“Stop fidgeting. You’ll ruin my perfectly curated aesthetic,” he said, tugging me closer and smiling at a very handsome man in a sleek gray suit.
I grumbled and dragged my tongue across my teeth to check for lipstick smudges. The price tag was still attached to the back of my dress—I prayed I could return it in time. Not that Otis needed to know that.
“Or,” he said, “are you worried about whathewill say?”
I stopped short. A few people behind me bumped into one another. I ignored them. “Not everything is about John Kater, Otis.”
He leaned toward a polished window to check his reflection. “I wouldn’t mind being on the cover of theNew York Times. Maybe I should be your stand-in.” He turned back, grinning. “Oh! What if you ghostwrote for me? The beauty and the brain.”
I told myself the nausea that had kept me from eating all the Snickers Otis had stashed in the glove box was from nerves—or the press.Definitelynot because I had, in a moment of absolute madness, sent John a selfie. Definitely not.
Chicago’s Book Fair agenda was jam-packed: talks, workshops, an indie author panel, and an agent pitch party. All of which sounded far more appealing than sitting through the 4 p.m. press conference for Haller & Mark. The idea of being called up like a contestant on a cruel literary version ofLet’s Make aDealmade my skin crawl. Behind door number three? Maybe a book deal. Maybe public humiliation.
Otis bumped his shoulder into mine. “You’ll be fine. Just pretend to be me.” He smiled.
“I’m really sorry about missing your last rehearsal,” I said as we skirted around a table for self-published erotica.
He shrugged, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s alright. I know how your mom can be.”
I could hear the unspoken follow-up—we’d had this conversation before.She’s your mother, not the other way around, Otis liked to remind me.
“Oh look,” he said, holding up a truly heinous book cover. “Angela and Her Busty Cupcakes: Book One of the Spicy Baker Series. Think that’ll cheer her up?”
I snorted. Then my phone buzzed.
“Speaking of the baker,” I said, answering without checking—only to realize I’d just accepted a video call.
“Oh, hey Mom,” I said, quickly tilting the phone to crop Otis out of the frame.
“Nora,Liebling!” she exclaimed. “Carol just taught me how to video call!”
“I can see that,” I said, trying to move to a quieter corner. But just then, the doors to the main stage opened, and we were swept up in a flood of people.
“Where are you? I thought you were on a trip with John?” Mom asked, holding the phone at arm’s length. She was perched on Carol’s porch, whose bottle-red hair was peeking in from the side. The sight made my heart twist. I could count on one hand how many times Mom had left the house this year.
Otis gaped at me.
I shrugged and mouthed,What?
“You deserve all the pitchforks they’ll stick in your ass in hell for keeping up this pitiful charade,” he whispered.
“Whereisyour famous boyfriend, Nora?” Carol practically shouted into the phone.
Just then, a warm hand brushed my waist. The scent hit me before anything else—undeniably him.
My heart stuttered. Stupid heart.
“Hi. You must be Nora’s mom,” said John, in that smooth baritone. His breath grazed my cheek as he slid an arm around my shoulder.
Otis clutched his chest like he was witnessing a royal wedding.
I rolled my eyes. He wasn’tthatgorgeous.
My mother beamed. “Ohja, that’s me!” she said, stabbing Carol with an I-told-you-so finger.
“Sorry, Mom. We gotta go, we need to… uhm…” I scrambled for a reasonable explanation for the background noise—because I may have told her I was spending the weekend with my boyfriend in a quiet cottage.
“It’s a surprise,” John said smoothly. “I wanted to spoil her this weekend.”
