Josh hugged me. A full-on, muscular-arms-wrapped-around-me bear hug. He felt so warm and strong and good that I just sank into it for a second. I could’ve stood there like that, hugging him until it was way past awkward and he demanded a restraining order against me. It felt that amazing.
“Is it because you’re hung up on your ex?” he said.
“No. That’s not it.”
“If that’s not an issue, you shouldn’t rule this out. You should give me a chance to win you over,” he said.
I shook my head indulgently. I wouldn’t take very much convincing if he really wanted to push it. The fact was, not only was he hot and interesting and funny, but he was also forceful—he had the confidence to follow through on what he wanted. He wasn’t insecure, wasn’t threatened by me. It was quite a rush just realizing that. It could go right to my head. Or my heart. Or other regions south of there.
“I really like you, Abby,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad we met.”
“We should meet again. We should meet more. You don’t have to marry me, but you could give me a fair chance to convince you. Like a date.”
“You think you can convince me in one date?” I said skeptically, trying not to go in for another hug out of pure greed.
“Maybe. Either way, we’ll have a great time.”
“I’ll accept that challenge,” I said with a smile. I felt joy like champagne bubbles rising in me. I bounced a little on my toes excitedly.
“I’ll call you.”
“Or I could call you, with my history of misusing your number,” I said.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called me when you did,” he said.
Chapter 5
Josh
In no time, my phone started blowing up. I followed the first link and wound up on TMZ. They had ‘exclusive pictures’ of my ‘secret rendezvous.’ Someone at the bar had snapped pictures of Abby and me. There was one of us playing pool. One of us hugging. One of her kissing my cheek. There were two shots of us laughing at the table, one of me downing a beer. The caption read, “Celeb Hottie Josh Mason Parties with Secret GF.” I rolled my eyes, used to the weird, invasive thing where people took and posted pictures of me without my knowledge. It was just part of the lifestyle. I shrugged it off and scrolled through my emails and the headlines on the ride home. I took a shower, ready to fall into bed, when I saw that I had calls from Max and Caitlyn. Caitlyn left a voicemail saying that she was glad I took her advice, while Max just texted, “This is gold!”
Clearly, they approved of the woman I’d chosen to propose to, even though she laughed and turned me down. Out of curiosity, I looked online and found that my name was trending. I clicked the link and found several posts on celebrity gossip sites that had been whipped into a furor over a few grainy photos of me playing pool with a woman. In a way, it was funny. It was also an opportunity. Because it was a headline—a slim one without much substance, which would either drift off into oblivion when some actress or singer stepped out in the hot new boots for fall or it could build interest in a story that unfolded. It could be a stepping stone to a bombshell—to the whirlwind romance and wildly romantic engagement of actor Josh Mason and his screenwriter sweetheart.
It was less than an hour later when news broke of her name. She was identified as the girl I’d rescued, the damsel in distress as the gossip sites nicknamed her. She was probably going to be pissed about that. Especially since she’d taken such pains to control the spin of what had happened, to turn it entirely in my favor. Now she was cast as Cinderella, whose coach or castle burned down, with me charging in to save her. We were meeting up in secret because it had been love at first rescue. I was her hero. She was the woman I had sworn to protect. But my heart wasn’t on the line. My career was at stake. And I was nothing if not determined.
When she’d dialed my number from a fireman’s phone, Abby unwittingly cast herself in this showmance. I’d have to show her that the deal would benefit her—financially and by being part of a Hollywood power couple with the networking ability to work on projects she really cared about and to advance her career.
A romantic angle wouldn’t work on her; she was too smart. As for me, I wasn’t in the habit of romanticizing anything, least of all marriage. I watched my parents split up and drag each other through court over possession of a split-level ranch house and a Honda Accord that was supposed to be for my brother’s sixteenth birthday. No one wins in a situation like that. And I’d been skilled at avoiding anything like it: no paternity suits, no acrimonious breakups, no grudges, no feuds. I got what I wanted, but I didn’t like to step on anyone to get there. Hurting people was generally bad for business, and whether you believed in karma or not, it seemed like a good practice to treat people decently. If I learned anything from my parents, it was that careless people leave scars and never think twice about it.
I texted her the next day, and she agreed to dinner. I decided to surprise her. Instead of some LA VIP experience with a flashy car, trendy restaurant, and security guards in mirrored sunglasses, I told her we’d cook dinner together at my place. So I picked her up from her friend’s house and drove her to Whole Foods. She was beaming. I couldn’t imagine taking any other girl on a date to the grocery store, but Abby was ready to have a good time. There was a spark of attraction there, which was unexpected. Talking to her was fun, and somehow that launched her adorableness into sexy territory. We got a cart and chatted about what to cook. She was stunned that I knew how.
“I was a waiter—and I made a ton in tips, but I did a cooking show that only lasted six episodes. Do you remember Tallulah Rhone? Disgraced star chef? She was the one who called a guest a racial slur on air because she was drunk, and the Food Network fired her—well, I was part of her failed comeback. I played the part of her hapless son who was learning to cook.”
