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“And you think a girlfriend will do that?” she asked like she wasn’t convinced. “Why me? You could ask any number of girls, half of them celebrities, and they’d grovel for the chance. You wouldn’t even have to promise them anything. Me?” She pointed to herself. “I don’t really even like you.”
Ouch.At least she was honest.
I shook my head and laughed under my breath as my determination mounted. Her dismissal of me only made me want her even more.
“I have to admit, your honesty is refreshing. And it’s because you hate me that you’re perfect. You won’t fall in love with me, so feelings will be spared. Plus, you’re the girl next door. The press will have a field day. The public can relate to you. You’rethem—the millions of people and fans that devour those gossip rags. And if we have some high-press whirlwind romance, then you dump me, I garner all the positive press I needandsympathy in the process.”
“And America hates me?”
“We’ll make it something relatable, understandable, so they don’t. You have my word.”
She pursed her lips as if mulling it over, and I felt a seed of hope sprout inside me.
“Come on. There must be something you want,” I said.
A glimmer of something moved through her chocolate-brown eyes, and I knew I had her. She did have something. I just needed to find out what it was. What could the girl who seemed unfazed by fame or fortune or opportunity possibly want?
“What is it?” I asked again, knowing she’d found her price. “I can endorse Batter and Bake, make your parents’ shop the most sought after bakery on the east coast. You’ll get so much business, your parents will need to double their staff. Maybe I could even help franchise it, whatever you want.”
She shook her head. “We don’t need help with business. They’re happy with where they’re at.”
“Then, what? Name it.”
She hesitated, then blurted, “I want your lawyers.”
My brows rose to my hairline. I hadn’t expectedthat. Could little Miss Perfect be in trouble with the law?
“My lawyers?” I asked.
She bit the inside of her cheek as she nodded, then leaned forward. And for the first time, I noticed the flicker of emotion in her eyes, the crease of worry in her brow, and the tense set of her shoulders as she said, “A few weeks back, we had a customer come in when I was working. I was by myself with a couple of friends and she ordered some cookies, then sat to eat one, and she choked.”
Scarlett explained how she’d performed the Heimlich, saving her life, but now, weeks later, the woman was suing them. Batter and Bake was at risk. And if they lost, so was any chance Scarlett had of going to an expensive school because she could kiss her college fund goodbye.
“That’s ridiculous.” Anger rose inside me on her behalf.
“Don’t I know it,” she said, her tone soft. “I don’t even think I’d qualify for enough financial aid for a school like Parson’s, considering the amount of business debt my parents have already.” She met my eyes, and I could practically see her resolve strengthen as she said, “But I imagine you have some of the best lawyers money can buy. I mean, they’ve always managed to get you out of legal trouble, right?”
I grimaced. “Yeah, my team is among the best. I can put you in contact with them, and they’ll help you out, even if only as a favor to me. They owe me, considering I’ve single-handedly paid the guy's mortgage throughout the last couple years.”
“Good. Because I don’t need your money, or your fame, or for you to pull strings to get me into Parsons. All I need is legal help.”
“Done.” I lifted my mug of coffee and smirked. This was easier than I thought.
After I returned to my hotel room, I sunk down onto the sofa and unlocked my phone. I scrolled through the pictures I took of Scarlett and me over the cheese fries she unabashedly devoured and smiled. Despite the fact that she was bite-sized, she’d eaten most of the plate before having me order her more. Though that may have been because she cared little for the roast duck. Apparently, she had a soft spot in her heart for waterfowl.
I went into my Instagram and chose the best photo. It was a solo shot of her laughing—nose crinkled, eyes shut, head tipped back while the light played shadows over her face. I’d like to say she looked so happy because of something I said. That she had a brilliant time. I liked to think I was a funny guy, charming and irresistibly sexy. Not to mention talented and well-intentioned. But I’m pretty sure I snapped this photo during the robo-shark movie discussion, the film I starred in when I was thirteen, which she expertly dissected, detailing all the ways in which it was super lame.
I took a deep breath and traced a finger over the lines of her face. If only I was really in a relationship with someone like Scarlett. If only I had someone to confide in, to share my deepest secrets and darkest fears and tell everything to. And not because I asked them to stick around or because they only wanted me for my looks or because something was in it for them, but because they genuinely cared. What would that be like? Damn if I didn’t wish I knew.
Maybe Scarlett wasn’t genuinely interested, but at least I could trust her. My intuition told me she wouldn’t stab me in the back. She wasn’t that kind of girl, and besides, her expressive brown eyes showed every single emotion the minute she felt it—humor, anger, irritation, frustration—so I’d always know where I stood with her. Not that she was afraid to say it.
My star factor had zero influence on her. She wasn’t impressed with my resume or my car or how much money I spent on dinner. If anything, the extravagance of those things appalled her, which was both annoying and . . . refreshing.
I typed a caption below the photo, then erased it. Simple was better. So I left one thing—a single heart emoji. It was concise, yet cryptic. People would take it and run with it, which was precisely what I wanted. Had we been together a long time and secretly dating? Was it new, or was I simply crushing on this mystery girl and pursuing her?
Letting the media and fans draw their own conclusions was even better than making up a full-fledged story. Maybe Scarlett and I would need to hash out the details of our fake relationship eventually, but for now, a little ambiguity was better than defining what we were. The media would fly into a frenzy trying to figure it out. Soon, they’d be searching for clues, analyzing every nuance of my next photos.
Which was why I needed more time with Scarlett—a lot more. And it had nothing to do with the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled or the way she turned my stomach inside out. No, this was purely business. Strictly platonic. And if I truly wanted to put us in the spotlight as being serious about each other, I knew what I needed to do. A few dates weren’t enough.
