Page 155 of The Plus One Pact

"Brutality is more like it."

"Still handsome though," she says.

"Better." I take another step towards her.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the podcast," she says. "I didn't want you to go and listen to every episode and get this idea of me. The wrong idea. Because it wasn’t me. It was Meredith. And I wasn’t ready to share that part of me, yet. I didn’t know you. And, well, I didn't want you to say no. I was desperate for some content. I was desperate to make it work. To finally succeed at something."

"Seems like you did."

She nods. "Yeah, and thanks to you. I owe you a lot for that."

I shake my head. "You did all that on your own."

"Okay, but I am still sorry I didn't tell you. Even if I was technically within the bounds of our agreement, I knew I wasn't totally…"

"Honest," I say.

She nods. "Yeah. It's a weird thing to start trying, when I'm showing up here"—she moves close enough to whisper—"not planning to tell your family we haven't really been dating. But I do really like you, so…"

"I really like you too."

Her cheeks flush. "Yeah?"

I nod and wrap my arms around her waist. "And, I think, if you give me time, I might really love you, one day."

"Me too." She leans into my chest. "So, what does that mean, about us? Where we are?"

"We're two people, on our first real date."

"At your brother's wedding."

"Is that not a normal first date?" I ask.

She smiles and presses her lips to me. "When have we ever been normal?"

Epilogue

Ivy

“Where do you find those guests?” A woman in thick glasses and high heels asks. She’s an up-and-coming podcaster who looks at sex from the perspective of someone raised in a conservative environment. She’s done great work unpacking shame. Even though I know the sound of her voice intimately, and I can see the thumbnail she uses to advertise her podcast in my mind, I can’t remember her name.

It's been too long a day. I’ve met too many people. This is one of the downsides of being out there in the world as Ivy Vaughn. Since people know who I am, they invite me to events. It’s a good way to meet future guests, other hosts, possible sponsors, but it’s exhausting too.

Despite the official Meet and Greet entering its final hour, the hotel ballroom is crowded with people in semi-formal attire. Really, everyone is far better looking, and better dressed, than I expect from the audio-only medium.

Not that anyone compares to the man on my arm.

The podcaster notices that too. She tries to keep her eyes on me, but she keeps looking to Romeo, studying the way his suit fits his frame perfectly, noting the smile in his eyes.

“The woman, what is her name?” She asks. “The Mistress of Pain? She’s a hoot. And the man, Cassanova isn’t it? I know you’ll never tell me, but maybe I can get a few hints from your…” This time, she allows herself to look at Romeo. After all, she is addressing him. Leaving him space to explain why he’s on my arm.

He smiles, reveling in her curiosity. Is he my partner or producer or something else entirely? All of the above, maybe.

I always worry, because of his work experience, he’ll resent the idea he’s a trophy boyfriend, but he never does. He knows I’m here for more than his good looks and, ahem, skill. He knows I’m here because he’s sweet and funny and honest.

“No, I don’t know Cassanova,” he says to her. “But I like to imagine him as an Italian poet.”

I bite my tongue so I won’t laugh. He’s teasing the poor girl, and she has no idea. After all, Cassanova is the son of an Italian poet. And he’s got enough skill with words and romance to make an opera-writer weep with envy.