“Wait, you mean they cast you to play her son? Like, where was her actual son?”
“He was in a good East Coast college after changing his last name. He didn’t want to be associated with her brand at that time.”
“But he didn’t mind spending the money?”
“Pretty much. But we were on this cable network, and she taught me a lot. I swear her shrimp and grits could make you beg.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever had grits,” she said.
“Are you willing to try?” I asked. “Because if not, I can make you the seared prawns and lemon angel hair pasta.”
“The pasta sounds better,” she said.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Oh, I’m adventurous, just not when it comes to food.”
We continued our trek through the grocery store, picking up the things I would need to prepare a spectacular dish that would knock Abby’s socks off. I was determined to impress her. As we shopped, we talked a little more about our careers.
“How many cop movies have you done?” she asked me.
“Three.”
“I think that’s maybe enough for a while,” she teased.
“I read for a crime thriller the other day that I’m really excited about. The detective’s a recovering alcoholic who lost his family over his addiction after his partner was killed in the line of duty. There’s a lot of character growth in the redemption arc, and the case has loads of suspense. I’m even going to push for a reconciliation with his ex-wife for the epilogue—you know, reunite the family once he proves himself.”
“Sounds great. What’s it called?”
“The working title is When It Rains, but Caitlyn said that Matthew McConaughy showed interest in the project, and I don’t mean just as a producer. So if he says the word, I don’t have a chance.”
“He used to play the laughable stoner, then the rom-com guy…isn’t that the trajectory you want?”
“Yes. Only I play a moron, not a stoner.”
“Your characters aren’t all morons.”
“No, sometimes I played the fake son of a racist has-
been.”
“At least she taught you to make biscuits,” Abby said.
“There is that,” I said, pushing the cart toward floral and picking up a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in crisp brown paper.
“Those are gorgeous!” she said.
“They’re for you,” I said. “I thought it was obvious.”
“Oh. Thank you. They’re my favorite.”
“So, you get them a lot?”
“Almost never. I don’t usually buy myself flowers.”
“I meant your ex. The one whose house I dropped you off at.”
“Wyatt? Flowers were not his thing. He was more of a Chinese food delivery, let’s stay in and watch Hulu kind of guy.”
“Netflix and chill?”
“No. He was convinced that Netflix isn’t a good value. He found a way to get Hulu for free, so that’s what we watched. They had old episodes of X-Files.”
“Sounds romantic,” I said, trying to hide my delight. The guy was not a tough act to follow. He sounded more like the loser comedian who warmed up the audience for the headliner.
“It was fine. We liked each other, and it was comfortable.”
“Sexy, too,” I said, smirking. “I mean, when I think of my ideal relationship, I think of nineties reruns and sweatpants on the couch. It lights my fire.”
“Har har,” she said, “so it wasn’t like being on The Bachelor. No jet setting. No beach vacations. But I wasn’t unhappy with him most of the time. That was the worst part about breaking up with him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He just hadn’t grown or given me room to grow. He liked things as they were and didn’t want to change.”
“Life is about change,” I said, “and thank God, or else I’d still be waiting tables for tips to make the rent while I auditioned for deodorant commercials.”
We continued, and Abby dipped into the fruit section, reaching for a couple of pomegranates. “I’m going to make you the best margarita you’ve ever had. Where’s the agave syrup?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I teased.
“No, last time you proposed,” she said wryly.
“But you agreed to come out with me again anyway,” I said archly.
“What can I say? I have a wild side.”
“Prove it. Try the grits.”
“Fine. I’ll rise to the challenge. But if I hate them, I’m eating extra biscuits.”
“Deal,” I said.
We made our way through the store, collecting the ingredients we’d need. She offered to make dessert, and I agreed. After we checked out, I opened her door and then loaded the groceries.
“You put my bag in your car. The night you picked me up from the fire. You didn’t just have me load it myself. You took such good care of me. You got me soup. I want to thank you again.”
“You’re welcome, Abby. But you have to stop thanking me now. It makes me think none of the men you spent time with had any manners. The men in California can’t all be losers.”
“I’m from Iowa. They’re big on ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir’ there. Plenty of boys had manners back where I come from. I think I just got used to being independent.”
“You can be independent and still be treated with courtesy. It’s a matter of pride for a real man.”
“I don’t think I ever thought of it that way. I usually like to open my own door so I don’t feel obligated to smile. I get so sick of men telling me to smile,” she sighed.
“That’s something I never understood. If you can’t make someone smile, don’t order them to do it,” I said. She smiled at me. “See,” I said, “anyone with my level of charm can get a smile without asking.”
She laughed. “You’re pretty charming. I admit it.”
“So let’s go make dinner,” I said.
I gave her credit for not fawning over my kitchen. I had an amazing kitchen. It’s a very modern house up on the hill with gorgeous views, private and gated. Security was at the gatehouse, but I’d given the rest of the staff the evening off so that there was no intimidating housekeeper or chef to make her uncomfortable. I wanted to show her around the house myself, let her take in the incredible vista through the wall of glass doors, go out on the deck in the fresh, salty breeze. I set the grocery bags on my quartz countertops and tapped the refrigerator door so I could see the contents without opening it.
