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“These look delicious,” Scarlett says, eyeing the crab cakes like she wants to fuck them.
I scrub a hand over my face, mentally telling myself to calm down. Not everything has to do with sex, right? “Yeah, they do.”
She grabs one of the small plates the server brought us and forks up a crab cake, then passes the plate over to me before she gets one for herself. I watch her eat, my senses on high alert when I hear her murmur a low “mmm.”
Damn it, I’m starting to sweat.
“Are you not hungry?” Her soft voice brings me out of my sexual trance, my gaze meeting hers almost guiltily. “I’m starving. We haven’t eaten anything since the plane.”
“Yeah. I’m hungry. Just... distracted.” I cut off a piece of crab cake and pop it into my mouth, emitting my own low groan when the flavors burst on my tongue. “That’s good.”
“Right? So delicious.”
We continue eating, the occasional low hum of approval leaving one of us—mostly her—and we polish off the appetizer quickly. When the server returns, we order our main entrées, and once he leaves, Scarlett leans over the table like she wants to tell me a secret, her lips barely moving when she speaks.
“People are staring at us.”
I glance around as subtly as I can, noting the way people are blatantly checking us out. I make eye contact with a guy at the table across from ours, and he straight-up lifts his phone and takes a photo of us. I send him a snarling glare, but he only shrugs and resumes his conversation with the woman sitting at his table.
“That guy just took our picture,” I complain.
“There are other people in here who already took our photo,” Scarlett says, her voice hushed. “Isn’t this restaurant famous for celebrities wanting attention?”
I groan. How could I forget?
“Yeah, it is.” I run a hand through my hair, already annoyed. “Maybe we should leave.”
“Roger arranged this dinner, though, right? This is what he wants.” She winces. “I hate to say it, but we should probably give him what he wants.”
She’s right. As Roger would so kindly point out, he’s paying for all of this. The least we could do is make our appearances and smile for the cameras, playing the madly-in-love couple.
This is exactly what we signed up for, but it still feels... what? Awkward? Weird? Like a giant lie?
All of the above.
“Okay, then we won’t leave.” I reach across the small table, grabbing her hand where it rests and interlacing our fingers. “Let’s give them what they want.”
“What do you mean?” The confusion on her face is adorable.
“They want to see us all over each other, so let’s deliver.”
The panic in her gaze is obvious, and she sits up straighter, her eyes shifting right, then left. Like she’s trying to see if people are still staring at us. “Um...”
“You said you’d help me out in any way you could,” I remind her, feeling like a shit for using her words against her. “And this would be a big help, Scar.”
Her face relaxes somewhat. “Do you know you’re the only person who calls me Scar?”
“Really?”
She nods. “My mom tried calling me Lettie when I was little, but I hated that.”
“I hate that too. Sounds like a little old lady’s name.” I squeeze her hand in mine, sending that slow, intimate smile in her direction. The one that set a million teenage girls’ hearts aflutter when I used to flash it toward the camera when we filmed music videos.
Her cheeks flush, and I know it worked. I’m not trying to make her squirm. I’m just trying to give the masses what they want. Me and Scarlett so wrapped up in each other, the outside world just disappears.
“Do you mind that I call you Scar?” I ask her.
“Not at all.” Her smile is small. “I kind of like it.”
