The Pretending Plot (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  “Tell me, Josie,” I said, looking up to meet the green-eyed gaze of the shop owner, a woman I had grown friendly with recently since Sunshine Bakery had become my top source when I wanted to thank a colleague, contact, or friend, or just didn’t want to show up empty-handed. “Candy sushi . . . Is that as decadent as it sounds?”

  Josie smiled brightly as she tucked a strand of pink-tipped brown hair behind her ear. “Decadent, delicious, and divine.”

  A male voice chimed in. “Don’t undersell it, Josie. Tell her the truth. They’re orgasmic.”

  I turned toward the man, and oh my . . . He was quite a specimen. Tall, dark hair, hazel eyes, chiseled jaw. What a shame I had just cast Overnight Shift, or I’d hire him immediately to play a sexy doctor. But judging from the scrubs he wore, he might already play that role in real life.

  “Orgasmic, you say? That’s quite an endorsement,” I said. The conversation at least steered my mind away from the man I shouldn’t, couldn’t be buying a treat for.

  Sexy Doctor tapped his chest. “I speak the truth when it comes to Josie’s treats.”

  “He taste-tested them for me before I added them to the specials list,” Josie said, then she called out to the handsome doctor. “Thanks for saying orgasmic in front of my customer, Chase.”

  I laughed. Josie knew I wouldn’t be bothered in the least by that word.

  He pretended to be aghast. “So sorry for my dirty mouth.”

  His gaze stayed on the pretty baker, and I made a mental note to ask Josie the next time I came to the shop what was up with her and the sexy man in the scrubs. There was some kind of energy working between the two of them, clear as day as he chatted with us while Josie boxed up the treats. Did Reeve and I have that kind of energy?

  Well, for show, of course. That’s the only reason I was wondering as much.

  As I said goodbye and went to drop off the gift, I turned my brain away from other potential lovers and onto my very own date tonight.

  I applied mascara, the finishing touch for tonight. I’d always believed that it was the vitamin of makeup, the most essential one, and one should never leave the house without it.

  “Right, my lovely Artful Dodger. You agree, don’t you?”

  I stroked my Chihuahua/Min Pin between the ears, and he looked up at me lovingly with those big wet eyes that always melted me. “Oh, you are my sweet, aren’t you?”

  The Artful Dodger was sitting on the vanity in my bathroom, as he often did. He had bathroom counter privileges, but only when I was applying makeup. I put the mascara wand away, brushed one hand against the other, and declared, “That’s that.”

  Then I scooped up my nine-pound fur baby, brought him to my bedroom and deposited him gently on the burnished gold comforter.

  I stepped back and held out my arms. “What do you think, sweetheart? I’m going for dramatic but not theatrical. Even though I will be acting the part of a fiancée.” The slinky gray dress hugged my hips, and I wore it with knee-high black boots and a silky red wrap thrown over my shoulders. The Artful Dodger yawned, turned in a circle twice, and curled up in a furry donut on the comforter.

  “I’m not going to take the yawn as editorial,” I told him. “I’m nervy enough as it is. My look is at least one thing I don’t have to worry about.”

  I had the tickets in a small clutch purse, and as I grabbed the purse from the bed and took one last look in the mirror, I thought about the dressing room yesterday. Reeve kissed like he’d been custom-made for kissing me. I’d always wanted to be drowned in kisses, and his lips traveling over my neck, raising gooseflesh, making my insides quiver . . . I wanted him, and that was no act.

  He’d seemed to want me too. He seemed to radiate hunger for me. But that’s why I’d hired him—to seem to want me. I’d enlisted him to play a part, and he was playing it so well, it was easy to buy into the performance—to never question that the kiss was legit.

  Even when I questioned it, there was a tiny voice that pointed out, why should he pretend with no audience?

  I sighed, adjusted my wrap, and bent down to kiss my dog on his soft brown fur. “At least I know you’ll always be here for me, my love.”

  I needn’t worry about messy things like a bloom of feelings for a pretend boyfriend. The Artful Dodger licked my hand once and curled into a tighter dog-ball.

