by Lauren Layne
Except now we’re at my cousin’s wedding, and we have to be back on. Although the change between faking being a couple and being ourselves doesn’t feel as drastic as it did before. Before, when we were in front of other people, it felt like someone had flipped a switch: we’d go from two opposites who are doing each other a favor to a goopy, over-the-top couple.
But tonight? Tonight as we dance, flirt, and drink champagne?
Tonight doesn’t feel fake.
I keep telling myself that it’s simply because we’re getting more used to the whole process. I tell myself that it’s not because the lines are being blurred.
Besides, there is one big thing tonight that’s different from the past few days: tonight the touching is back.
God help me.
“We should dance,” she says under her breath as she gulps some water.
“We’ve been dancing,” I say, discreetly wiping sweat from the back of my neck. My aunt and uncle are paying through the nose for this wedding, which is at one of the city’s fanciest hotels, so of course there’s air-conditioning. But there are also three hundred people crammed into too small a space, and it seems like half of them have been jumping around on the dance floor with us.
“No, I mean we should dance dance,” she says, gesturing toward the swaying couples.
I glance down at her head. “It’s a slow song.”
“Exactly,” she says pointedly.
She’s right, of course. I’ve been feeling my mother’s eyes on us all evening. She’s probably hoping for some sign that the newness is wearing off and that we’re on our way to breaking up. I also saw the way that every single member of my extended family jolted when I introduced Stephanie—when they saw that she isn’t Olivia.
So yeah, I guess we should dance. Except I don’t want to. Not like that, not with her looking the way she does.
Her cocktail dress is bright green, and it’s one of those tie-around-the neck deals that keeps her fantastic rack covered up while leaving her back bare. A back that I’ll have to touch if we dance.
But she’s already grabbing my hand, expertly weaving through the fancily dressed guests until we’re in the middle of the dance floor. We’re right next to the bride and groom, and I watch in surprise as my cousin grabs Stephanie’s arm and whispers something before the two of them giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.
Just when did Stephanie have time to befriend Paige?
And where the hell is that black-clothed artsy-fartsy gnome who once lectured me on the underappreciated appeal of film noir?
Paige’s new husband reclaims her for their dance, and I take a deep breath as Stephanie steps toward me, fitting her body easily against mine as she slides a hand around my shoulder and cuddles up. My hand finds her back, and I think I hear her let out a little sigh as we begin to sway to some sappy nonsense.
I was right in thinking that touching the bare skin on Stephanie’s back wasn’t a good idea. The warm smoothness of it reminds me of that moment on the boat when I slipped a hand beneath her, tilting her up—
“Your relatives seem nice,” she says against my shoulder.
“That’s because it’s my dad’s side of the family,” I say, grateful for a topic of conversation that doesn’t have to do with kissing. Or skin. Or touching. “You’re lucky there are no Clark family gatherings while we’re doing our little charade. They’re a bunch of vipers.”
“Your mom seems to have warmed up to me, though.”
I hesitate. “That’s only because the Middletons are in Europe, so she can’t spend the entire evening foisting Olivia on me.”
“Olivia was invited to the wedding?”
My fingers tighten reflexively. “Yeah. But her cousin’s getting married to some Swiss billionaire this same weekend. She’ll be at the party, though,” I say, wanting to warn her.
“This big fancy Hamptons party, yeah?” she says.
I nod and take a deep breath. “Michael will be there too.”
Her eyes search my face. “That’s why you really initiated this plan, isn’t it? Not just to get your mom off your back. But because you don’t want to go to that party alone. Not when they’ll both be there.”
I pull her closer again so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “Maybe. Honestly, I’m not sure at all anymore why I’m doing this.”
It’s a loaded statement, and I’m talking about more than just Olivia and my mother. I suspect she knows it, because her fingers tighten slightly around mine.
I’m beginning to think this is the longest song in the world, and I’m torn between wanting to pull away and not wanting it to end. I turn my head slightly, my chin brushing against her hair. It smells as good as it looks. For the life of me, I don’t know why I ever thought I preferred blondes.
Stop sniffing the girl, for God’s sake.
Stephanie shifts slightly, and the movement causes my hand, which is already low on her back, to dip lower until the tips of my fingers slide just under the fabric of her dress. We both freeze, and I order myself to move my hand. And I do, but not in the direction I should. Instead my fingers stroke just slightly, moving against the small of her back in a heated little caress.
There’s nothing indecent about the touch. It’s not like I’m palming her ass or anything, and nobody around us even notices.
But the fact that nobody notices is exactly what makes it indecent. Because I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.
I leave my hand where it is for a few heated moments in which the two of us barely move. I start to shift to safer territory, but my hand doesn’t seem to move as far as it should, and I let my pinky finger hover just beneath the fabric.
The distinction between harmless and not-so-harmless touch is infinitesimal here, but I’ve definitely crossed the line. Anyone who might dance with Stephanie would touch the exposed part of her back. But only a boyfriend’s fingers should stray beneath the fabric and linger. And mine are definitely lingering.
