to sleep in last night.
Shit, shit, shit.
The pounding continues, and I jump out of bed, flipping off the covers and climbing to my feet. I’m presentable enough. I forgot to remove my makeup, so I’m sure I resemble a Picasso painting—smudged, chaotic, and slightly unsettling.
I glance at the wall mirror before rushing to the door.
Yep.
A Picasso painting of an unhinged raccoon.
So manyshits.
Threading my fingers through my cement block of hair, I pull at the door handle, expecting to see one of Lex’s people: Adrian, Castle, maybe Rudy.
But it’s Lex.
Looking like a Norman Rockwell painting.
He stands before me in a navy polo and khaki pants, his hair immune to ordinary things like bedhead and slight breezes.
I find his eyes across the threshold, suddenly feeling small. Regret nips at me, leaving holes. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up.”
I look behind me out the window, as if the sun’s placement in the sky might give me the time. “Where’s Adrian?”
“Outside. You need to pack.”
My jaw sets as I glance back at him. I guess that’s it then. I was only here for thirty-six hours, and I managed to screw everything up. Lex can’t wait to hip bump me into that limo and wash his hands of me. “Okay. Sorry I slept in.”
“You didn’t.” He waltzes into the room, glancing around at the mess of spilled clothing, scattered hair products, and my half-open suitcase. “It’s only eight a.m.”