  Reeve and I had arrived at the theater minutes apart from each other. We went in together, easily finding the box. The Pinkertons were already there, Janelle with her hair slicked back in that tight-as-a-ballerina-bun and Johnathan looked admittedly nice in a custom suit. He rose and greeted me warmly. There was nothing unprofessional about it, but I was aware, even if he wasn’t, of Janelle watching for him to put a toe out of line.

  Though, from the frown he gave her as he stepped back, he read her perfectly well.

  “How lovely that you could join us,” Janelle said, giving me air kisses on each cheek. Maybe she transformed after dark, because she seemed almost human. “And what a pleasure to see Mr. Larkin again. Reeve, please meet my husband.”

  Reeve shook hands with Johnathan, and they exchanged hellos. If Reeve was nervous to meet a producer with the power to make or break an actor’s career, he gave no sign of nerves. In fact, he segued quickly into discussing golf, at first surprising me, because I never would have taken him for a golfer, and then impressing me, because I realized he’d done his research too. He was truly convincing as he conversed with Johnathan on the best type of golf swing.

  “Looks like they’re old chums,” I said to Janelle with a smile.

  She gave a put-upon sigh. “Are you destined to be a golf-widow as well, or is Reeve just a quick study?”

  I was prepared for any question about our relationship, but not about golf. Whatever my face did, it made Janelle smirk, and my heart sank. “Please,” she said. “You pretended admirably, but I can tell Reeve is the actor—I actually can’t tell if he likes golf or not.”

  “I . . . uh . . .” I had no words. No words that weren’t full of panic. If I gave the game away on such a minor detail, how was I going to maintain the fiction of the fiancé?

  Another sigh from Janelle as a pretty usher with a perky figure walked by and Johnathan’s eyes followed her. “There are worse things than golf he could be doing. Something to keep in mind.”

  I remained speechless.

  But she was taking care of business.

  “Johnathan,” she said sharply, sounding exactly like I did when I called The Artful Dodger to heel when he was misbehaving (which was never). So sharply that all three of us jumped.

  Conversation about golf and anything else stopped, and Johnathan looked like—well, he looked like The Artful Dodger when called out for misbehaving. Reeve and I floundered at the edge on this awkward conversational sinkhole that just opened up in front of us while the Pinkerton couple had another one of their subtextual conversations.

  Flummoxed, Reeve looked at me, and I shrugged helplessly.

  Quick, quick, think of something, anything, to fill the dead air. The weather? The Pinkertons had a Siamese cat named Archibald. Perhaps, I should chat about pets? Pets? Who didn’t like to talk about their pets?

  But Reeve spoke, asking if they’d seen an Oscar winner performing in a play at the Eugene O’Neill theater last week. “He was as amazing as the critics say,” Reeve added.

  Janelle relinquished her sharp-eyed stare and turned to Reeve. “Frankly, I don’t often care for big movie stars in Broadway plays. But he is the exception. A rare breed who can handle theater and film.”

  Reeve nodded thoughtfully. “I hear you. It can be a little distracting with movie stars, but then, he’s one of a kind. What about you, Mr. Pinkerton? What else have you been to?”

  They all chatted for a few minutes about the theater, and I was relieved that Johnathan’s wayward glance hadn’t unraveled the night completely.

  “And what do you do, Reeve? Forgive me for not asking when we first met yesterday,” Janelle said
.

  “I’m an actor,” he said, with a touch of pride.

  “How marvelous,” Mr. Pinkerton chimed in. “And how did you two meet?”

  It was a natural question, and we’d prepared for it, but I still felt like a jangly mess of nerves. Was Janelle onto us? Was that why she was here? To check the details of the engagement for consistency?

  “On the job,” Reeve answered. “Sut cast me in It’s Raining Men, and the day of the premiere, I asked her out. I couldn’t resist. She was smart, and she was beautiful, and that was all it took. I’ve only had eyes for her since then.”

  Reeve looked at me, his brown eyes were so warm and true—they seemed to speak all the things he was saying, as if his words came genuinely from his heart.

  “And the wedding is when?”

