Faking It

by K. Bromberg

  “I have. I need to understand the person I’m working for. Any smart businessperson would do the same.”

  So much more than just a pretty face . . .

  “And you don’t think I can pull off promoting it because why?”

  “Because this seems to be a game to you. You’ve invested all this time and money in something that according to Robert, the beta test group has raved about and found success with . . . and yet, you seem so clinical and cavalier about it.”

  “Businesses often are clinical.”

  “And that attitude will shine through to the consumer. We could fake a relationship until the cows come home, but if you don’t believe in us or the product, they’ll see right through it.”

  “So your psychic now, are you? Able to see what a disaster I’ll be before I even get started?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong . . . but I’d hate to be right.” She falls silent, and I just stare at her picture on my screen and hate that every part of me knows she’s got a point. Not that I’d ever admit it.

  “That’s such a crock,” I say.

  “We’ll see about that. You know what they say about male pride, Zane?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It comes before every great downfall.” Her laugh fills the line, and it’s all I hear before she ends the connection without another word. But hell if she didn’t just lay down a challenge I have every intention of proving wrong.

  I’ll do the damn promotional tour.

  I’ll make every friggin’ single woman want to be on the platform so they can fall in love. Even the married ones.

  Then I’ll tell her she was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Fucking contests.

  They get me every time.

  “I SNUCK SOME CONDOMS IN your suitcase, mija.”

  “Jesus, Mother. What happened to keeping an aspirin between my knees?” I asked.

  “Sometimes you gotta go for the gusto!”

  “Something is seriously wrong with you,” I said through a laugh.

  “Perhaps, but just like the secret stash of candy I loaded in your backpack, I needed to make sure you were prepared.”

  “There will be food on the bus, you know.”

  “I know.” She shrugged. “But I also know I’m going to miss you and this is my little way of letting you know.”

  I hated that tears burned my eyes, but I knew that if I let them show, she’d be more worried about me than she was already feigning not to be. “I’m going to be perfectly fine.”

  “Of course you are. You’re my girl.”

  “And I’m going to miss you more than you know.”

  “Nonsense. You’re going to have so much fun.” When that dreamy smile of hers ghosted over her lips, I leveled her with a glare.

  “Stop it. Nothing is going to happen. He’s my boss. He’s still a jerk—”

  “A jerk who gave you an incredible job,” she corrected. “Kind of like a prince swooping in to save the day.”

  “Now I’ve heard it all,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “Let’s hope while I’m gone you find a man yourself so you can stop dreaming up fairytales about my life and make them about your own instead.” I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tight. We both sniffled but pretended we didn’t. “It’s just work. That’s all.”

  “It’ll be work, but it’ll be fun.”

  It’ll be work, but it’ll be fun.

  My mom’s words from our conversation earlier today replay in my head as I suck in a deep breath to manage the nerves buzzing through me.

  I can put my body on display in lingerie. Walk a catwalk without flinching or meeting a single person’s eyes. But there is something about the people staring at me—not the clothes I’m tasked with showing off—that make it feel like they’re closer, more real.

  It’s just the first event jitters. Night one and fifty-ish more to go. At least we’re still in Los Angeles. My home turf where there are a few familiar faces out in the crowd—all wondering no doubt when exactly I hooked up and became the girlfriend of Zane Phillips.

  Because with the launch of the ad campaign came curiosity from the public along with the media’s scrutinous attention. How did the entrepreneur and quasi-playboy known for hanging with the Hollywood it crowd suddenly go from single-and- ready-to mingle to smitten and monogamous?

  The audience laughs and brings me back, settling my nerves.

  Time to earn my money and convince those who know me best that I really am in love with him. If I can pull this off, then the rest of the trip will be a breeze.

  “Why is SoulM8 different?” Zane asks the audience before sliding a hand around my waist, pulling me against him, and planting a chaste kiss to the side of my head as if it were the most natural action in the world. “Because it works.”

  A muffled laugh goes through the audience and I fight my own instinct to stiffen when he touches me.

  Play the part, Low.

  “Such a man thing to say,” I say through a chuckle and pat his cheek before turning back to the audience. The theater is a good size but the feel is intimate. I can see the faces of the people in attendance. Men and women alike dressed in business attire, expressions intrigued, body language engaged, hope of finding their soul mate in this hectic world sparkling in their eyes.

  “Would you want me any other way?” Our eyes meet and for the briefest of moments, I acknowledge to myself that I was wrong.

  The man can definitely sell.

  He’s even selling me.

  “Of course not, but we need to explain to these people why it worked. Why it’s different than the other platforms out there promising to find them love. How it could make an unattainable bachelor such as yourself decide to try it in the first place.”

  “Unattainable?” he plays off of me and does so perfectly.

  “Keep the ego in check, Phillips. We need space for the rest of the people in the room.”

  The audience chuckles.

  “She loves me. Can’t you tell?” A playful tap on my ass to continue the ruse.

