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“No. I mean, yes. I was talking about your hidden treasure story. Have you thought anymore about that? What your McGuffin could be?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right. I mean, no.” I rolled my eyes.
Rome laughed. “We make a good pair, the two of us.”
“Ha.” If only. But seriously, it wasn’t helpful to think of him in those terms. This wasn’t real. None of this was real. “I was thinking it would be fun to have some of it grounded in reality. LikeNational Treasure. Only with something a little less fantastical. I’m not out to save the world or the country with some ridiculous vast fortune. But something kinda more realistic, you know?”
“Sure. So Cibola is out.”
“Yes. No cities of gold hiding inside a mountain or huge treasure troves underneath an old church in New York City.”
“Gotcha.” Rome nodded as he smoothly changed lanes. “You know I saw this documentary once about the Irish Crown jewels. Did you know they’ve been missing since, like, 1907 or something? They opened up the vault, and the jewels were gone. No one’s seen them since.”
“Hmmm, that could be fun. Gorgeous Irish countryside and…you know, I don’t know much about Irish politics. Aside from the whole IRA troubles. That could get messy. Maybe I should stick to something that would resonate more with an American audience?”
“Like Wild West train robbers, or Blackbeard’s Atlantic Coast treasure trove?”
“Yeah.” I fell silent as my mind raced. I could pick an actual old west gang of robbers and base a story off their legend. Then add in some competing treasure hunters and a love story. Danger. Drama. I should research treasure hunting laws. Who could legally claim the treasure after it was found? And what if it’s on federal or private lands?
My fingers itched to get my phone out and search possibilities. I almost did until I remembered who I was hiding from—all those red number notifications and the impulse to read what people were saying about me on social media.
I didn’t want all that crap in my head when I faced the cameras again in a few minutes.
“All right. We’re almost there.” Rome said as we turned onto La Cienega Boulevard. “I wanted to give you some PR 101.”
“Okay.”
“First, adjust your skirt and make sure everything is covered before you get out of the car. Those vultures will not miss an opportunity to take an embarrassing picture, so try not to give them one.”
“Right.” I really didn’t want a picture of my underwear blasted out for the whole world to see.
“And don’t get out until I’m at your door. United front.”
I nodded tightly.
“Two, look down and keep your sunglasses on until we get inside. The flashes will blind you if you look directly into the mob. Try to keep a slight smile on your face. You don’t want to be grinning like a madwoman, but you want a slight smile otherwise you look like an entitled ass. At least that’s what my PR dragon told me.”
“Okay. Pull my skirt over my knees. Wait for you. Look down and smile a little. I can do that.” If I remembered. This was all starting to sound like a lot.
And so weird. Paparazzi lessons. How was this my life?
“You’ll be fine. Just breathe and hold onto me. I won’t let the vultures get you.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his teasing tone. He was so charming—it wasn’t hard to imagine why he’d been dubbed America’s Boyfriend. And now he was mine.
But not for real.
That little voice really needed to shut up.
I took a deep breath as we cruised up to the valet.
Rome pulled up to a stop and his door popped open.
“Please leave the engine running.” A bored male voice intoned. “Here’s your—oh wow. Um, welcome, Mister Grier.”
Rome looked at me and raised an eyebrow before ducking out of the car. I had time for two wheezing, deep breaths before my door opened and I looked up into Rome’s mellow dark brown eyes.
“Are you ready for the best sushi dinner of your life?”