The song finally ends, and when we pull back, I don’t think it’s my imagination that she looks a little shaky. I should be relieved that she’s not immune to me. That I’m not alone here. But instead all I can think is, Danger!
The music starts up again, and it’s one of those poppy, girl-power type of songs that has every female on the dance floor letting out a squeal. Even Stephanie.
I find myself grinning at the sight, unable to reconcile the happily bopping party girl with the gloomy film student I met just a few weeks ago.
A couple of my other cousins swoop toward Stephanie, pulling her into the fray of dancing women as they all begin belting out the chorus, which I’m pretty sure will be in my head until the day I die.
I hold up my hands in surrender, giving her a little wink before backing off of the estrogen-dominated dance floor. She gives me a happy wave before turning her back and yelling something in my cousin Tiffany’s ear.
I shake my head, unable to figure out when she managed to make friends with the entire Price clan. There must have been some girly powwow in the bathroom that I’m thrilled to have missed.
I help myself to a piece of cake—my third of the evening, but who’s counting?—when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I smile at my dad, who looks as relaxed and happy as I’ve ever seen him. I scan the room for my mother, but there’s no sign of her. I remember a time when my parents were glued to each other’s side. Not because they were supposed to be, but because they wanted to be. Or at least I always assumed they wanted to be. Maybe kids just see what they want to see, and I wanted to think my parents were perfectly happy together.
But even a kid wouldn’t have been able to excuse seeing my mother and Mike together. And an adult child definitely can’t.
“Having fun?” I ask as the two of us watch the female dance party.
“Always did love a good wedding. And Paige and Aaron seem happy together. A good-looking couple.”
Despite the fact that my dad’s almost as cluelessl
y snobbish as my mom about most things—he once said he couldn’t understand why everyone in Manhattan didn’t just get a driver so the city could get rid of the damn taxis—he’s been developing this sort of jolly-old-man persona over the past few years, at least in social settings. In the office, he’s still the business-minded tyrant I remember from my childhood.
As though reading my mind, he takes a sip of his drink—whisky soda, unless he’s been changing it up lately—and turns to face me. “You haven’t been in the office much.”
I resist the urge to sigh. “I told you, Dad. I just want one summer off. I’ll be spending my entire adulthood at Price Holdings. I don’t want to burn out before I even get started. And I drop by whenever I can.”
I hate that I sound like a whiny little boy, but I mean what I say. I really do want the family company. Someday.
But today I just want … hell, I don’t even know. I don’t remember ever having questioned my path before, but I guess my breakup with Olivia was the catalyst for everything turning upside down.
When we were together, everything felt so mapped out for me. In a good way. Then the relationship fell apart, and I just needed … a break? A change? It’s why I pushed to do the summer class with Martin Holbrook even though I didn’t know the first thing about film.
And it’s why I lied to my parents and told them I had a new girlfriend when I didn’t.
I wasn’t ready to go back to being the old Ethan. The Ethan who was the perfect son, the perfect boyfriend, and the perfect heir to the company.
I guess one could say I’m on vacation.
Stephanie is my vacation. Or something.
My dad finally lets out one of those parent-like sighs. “Fair enough. I forget that you’re only twenty-one sometimes. I suppose everyone deserves a chance to sow their wild oats.”
I mentally congratulate myself for not rolling my eyes at the sheer dad factor of that phrase. “Is that what you think I’m doing this summer? Sowing wild oats?”
Dad shrugs, the ice clinking against his glass. “Your mother seems to think so. Says that this Stephanie girl’s just a bit of fluff you need to get out of your system.”
“Before settling down with Olivia,” I say, not bothering to keep the derision out of my voice.
My dad shrugs again. “Personally, I like Stephanie. Sweet without being sugary, you know?”
I smile a little as I picture the real Stephanie with her goth glower. “She’s definitely not sugary.”
“It’s good to see you happy again,” my dad says.
I pause in the process of scraping the last bit of frosting off my plate with the side of the fork. It’s not a statement I’d expect my father to make. The man’s good-natured enough outside the office but not exactly effusive.
“Yeah, well, breakups tend to be a blow to one’s mood.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m not talking just since the breakup. I’m saying you seem the happiest you’ve been in years.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know what he’s seeing, but that can’t possibly be true. Olivia and I were happy. Enough. I mean, maybe we’d gotten a little comfortable with each other. And perhaps a little more settled than we should have been for being barely twenty-one.
But I was happy.
Wasn’t I?
The stupid girly song ends, and the DJ must be starting to wind down the party for the night, because it’s another slow song.
My dad grunts and sets his empty glass on a nearby tray. “I suppose that’s my cue to go find your mother. She always complains that I never ask her to dance.”
Huh.
My dad finds my mom, who accepts his hand with a reserved little smile as he leads her to the dance floor. I watch them for a moment, wanting—wishing—that I could look at my mom without thinking about that day. That I could go back. Which is stupid, obviously.
I’m so busy watching my parents that I don’t see Stephanie until she’s at my side, her presence surprisingly comforting.
She doesn’t suggest that we dance again, and I don’t either. It’s like there’s an invisible line, and we both know that dancing again would push us across it.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask.
