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“Abso-lutely.”
I pursed my lips and nodded like I was making a mental note. “Noted. Anything else we need to set straight?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, picking a piece of imaginary lint from her knee, “as long as we’re doing this, the next time someone questions my integrity, you’re to stick up for me. I don’t care who it is. I can fight my own battles, but I shouldn't have to alone. Not when we’re together. Because that’s what couples do; they have each other’s backs.”
I stared at her, both parts wishing I could take back the past hour and stop my mother before she started her inquisition and wishing Scarlett would just let it go. But maybe she was right. It was different when the questions and the doubt came from someone close to me. It was more personal. Less of a question and more of a line of attack.
But because Scarlett needled under my skin, instead of admitting she was right, I poked under hers and said, “Agreed.” I didn’t add that I had little experience in functional relationships to pull from. I didn’t offer another, more genuine apology. Instead, I said, “But while we’re on the topic of acting like a real couple, I should probably inform you we’ll be kissing for the cameras on the red carpet. Because that’s also what couples do.”
Scarlett’s throat bobbed, and the muscle above her eye twitched, betraying her nerves. Which made me feel powerful, like I was in control, even though it was really Scarlett holding the reins.
“Fine,” she said, her tone fierce. “But no tongue.”
I met her demand with a slow grin. “You wish.”
“Whatever.” She snorted, but a flush crept up her neck.
“Pucker up, buttercup, because we’re going to put on a show.”
Okay, so maybe I was a douche. I could admit it. I’d intentionally goaded Scarlett, and it worked.
My reward was the silent treatment. For the rest of the flight, she ignored me. Instead of charming my fake girlfriend, I’d ticked her off. But regardless of how she felt about me, we were about to put on the act of our lives, and as the airplane touched down and we slid inside the waiting limousine, nerves gripped my chest like a vice.
I could easily set aside how I felt to put on a good performance. But Scarlett wasn’t an actress. She wasn’t used to the cameras or the crowds or the mass amount of beautiful people all congregating in one room. I still remembered my first awards show, how surreal and intimidating it felt to be in a room full of people that had graced my television screen for years and have to act as though I were their equal. So while tonight was business as usual for me, it would be entirely overwhelming for Scarlett.
I glanced over at her. Those red lips had formed a tight line as she stared out the window. Maybe her anger was a good thing. I could only hope it might propel her through the evening, because walking the red carpet on my arm with hundreds of screaming fans and photographers and being interviewed in front of a camera was no small feat.
But I’d run out of time to worry. The white pillars of the Forum Club pulled into view. We paused behind a line of cars. From where we sat, I could just barely glimpse the red carpet, and when I returned my gaze to Scarlett once more, she looked as though she might be sick.
I reached down and clasped her hand in mine, half expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t. A sign her nerves were worse than I feared. “Are you ready for this?”
She glanced up at me, eyes wild. “I guess I kind of have to be, right?”
I squeezed her hand, grateful her anger seemed to be forgotten despite her slightly green pallor. “We have one shot at getting this right. After today, if the whole world didn’t know about us already, they will. But this is it, our big debut.” Then, because she pressed her free hand to her stomach and smashed her lips together, I added, “I have faith in you.”
The words did the trick, and her hand lifted from her abdomen while she inhaled a deep breath.
“Should we go over our story one last time?” she asked.
“If you like.”
She nodded, and so I launched into the details of how we met—the fan letter, my trip to the bakery, and time spent in New York—and by the time I finished, it was our turn to grace the red carpet.
“It’s time,” I said, glancing out to the roped-off entrance, where barriers and gates and security held off the droves of screaming fans.
Scarlett let out a shaky breath as the car door opened and the noise spilled inside. I stood and got out. The screams rose another octave. Cameras flickered and flashed, and I raised a hand in greeting, gracing them with my winning smile before leaning down and reaching a hand into the limo to help Scarlett out.
“Now would be the time to give me your hand,” I said stiffly, smile in place because the world was watching. “Scarlett?”
Nothing. Scarlett sat there, eyes wide, frozen in place.
Anxiety inflated my chest. “A response, any response, would be good.” And just when I worried I might have to reach in and drag her out. Or worse, leave her here and walk the red carpet alone, she snapped into action.
A shaky breath rasped from her lungs as she accepted my hand and climbed out. With a startled expression, she drifted forward on my arm, brow creased, lips pressed firmly together.
I leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Smile,” then planted a gentle kiss into her hair on the side of her head like a boyfriend whispering sweet nothings to his lover.
She managed a shaky curl of the lips, and with one arm braced around her waist, we walked several feet further onto the red carpet, pausing for more photos. I smiled and waved, turning toward the reporters calling my name and the hordes of adoring fans yelling to be heard.