  There was a lag while Janelle’s question went from my ear to my brain and went roundabout once or twice until memory tapped me on the shoulder and said she was talking to me. Even then, I just blinked, my mouth going dry as Janelle frowned at me. My boardroom confidence had packed its bags and gone on holiday. But I couldn’t help feeling that Janelle knew I lied and was trying to catch me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so at sea if I could better read the woman. Or read her at all—one minute the woman was generous and warm, the next she was the ice queen. If she’d just settle on one or the other, I didn’t entirely care which it was.

  Once again, Reeve threw me a lifeline. Clasping my hand tightly in his, he told Janelle, “May. One year after our first date. I was ready to elope, but Sut insisted we have a real wedding, and we were lucky enough to reserve the sculpture garden at MoMA. A late Sunday afternoon was all they had, but we weren’t going to let that opportunity pass. It was one of our first dates.”

  Janelle immediately seemed to soften. Maybe she simply liked Reeve better than she liked me. Sexism emerged in the oddest ways. That Janelle was another of our outnumbered gender in the industry didn’t preclude her from freezing out the woman—which was to say the descendant of Eve and tempter of husbands—and warming to a gorgeous young man.

  Not only because of his looks. Reeve was unnervingly adept at playing this woman. Perhaps all women. I hated that thought even though I benefited now from the way he spun a tale and soon had the tightly wound producer’s wife eating out of his palm. Soon, she was chattering about MoMA and her favorite artists, and Reeve was telling her how we flirted in front of an Edward Hopper painting, and Johnathan was looking only at his wife, and Janelle was beaming, and I felt like I could breathe again.

  This man—this young, delicious man—was saving the day. I looked up at Reeve, he was easily a good six inches taller, and I felt a rush of affection for him, a surge of gratitude. Impulsively, I stretched to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He looked at me and shot a quick smile. I might have even seen him blush.

  He gestured to the seats, letting the ladies sit first. He sat between us, with Johnathan by Janelle’s side. Then I felt Reeve’s warm hand and glanced down to see him loop his long, strong fingers through mine and squeeze. It was tender and comforting, and it was exactly what I needed. I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. That was odd. I was never the cuddly type, except when it came to my darling dog.

  Soon, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and the play began. I sat up straight and focused on the stage, but Reeve kept his fingers linked through mine. As the characters argued about who’d forgotten to do the laundry on time, Reeve began stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. Light, fluid lines. From my wrist to the edge of my fingers.

  It was soft, and it was sweet, and most of all, it was caring. I closed my eyes, giving in to the way his touch felt. It was a caress, a promise. He drew soft little zigzags across my palm, lazy lines that told stories of the two of us, of the things we’d done, the times we’d had, the love we’d shared. Or so it felt as he crept casually past my barriers, his touch making me believe in the fiction of us. Soon, his fingers were tracing the inside of my wrist, then the soft skin on my arm, and then, as all the words spoken from on stage became a distant faraway sound to me, he moved closer, planting a tender, soft kiss on my jawline.

  10

  Reeve

  As I pressed my lips to Sutton’s, I couldn’t help but notice Janelle sneaking peeks at us, all while her husband focused on the stage like his life depended on it. Why was she watching us now? To appraise the relationship, or for some other reason? Well, I’d been hired for a mission, and I was going to do whatever it took to remove any doubt that Sutton and I were together.

  Of course, I didn’t mind kissing Sutton. I didn’t mind touching her.

  Those were both criminal understatements. I relished kissing Sutton, and I loved the way she responded.

  Janelle distracted me again by leaning over to her husband and murmuring his name. He snapped his gaze toward her with a different kind of guilt than before—the “I wasn’t doing anything this time” look. Closely related to the “What now?” look.

  His wife tipped her head toward the exit from the box. He glared his refusal, and she side-eyed a threat. It was almost more engrossing than the play.

  Well, no sense in being polite. It was much more interesting than the play. When Sutton told me that her contract could ride on something like whether she had a fiancé or not, I thought she was exaggerating. I’d heard the gossip about the Pinkertons too, but theater people were dramatic by definition. But holy crap.

  It said something about their success as producers that people still wanted to work with them.