  “Most days.” I nod with a smile. “Now why don’t you explain to them the why behind your decisions.”

  “Won’t they get bored? I mean, can’t I just show them the site?”

  “They can do that at home, honey. They came out to hear from us.”

  “Can you tell which one of us runs the show?” he says with a shy smile that for the slightest of seconds makes me forget that this is an act. We’re in a room full of people but it feels like it’s just the two of us. “What can I say? She likes to make the rules, and I’m okay with that.”

  “And he likes to fly by the seat of his pants.”

  “But see, we knew this before we ever met face to face. With the groundbreaking AI technology SoulM8 is using, our strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes . . . they were matched up giving us a compatibility ratio that was through the roof.”

  “If that wasn’t a smooth segue, I don’t know what is,” I say with a laugh.

  “You noticed?” he says.

  “I did.” He leans in for a kiss and when he presses his lips to mine, I push against his chest. “Uh, uh, uh.”

  “See?” he says and gives me a shake of his head before turning back to the audience. “We’re already like an old married couple.”

  That garners another chuckle.

  “Why did I give up bachelorhood again?” he asks.

  “Ah, because the reward—me—is so worth it,” I say with a playful curtsey.

  He takes a dramatic deep breath for emphasis. “My queen has spoken. The details.”

  “Yes, they want details on why you think this works.”

  “Well, I’m going to bring up that term I just mentioned a few moments ago. AI or artificial intelligence technology. The use of AI in our matchmaking is what sets SoulM8 apart from other sites. I could go into this long drawn out explanation where I explain mathematical computations that even I don’t understand,” he says as he
walks over to the other side of the stage and takes a sip of water before continuing, “but I’ll spare you the boredom and just say this: our AI matchmakers are programmed to compile your data and your interactions on the site so they can get to know you and in turn, match you with who we hope to be your soul mate.”

  “I know it sounds weird, but I promise you, it works.”

  “It does.” He offers me a soft smile. “And not only does it work, but it . . .”

  I watch him work the crowd. Own them really. I catch Robert’s eye a few times during the presentation, can tell he’s pleased, but it begs me to ask the same thing I’ve asked myself several times. Why does Robert’s investment in SoulM8 matter so much to Zane?

  And why, for a man whose investment portfolio appears to encompass only tangible assets, why would he bet on the one thing you can’t touch—matters of the heart?

  “IT PAINS ME TO ADMIT this . . . but I was wrong.”

  Zane’s drink falters midway to his lips before taking a sip and looking over to me. “I told you I could sell it.”

  I let the sound of my heels clicking on the asphalt fill the silence as I think back to our incredible rapport earlier. “You did.”

  “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about doubting me.”

  My feet falter. There’s something in the way he says the statement—the subtle hint of bite to it—that rubs me the wrong way. Like, how dare I question him when I have every right to.

  Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m being bitchy. Then again maybe his true colors are shining through.

  Let it go, Low.

  “So this is it?” I say more to myself than to anyone else when we walk around the back entrance of the theater to find a large sleeper coach parked. The bus is long, black and sleek with the word SoulM8 larger than life and emblazoned down its side. The tour bus looks out of place in the parking lot, and I take a moment to stare at it almost as if I’m waiting for some rock god to come strolling out any moment.

  “Yes,” Zane says, followed by a sigh and a motion with the drink in his hand. “This, unfortunately, is it.”

  I don’t bother to glance his way. I don’t want my high after the successful night to be ruined by the sudden appearance of his foul mood. Robert’s compliments still ring in my ears along with his voiced disbelief over how he can’t believe another company hasn’t previously snatched me up as their spokesperson, never wanting to let me go. After struggling to be noticed in this career for so long , his praise fills me with the hope that this job just might be my ticket to more opportunities like that. Add to that . . . look at this bus!

  My eyes are wide and I’m showing my lack of experience with this kind of thing when I climb on board and take it all in. Where it’s sleek and cold on the outside, the inside is rich in dark colors and feels homey. It’s loaded with amenities that are nicer than the ones in my house. I run a hand over the arm of the oversized leather couch and take in the entertainment center complete with every electronic I can think of. The kitchenette area has a mini-version of basically everything except for the full size refrigerator. Across from it sits a stocked bar in what I guess you’d call a butler’s pantry.

  Past that is what appears to be a walk-in closet in a pseudo-hallway. I startle when I see my clothes hanging there—side by side with Zane’s starched dress shirts and pressed slacks. Something about the sight of them has me reaching out to touch them, run my fingers over the fabric, almost as if to tell myself that this is real. That I’m going to be on this bus touring with Zane for almost two whole months.

  I move to the back of the bus where I find a master suite of sorts. A bathroom with a full size shower, a workspace where a laptop sits, and then a king size bed.

  It may sound stupid, but I feel like a giddy teenager that this will be my home away from home. It luxurious and comfortable and . . .

  And then it hits me.

