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Theater situation saved.
Win, win, and…
Yeah, there’s still this: Shane Hott, with a big warm smile on his face that feels made just for me.
My blood hums a response, damn it.
I remind myself that he’s an actor. His current job is to convince everyone on earth that he’s into me. There could be paparazzi outside. We could be on video this very moment.
I’m five-eight—not petite for a woman—but he towers over me. I’m guessing six foot two, lean muscles and broad shoulders. He’s wearing a pair of well-worn jeans with a thick leather belt, expensive loafers, and a soft-looking gray button-down. There’s swagger in his walk, and I don’t hate it.
This guy takes up space. He gives off heat. And he smells just the right amount like expensive, spicy aftershave.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he says.
Alarm bells go off. In my mind, we would conduct all wedding-related business while sitting on opposite sides of a large table, preferably with chaperones present. But now he’s gesturing at the Depot Hotel’s bar—a series of closely placed stools—and, worse, I’m following him.
Before I drove here, I found myself deliberating over what top to wear. In exasperation with myself, I chose one of my oldest, rattiest T-shirts—and shoved my makeup bag into a drawer. I’m not doing makeup and costume for this guy.
Now I’m regretting it a little because the two of us are in public, him looking like his clothes were tailored onto him by the costume department just before he walked in…and me. And if there really is a paparazzo lurking nearby, it’s going to be an embarrassing photo or video.
Fingers crossed for a last few moments of privacy before the storm descends.
The bartender comes by, and I order myself a glass of red wine. Shane asks for a single malt, neat, and an order of chips and guac.
I notice the couple a few seats down from us are whispering. Is it about us?
I was middling famous when I was on Bridge. I got recognized in public and we had a strong, enthusiastic fan base, but it wasn’t an everywhere I went thing.
Shane Hott is seriously famous.
They’re probably whispering about us. I figure we have about three days max before the whole world knows we’re together.
Which is what Shane wants. And I want what Shane wants because he’s killed my two ugly birds for me.
The bartender sets our drinks and chips down. “So we need a cover story,” I say. “How we met, how we fell in love, when and where and why you proposed. I was thinking it might be good if we said we knew each other from LA. Because that helps explain to people who know us how things happened so fast.”
He rakes his fingers through his bed-head hair. “The only problem with that is that when I actually saw you for the first time, my sister-in-law Sonya was there.”
Right. When we crossed paths in Hott Spot.
“But that’s okay, right? If all your siblings know it’s fake, presumably that includes her, too?”
“Sure, yeah.” He runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “Which is a good thing because that first time I saw you, when I recovered my ability to speak, I’m pretty sure I said, ‘Who was that?’”
“What do you mean, when you recovered your ability to speak?”
I’m trying not to read into what he’s just said, but?—
He grins at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, Ivy, you’re gorgeous. I saw you and temporarily lost use of my words.”
Flustered, I fumble my wine, almost spilling. “Uh, thanks. I think.”
“It’s definitely a compliment.”
I’m blushing, which… I’d forgotten the hardest aspect of acting a romance line—that you have to play the part without losing track of the fact that you’re playing a part. And Shane is a genius at the romantic lead. That’s how he’s made his millions and captivated the hearts of the world’s women.
I have to keep my focus. We’re crafting a narrative here. Writing a fictional love story. While on the most public of all stages: real life in the age of social media.