  Johnathan sneezed, then coughed, then cleared his throat in rapid succession. As someone who’d been trained to do those three things on cue—sometimes, an actor had to sneeze, cough, or clear his throat—I could tell Johnathan was faking it. The man rose, muttered an embarrassed “excuse me,” and exited the box.

  Janelle grabbed her purse and leaned over to whisper, “Please excuse us, won’t you? We’ll see you Friday night.” With a smile I didn’t quite know how to interpret, she added, “There’s nothing like watching from the privacy of your own box. So do enjoy the rest of the play, you two.”

  Then she was gone.

  Sutton and I stared at their empty seats. “What was that about? They both left?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Maybe they didn’t care for the play?”

  Those two were dysfunctional with a capital D. Tonight’s show was a triple feature—the play on stage, the fake fiancé act Sutton and I were putting on, and whatever drama had been happening with the Pinkertons.

  I had a part in only one of these, and it deserved my attention. So I layered another kiss below Sutton’s earlobe, hearing the breathiest little whisper escape her throat. There was nothing fake about that sound, and I forgot about the Pinkertons and their strange habits, as I found myself drawn back to Sutton’s neck, brushing her with another kiss.

  Sutton looked at the stage, as if she were enrapt in the acting, and I could have gone back to watching the play. But I’d lost track of whatever the characters were up in arms about, and I didn’t really care in the first place. I was much more interested in this woman beside me, in the way she seemed to respond to my touch. I hadn’t expected it, but I sure as hell liked the way she seemed to want my hands on her, from the kiss in the dressing room, to now in the theater.

  As far as I could tell, there was no reason for me to stop touching Sutton. We were both having a good time, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  I brushed a long strand of her hair behind her ear. She shivered, and I loved the way the littlest thing elicited a reaction from her. I bet she’d be a tiger in bed, clawing and moaning, and screaming my name. Damn, I was even more aroused now, picturing the way she must make love, with a sort of fearless abandon. “Do you like the play?”

  She swallowed and nodded once. “Very much so.”

  I glanced back at the entrance to the box seats. The Pinkertons seemed long gone, there weren’t any other ushers nearby, and the closest patrons wer
e in the next box over, a low wall between us. So I went for it. I placed one hand on her opposite cheek and shifted her face toward me, then moved my other hand to her thigh. She looked at me, and even in the dark of the theater, I could read those blue eyes, I could tell they were trying so hard to resist, but yet not wanting to resist in the least. Hell, I didn’t either. I moved my thumb along her cheek, tracing a line to her mouth then over her lower lip, when she nipped playfully at the pad of my thumb. I smiled in the dark as I outlined her mouth, then moved down to her neck, memorizing the feel of her throat, the heat from her skin, the way her body seemed to pulse toward me with every touch. Every subtle motion said, “kiss me,” and so I took the liberty to do just that.

  It was the barest of kisses, the kind that comes at the beginning of something.

  As I savored the cherry taste of her mouth, I played with the top of her stockings, slipping a finger along the band that held them in place. Sutton seemed to like me there. She opened her legs the smallest amount, an invitation to explore. I splayed my hand across the top of her thigh, being careful to make sure her dress covered my hand. She bit down on her lip as I inched higher. Another cue. Another sign. I moved closer, sliding my fingers to her panties and pressing against her. There. Between her legs. Where she was already damp beyond words. You couldn’t fake that kind of arousal.

  And I saw no need to fake my desire. I needed to touch her. Needed it now.

  “Can I touch you?” I whispered.

  “Please do,” she said, and I knew she was aching too, burning with the need to be touched, to feel some kind of release. I slipped my hand into her panties, and she groaned under her breath, leaning her head back. As I stroked her, I imagined her spread out across the chair, arms thrown back, neck long and inviting, legs wide open as I tasted her. God, I wanted to bury my mouth between her thighs, to smell her, inhale her, run a tongue across all that wetness. I wanted to breathe her in and kiss her deeply. She was a feast of a woman; the slightest touch seemed to turn her on, as if she was ready to go at any moment, a live wire, just needing the combustion to set her off.