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Ashley glares at me. I meet her thickly lashed, tawny brown eyes with a glare of my own.
Celia turns to her niece. “You are the least popular contestant to come offLove on the Line, and on a show known for churning out constant trash, that’s saying something.”
Ashley crosses her arms. “Is this your idea of revenge? Publicly chaining me tohim?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Celia says with a shake of her head. “If I wanted revenge, I’d destroy your parents. Not you.”
My jaw drops, and I hastily shut it. What the hell is happening? Christ, I get that families have drama—mine has plenty—but this is next-level and I do not want a part of it.
Ashley gives a bored shrug but keeps her mouth shut.
“This is for your benefit,” Celia continues saying to her. “If you want something better from this industry, you need to launder that reputation of yours. I’m sorry the patriarchy punishes a woman for being, well…a bitch, sweetie, but until we manage to burn it down, if you want work, you need to be less…unlikable.” She winces at that word, but Ashley just rolls her eyes.
“And you,” she turns to me and softens. “Sweetie. A little edge before you take on the role of a gritty superhero might not be a bad thing. Your reputation is so pristine that even dating Ashley can’t tarnish you.”
“Wanna bet?” Ashley mutters darkly, scrolling through her phone again.
Celia ignores her. “Your team thinks it’s a good idea. They like what they’re reading online. Your fans are, uh…interested in certain aspects of your life previously assumed to be…”
“Boring?” Ashley pipes up.
Celia nods. “Predictable. And sex sells.”
Great. My sex life is predictable. In reality, it’s nonexistent, and right now, I don’t know which is worse. But Celia’s right about the fandom. They are frothing mad the studio cast me as Warwick, saying I’ll ruin the movies because I’m too clean-cut. My agent has been getting nervous about it, fearing they might recast the role if the fandom gets any louder.
I need this.
My phone rings.
Ashley’s phone rings.
“That’ll be your people.” Celia points Ashley to one end of the room, and me to another, and we take to our corners.
The conversation is short and brutal. Both my agent Emma and publicist Rose agree: being caught with Ashley has enough people finding nuance in me. If fandom warms up to the idea that I’m not a Boy Scout, the producers and director will feel more confident in me, and they’ll be less likely to drop me.
I have no choice. It’s the safest way to give my reputation an edge and it will hardly be my first fake relationship.
One week, I offer. They can spin it as a passionate vacation fling. One where I quickly come to my senses.
Ashley’s agent refuses, my team soon finds out.
“Sixmonths?” Ashley shrieks at her agent’s suggestion. “I’d rather go to jail for assault.” It doesn’t take long for her to cave to her agent. They want three months and a financial penalty if either of us breaks the contract early.
Ashley is staring at the ceiling like she’s willing it to fall and put her out of her misery. She hates this as much as I do.
“Fine.” I can take her out for dinner every Friday for three months without wanting to walk into the Pacific. Probably. “I’ll have David set up a date when I’m back in LA in a couple of weeks.”
“That won’t do.” Rose is brisk and I imagine her sitting ramrod straight behind her desk, her golden blonde hair tightly pulled back, the slightest scowl on her face. “You hooked up at a wedding and we need to keep momentum.”
Emma agrees. “You’re still planning this road trip? Take Ashley. You can post your relationship on social media as you go.”
My stomach crashes. This trip is personal. The man who saved me, who put me on this path and gave me standards to live by, turned out to be a fraud and I need the escape from the world to stop this existential crisis head-on before my schedule makes it impossible. I need to be alone. “No way.”
“It’ll give you a chance to get used to her without cameras constantly on you,” Rose points out. “I doubt any paparazzo will follow you into the middle of nowhere. Not with the price of gas—”
Rose is a talented publicist and I trust Emma with my career. If they both agree driving Ashley Foley across America and throwing pictures of us holding hands and sightseeing to the hungry masses will assure fans I’m up to the task of playing an edgy superhero, I guess I’m doing it.
But two weeks in a car with her? No. I drop it to five days—a straight shot of eight-hour days to get to LA. My team ups it to ten days and throws in a few publicity events along the way. Tour a winery in upstate New York. A bourbon distillery in Tennessee. Stop some place wholly American, like the Grand Canyon.