“Hell, yes. My feet are killing me.”
I want to tell her that it’s her own fault for wearing skyscraper heels. It’s like part of some female code that they have to wear the most uncomfortable shoes imaginable and then complain about them.
But I know she’s wearing them for me. That if it were up to her, she’d be wearing her scary black boots and glowering in the corner. Another reminder that none of this is real.
The thought is more depressing than it should be.
“So how’d I do?” she asks after we’ve slipped out a side door into the warm summer night.
“You mean did anybody catch on to the fact that you have major Wiccan tendencies? Nah, I think we’re good.”
“Excellent,” she says with a pleased little smile as she grabs my arm and lets me half support, half drag her along the sidewalk as I keep my eye out for an available cab. “Two down, one more to go.”
I’m not following. “Two of what down?”
“Our Pygmalion adventure. When we started, you said you needed me for three events: dinner with the parents, the wedding, and the party in a couple of weeks.”
“You happy about that?”
“Happy about what?”
“That we only have one more of these shenanigans left before our deal is over?”
She’s quiet for several seconds, and I think she’s not going to answer. Then …
“I’m not sure.”
She sounds as confused and conflicted as I feel. As far as admissions go, it’s not much. It’s probably nothing. But I feel a little surge of happiness at the confession.
“If we don’t find a cab soon, I’m gonna freaking kill someone with the heel of my shoe,” Stephanie says as her gait becomes even wobblier.
I’ve moved before I realize I’m going to, and suddenly Stephanie is in my arms and I’m carrying my fake girlfriend through the Upper West Side as she mutters threats in my ear, and even though my delicate little flower is cursing up a storm, I find myself grinning.
My dad was right.
I am happy.
Chapter Fifteen
Stephanie
“How do we know Martin even knows what he’s talking about?” Ethan asks.
I take a long sip of Diet Coke and try not to roll my eyes. “Well, here’s my way of thinking—and it’s just a hunch—but Martin has a couple of Golden Globes and an Oscar under his belt. For screenwriting. There’s gotta be at least a fifty-fifty chance that he knows his shit.”
Ethan rocks back in his chair and studies me. “Wow, just a couple of hours in your old get-up and you’re back to your old bitchy self.”
His comment stings, and I fiddle with the tab on my soda can so he can’t tell. I wasn’t trying to be bitchy. Maybe that’s my problem. The real me—the one that doesn’t wear sundresses and shimmery eye shadow—is bitchy without trying.
It’s no wonder he likes the fake me a hell of a lot better than the real me.
Although I have to admit that as far as summer clothes go, the fake me’s attire is a hell of a lot more practical. It’s also comfortable. Too comfortable. So I figured it was time to remind myself that it’s not the real me. I pulled on my old cargo pants and tank top today, although I stuck with flip-flops instead of the boots. I didn’t miss Ethan’s double take when I came into the kitchen, but what did he expect? We don’t have any Price family obligations, and we had to go to campus to have Martin Holbrook look over our notes for our screenplay. This is my turf. Surely Ethan didn’t expect me to be wearing freaking pastels.
And besides, I need my old stuff—my battle armor. Things have been getting a little too close between the two of us lately. I want some distance. And judging from the way he’s been snapping at me since the night of his cousin’s wedding and spending all
of his time at his dad’s office, I suspect he does too.
But we can only avoid each other so much, and the clock is ticking on our film project. It’s time to focus on the reason we went down this path in the first place: turning this train wreck into a movie idea.
“I think Professor Holbrook has a point,” I say as I glance down at the scribbles all over our story notes.
“Quit calling him that,” Ethan says as he continues to rock back and forth in his chair like an insolent schoolboy.
“Well, I’m not going to call him Martin,” I snap. “Just because he was your father’s frat brother and is your freaking godfather doesn’t mean he’s anything other than a professor to me. And if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to do well in this class.”
His chair comes back to the floor with a loud click. “All right, all right. Take it easy before you whip out your knife collection.”
“I wish I had a knife collection,” I say under my breath.
“So what was Martin yammering about when he read our notes?” he asks, pulling my notebook toward him. “Something something conflict?”
“Yup. It’s the single most important aspect to a storyline like this one. We don’t have it.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. “We have two complete opposites thrown together pretending to be a couple when they don’t like each other. Bam. Fireworks.”
I snatch the notebook back. “Where exactly is the bam? Holbrook’s right. As of now, we have the two protagonists one hundred percent cooperating in this little venture. They’re both getting something out of it. They’re on the same page. They’ll happily part ways when they’re done. It’s boring.”
Do I feel a little silly talking about the two of us in the third person? Sure. But I have to stay objective. Our little adventure is the basis for the screenplay, but at the end of the day this isn’t about me or Ethan. It’s about the characters. It’s about what would make an interesting film.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
He’s clasping and unclasping his watch, which probably cost more than the house I grew up in, and I resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands and throw it at the wall. I don’t know what is with us these past few days, but we are not in sync. It’s as though that playful evening when he carried me through Central Park was some sort of warning sign that we were on the verge of screwing everything up. And so we’ve both regressed into antagonistic children.