  My eyes flash up to meet Zane’s when I wasn’t even aware he was standing there watching me in the first place. His shoulder is leaning against the wall, the top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone, and his tie hangs loose and draped around his neck. But it’s his eyes that are watching me and waiting for it all to register.

  “Yep.” It’s all he says with a slight dip of his chin before he brings the glass of amber liquid to his lips and looks at me over its rim.

  “There’s only one bed,” I state the obvious.

  “Only one.”

  “And there’s two of us.”

  “Brilliant observation.”

  I level him with a look as every part of my body reacts differently to this statement than my head does. My brain? It tells me this can be handled in a rational fashion. We can split time on the couch and the bed and just deal with it. My body? My body remembers the feel of him against me during the presentation tonight and says this is going to be a super long trip.

  Eight weeks.

  That’s a lot of damn time to be stuck in a bus with one man who I’m not quite sure if I like or not.

  My sigh is as heavy as the tension between us. “It’ll be fine,” I say to try and relieve the situation.

  “Fine? That’s what you call this?” Exasperation and irritation edge his voice.

  “It’ll be fine,” I repeat, trying to salvage the good mood I was in over tonight’s events. “

  “Fine would be there being two coaches.”

  “But having two wouldn’t say anything positive about the status of our relationship now would it? A loving couple sleeps together.”

  “Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner,” he says, condescension lacing his tone. He shakes his head before walking past me, body brushing ever so slightly against mine, and sits on the edge of the bed. Our bed.

  “Faking that we’re together can’t be that hard.”

  He snorts derisively in response.

  “Fifteen minutes ago, you were perfectly charming in front of all of those people. Answering questions. Being cordial. You were that for a full three hours to be exact, and wouldn’t you know, it must have struck midnight because you just turned back into jerk-ville.”

  “No one said I had to make nice when we’re not in public.”

  “You’re maddening.”

  “Thank you. It’s something I try to perfect.”

  I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. Technically, this is all his fault. He’s the one who lied about being in a relationship. He’s the one who put this ball into motion.

  But I don’t speak the truth. I actually have to live with the man and as much as I’d like to put him in his place, I don’t because I’m downright exhausted. I can fight this battle in the morning if need be—hell, I have weeks and weeks to—but right now, he’s been drinking and is in a foul mood . . . and I just want to get out of these heels and change my clothes.

  “Robert is going to be the death of me,” he grumbles and then chuckles when he lifts his glass and finds it empty.

  “I can sleep on the couch,” I offer.

  “Great. Perfect. And I’m sure Mick won’t wonder why this new and madly in love couple never appear to sleep in the same place.”

  “Mick?”

  “Our driver.”

  I look over my shoulder to the empty driver’s seat and realize I hadn’t thought about there being someone present for our every conversation. Our every fight. Our every, everything.

  “But he works for you. Can’t you just have him sign whatever those things are that says he can’t talk?”

  “An NDA?” Anger edges every word he utters.

  “Sure.” I lean my back against the wall. “That way Robert never finds out.”

  “Let’s see . . . you work for me, you’ve signed an NDA, and yet you and Robert still chat about everything.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Not the way I see it.”

  “Will you stop being so damn difficult?” I throw my hands up. “I’m nowhere near happy with this arrangement either. I had plans. I had—”
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  “Plans? What were you planning on doing? Knitting a sweater in between appearances?” He stands to full height and in this moment I hate everything about him. The fact that I’m here. The way he looks in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the cuffs. The danger warring in his eyes.

  “Knitting a sweater?”

  “You’re so uptight, I figure you have to do something to unwind.”

  “Uptight?” I laugh, but then it slowly fades off as my synapses fire and the bed behind him comes into clear focus. “That’s what this is all about?” I screech and throw my hands up in the air. “I should’ve known. You’re pissed because with me here—and with one bed—you won’t be able to sleep your way through every city.”

  His chuckle doesn’t hold an ounce of humor. “Sure. Yes. That’s exactly what this is about.”

  “Great. I’ll steer clear of you so you can do whatever it is you do.”

  “Make sure you do that.”

  “I will—”

  The clomping of feet up the steps of the tour bus stops me from finishing my comment.

  “Are we ready to hit the road?”

  I turn to see the owner of the soft southern drawl. He’s short and wide and has a white beard that could rival Santa Claus. His smile is broad and his hand holds a steaming cup of coffee.

  “You must be Mick?” I say as I step forward and shake his free hand.

  “And you must be Harlow. So nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I say.

  “Mate.” Zane greets him from behind me with a slight nod of his head.

  Mick smiles at him and then looks back at me. “I loaded the cupboards with food and put all of your belongings away as well. The gas tank is full and I’m caffeinated. Are you two ready to hit the road and head to Arizona?”

  We both murmur some form of consent as Mick ambles toward the driver’s seat, his humming and jovial spirit nowhere near a reflection of the midnight hour reflected on the clock . Within moments, the engine rumbles to life, the bus vibrating from its force.

  I stand there for a few moments. Watching Mick go through some kind of mental checklist of things he needs to do on the dashboard calms me down some.