“In one of her interviews tonight, she called you a ‘talented actor.’ Do you have any idea how many doors a comment like that from someone of her pedigree can open?”
I hold completely still, not totally sure what exactly I’m hearing, only knowing that I don’t like it. The ick feeling has morphed into a full-blown tornado of bad energy.
“You seriously can’t handle faking feelings for this girl for another month or two? Is she that bad?” Kevin spits out the words with such venom, I physically recoil.
Did he just say “faking feelings”? What does that even mean? The phrase turns over and over in my brain as I take another step closer to their conversation, needing to hear something, anything, to negate those two cursed words.
But the silence from Grayson is deafening.
Kevin sighs, audibly. “When I told you we needed to milk this situation with Harper—play up this whole relationship angle—you said you could take whatever she was going to throw at you, that you could hang with her for as long as we needed, until we saw some results. Don’t tell me you’re going to quit now when we’re so close to everything working out.”
“I’ve told you a million times, it’s not that.” Grayson’s voice is low and resigned. “I haven’t had a problem faking my feelings for Emmy...”
And that’s when I bolt, pretty sure I’m going to actually throw up my stomach full of champagne bubbles.
Faking my feelings, faking my feelings, faking my feelings.
Not only did he not dispel the very idea that anything between us could ever be fake, he basically admitted it’s true. His feelings for me are fake? What the actual fuck?
The overheard conversation runs through my mind on repeat as I push through the crowds of people and out the front door, phone already open, Lyft already called. I rush down the long driveway, past the valet stand, out to the sidewalk in front of the McMansion, as fast as my stupid shoes allow me.
Luckily, because we’re in the middle of Hollywood, my ride is there in minutes. I climb into the backseat, slamming the door behind me.
“Everything okay?” my driver asks.
“Yes.” I keep my tone polite but short, so she knows I don’t feel like talking.
As soon as the car is moving, I text Liz.
Me:Can you meet me at my place?
Liz:What, like now?
Me:Please. It’s an emergency.
Liz:Yeah, of course. On my way.
My head falls back against the seat, Grayson’s words still looping through my mind just like that blasted GIF of the two of us.
Faking. Feelings. This whole thing has been fucking fake?
I’m an idiot.
I can’t believe I fell for it. And so easily.
Grayson and his manager planned this from the beginning. Taking the role inNo Reservations. Cozying up to me. Pretending to be attracted to me. Sleeping with me. Making me believe he actually liked me. Loved me.
And none of it was real.
I seriously underestimated Grayson’s acting abilities, because he had me fooled from day one.
The Lyft driver drops me off in front of my condo, and I find Liz waiting at my front door, a bottle of wine in one hand and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the other.
“You work quickly.”
“I wasn’t sure what kind of emergency this was.” She holds up the wine hand first and then the ice cream hand.
“Both.” I slip my key into the front door—making a mental note to have my locks changed because Grayson still has a key—and push inside. Kicking off my shoes, I turn my back to Liz. “Can you unzip me?”