“Does that save energy?” she asked. “Or is it just a cool toy?”
“Both, but the whole house is on solar.”
“Wow,” she said.
“I’ll get started if you want to sit out on the deck and have a drink,” I offered.
“I’d like to help. I’ve never seen a famous actor make biscuits before.”
“It’s somewhere on YouTube, I’m sure. Tallulah & Son in the Kitchen.”
“What was your name on the show?”
“Gavin.”
“Really?”
“Why?”
“They could’ve at least let you use your real first name.”
“But people knew that her son’s name was Gavin.”
“So if they’d read about her that much, they’d know that you didn’t look like him, right?”
“He hadn’t been photographed with her since he was about fifteen.”
“And in the intervening years, he turned out to be incredibly hot? Like at least eighty percent better looking than even reasonably attractive normal people? I know what the woman looks like. There’s no way her son would look like you. Someone like you has to come from good looking parents.”
“I’ll tell mine that. I’m sure they’d be flattered,” I said.
“I doubt it. I’m sure they know. And it’s not like being good looking is your biggest achievement. They’re probably so crazy proud that they collect your memorabilia and stuff.”
“Not really. I mean, they’re pleased for me. But I don’t think being an actor was their ambition for me.”
“Maybe it’s because my mom would give a kidney for me to move back to Iowa and teach at the high school, but I don’t get people forcing their expectations on their grown kids. I wouldn’t do that to a child. If she wanted to be a singer, go for it. If she wanted to go into accounting, go for it. It’s a child. Another human being separate from you, not your avatar in a game,” she said.
“You’re like this about everything, aren’t you? I thought at first it was just movies. But it’s food, and how to raise children, and—what Tallulah’s kid probably looks like. You’re very opinionated.”
“Thanks, I think. I’ve certainly never been accused of being sweet and shy.”
“Not that you aren’t sweet, because you’re very gracious, but you definitely know what you think and what you want, and you have the confidence to share that.”
“Speaking my mind has never been a problem for me. Except in writers’ meetings obviously,” she said with an eye roll.
“See, I think they have a problem with including multiple perspectives.”
“Not everyone is as enlightened as you. And this is too good of an opportunity to squander. So I’ve got to learn to deal with it. Now, what can I do to help?”
“Do you want to start peeling the shrimp?”
“Do I want to peel shrimp? Or will I peel shrimp? Because no to the first one, yes to the second.”
She scrubbed her hands and set to work while I started the biscuits. We talked about places we’d traveled—she liked visiting the Santa Monica pier with some friends, and I had thought Australia had great surfing. I showed her how to flour a drinking glass to cut out biscuit rounds with it. She peeled all the shrimp without complaint and barely grimaced at the smell when we opened the hominy. When the meal was ready, we took it out to the table on the deck to eat.
“I could get used to this view,” she said with a happy sigh, “and the grits are less gross than I thought they’d be. If I use my biscuit wisely, I hardly have to taste them.”
“Add some pepper,” I suggested. She wrinkled her nose.
&n
bsp; “I don’t see how sneezing all over my dinner would improve things.”
“At least you tried it,” I said.
“There’s no reason to eat mac and cheese every night when there’s a world of food out there to try. Now, I’m gonna be straight with you—shrimp and grits is not going to replace the Chinese soup I love as my go-to comfort food, but I’m glad I tasted it. And by tasted, I mean ate most of it. Your biscuits are amazing though.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you’re pretty amazing,” she said. She didn’t say it bashfully, not awkwardly like an actress would in a romantic comedy. She was stating a fact, straightforward, bold, and confident. The way I’d come to expect from her in the short time we’d known each other.
“So are you,” I said.
“Thanks.”
I liked that about her. She could take a compliment. There was no embarrassment, no arguing that she didn’t deserve the praise. She owned her worth, and I admired that.
“Let me make you a real dessert,” she said. “I make a killer stovetop cobbler. Just cut up some fruit, toss in some cake mix, a little cinnamon, and some butter.” Just like that, she was back in the gourmet kitchen, examining the contents of my pantry and grabbing what she wanted out of the refrigerator.
I watched, fascinated, as she got out a skillet and sliced fruit into it, then chunked off some butter and dumped a cake mix in. She sprinkled sugar and cinnamon on the apples and stirred. She adjusted the height of the flame and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“This kitchen is freaking gorgeous,” she said.
“Thanks. It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“It’s perfect. I mean, even all your dishes and linens and stuff match, but they don’t look matchy-matchy like a catalog that’s trying to sell you something. It’s subtle and all Tuscan looking—like cream and yellow with hints of dark blue and OH SHIT!”
She screamed, leaped back, and then lunged at the stove where flames leaped from the burner as a cotton dish towel was consumed by fire. She grabbed the edge of the towel and knocked it on the floor. She tried to kick at it or maybe stomp it. I grabbed her arm and dragged her back. I put a metal lid over it to smother the flames. Leaning forward, I turned off the burner.
Pretend Wife Page 6
