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“I’m going to tell you, but you’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.” I cross my arms.
His eyes flick briefly to my chest, then—so quickly I’m not sure it really happened—back to my face. “My grandfather’s will says I have to plan and execute a celebrity wedding within six months—five of which have already passed—or Hanna loses Hott Springs Eternal and this land.”
I vaguely remember buzz about Shane’s brother Quinn…something about Quinn having to work at the reception desk of Hott Spot—also because of the family’s land. “Your grandfather had some interesting ideas about what goes in a will,” I say.
“That’s one way to put it.” He rakes an aggravated hand through his styled-to-be-bed-headed hair. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks or slightly plastic with expensive product. I wonder so hard that I have to actually consciously not reach out my hand and touch it.
I’m losing the thread—and this situation definitely demands all my attention. “So you’re saying…if I marry you, you’ll let me have the barn for the theater.”
“Yes.”
His expression’s dead serious now—a slight furrow in his forehead, thick well-formed eyebrows, lush lips, the perfect dusting of stubble on that rugged jaw—all his attention on me and the ridiculous question he’s just put to me. It’s pretty clear to me that if Satan tried to cut a deal with me, this is the exact form he’d take. Also that agreeing to Shane’s proposition would be nothing more or less than bargaining with the devil.
What isn’t clear is why I’m so tempted to say yes.
I need to pause and think about why this is a terrible idea:
He said the wedding will take place in a month—that’s a whole month I’d have to be in the orbit of a man who, in addition to being a Hollywood fuckboy in his own right, reminds me of my first and worst Hollywood fuckboy.
He described the wedding in question as a celebrity wedding, which makes it pretty clear that we’d be the center of a publicity shitstorm—something I want in my life again about as much as I want a case of shingles.
At the end of that month, I’d be married to—and then, presumably, divorced from—Shane Hott, a state that would persist for the rest of my life. There would be no getting away from reminders that I’d sold my soul, however briefly, to the devil.
It seems like the answer’s obvious. There has to be another way to solve my theater problem.
“No, thank you.”
Shane stares at me. I get the distinct feeling that people, especially women, don’t say no to him very often. It gives me a surprising thrill.
“What are you going to do about your theater?” he asks.
“I’ll figure something out. Worst case, we can rent the high school auditorium to get ourselves through the summer, and I’m sure something will pan out by then.”
“Just to be clear,” he says. “The wedding would be a sham. The marriage, too. An acting job.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I got that.”
“You wouldn’t have to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.”
“You mean besides marrying you?”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Yeah. That.”
“It’s just a lot more complicated than my life needs to be right now,” I tell him. “I moved to Rush Creek to get away from Hollywood. Away from publicity and paparazzi. Away from publicity stunts like fake marriages. Away from all that bullshit. I wanted a simple life—a job I loved and a house with a garden and people in my life that I knew I could trust.”
“And did you find it?” he asks.
I’m not sure why I’m so surprised by the question. Maybe because it seems more thoughtful and less self-centered than I was expecting from a guy who up till this point struck me as just an Anthony Fessa clone. “I did.”
“Who are the people you know you can trust?” he asks.
“My sister.”
Wrinkles form between his eyebrows, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to say that one sister isn’t people—a thought I’ve had a few times—but he doesn’t. He just watches me in a way that makes me feel like he can see through me.
He takes a business card out of his pocket. Hands it to me. I half expect it to be pretentious and gold leafed, but it’s just a white card with black writing—his name and contact info. About as understated as they come.
