by Rachel Kane
All For Show
A Fake Boyfriend Gay Romance
Rachel Kane
Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Kane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design contains elements created by Obsidian Dawn.
Thanks to Declan and Garett for the formatting help!
Contents
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1. Nat Jackson: My Tangled Web
2. Owen Potter: To Impress An Ex
3. Nat: Ground Rules
4. Nat: Back to Square One
5. Owen: A Growing Sense of Concern
6. Nat: Lights, Camera
7. Owen: Action!
8. Nat: Getting To Fake-Know You
9. Owen: Mea Culpas All Around
10. Nat: So Much Apologizing
11. Owen: Lying about Lying
12. Nat: Let’s Ask All The Questions Now
13. Owen: Just Deserts
14. Nat: The Trouble With Being Real
15. Owen: Stay The Night
16. Nat: The Part Where Everything Falls Apart
17. Owen: Truth
18. Nat: Reveal Day
19. Epilogue: Nat And Owen’s New Kitchen
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1
Nat Jackson: My Tangled Web
“This is literally the greatest gift anyone has ever given me,” I said, my voice echoing inside the oven. I had on my thick gloves, and had a handful of steel wool, trying to scrape all the mysterious chunks of charred material from the oven burners. “I mean that. This is the high point of my life.”
My best friend Rhody, her hands also encased in gloves said, “With your head stuck in the oven, I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
I scraped a little more at the burned-on mass. “Maybe a little sarcastic.”
“But it’s a really good idea,” she said.
“You sound much more confident than I feel.”
“That’s because you’re never confident about anything,” she said. As I got my head out of the oven, I saw her scrubbing my counters. “I mean, look at this place. How can you invite anyone over with a kitchen like this?”
“I don’t invite anyone over,” I said.
“That’s just my point. Guys like it when you’re all cute and shy, but I can’t have you crossing the line to actual social phobic, just because you have an awful condo.”
I stripped off my gloves and threw them into the sink. “Are you sure you’re not just doing this because of that girl?”
She scowled at me, but that changed quickly into a sly grin. “Maybe.”
Last week Rhody had called me on the phone all breathless because she’d met a woman who was a producer on one of our favorite shows, Kitchen Miracles. Every week, the show visited a house with an awful kitchen and did a full--and free!--renovation.
“I can’t believe I’m a pawn in your game. A fly caught in your web! You’re trying to inflict my horrible kitchen on the entire country!”
“But that’s what they do!” she said. “The show wouldn’t even be on the air without kitchens like yours.”
I looked around. “But those are nice houses, Rhody. Old Victorians and Tudors and whatever. The kitchens were once nice, then took a bad turn. But here? It’s like whoever built this condo said, Oh, here’s an extra closet, what should we do with it? I know, a kitchen!”
All of my friends knew about The Horrible Kitchen. I’d been griping about it for ages. At first, I had been so proud, getting out of the rental game and buying a place of my own. At the time, I ate most of my meals on the go, so it didn’t occur to me that if I wanted to cook something more complicated than a microwave burrito, I might need room to do that. But once I realized how bad it was--how narrow and dark and old and badly laid out--I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I’d spent a few months being jealous about everyone else’s counters and cabinets and cooktops, until one day when Rhody had come over, we were flipping channels and saw Kitchen Miracles. I was instantly hooked. Suddenly I had all these fantasies of big strapping construction guys coming in, grunting and sweating as they put in refrigerators and butcher blocks and a hood exhaust fan. Still, I’d never worked up the nerve to give the show a call and sign up.
But now Rhody had met the producer, and the show was apparently interested. They’d talked to me for a while on the phone, and they were coming over today to take a look at things. Thus all the frantic scrubbing.
Before I could scrub anything else, the doorbell rang. I froze. “Oh no. It still looks awful.”
Rhody peeled off her gloves and put them in the sink next to mine. “Good. It’ll convince them you need the help.”
I took a second for a deep breath and went to answer the bell.
“Nat?” asked the woman at the door. She was wearing business casual but had a punky undercut with a tattoo just behind her left ear. I saw Rhody giving her a glance. With her was a short guy who stared past me into the condo.
“That’s me,” I said. “You must be Joan?”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said with the sort of polish she must use for all the subjects of the show. “This is Arnold.”
Arnold barely looked up at me long enough to nod, before pushing past me and heading straight for my kitchen. “Awful,” he said. “Perfect.”
Joan laughed. “You’ll have to forgive Arnold.”
“No, he’s right, I hate this kitchen so much!”
“It’s all he ever talks about,” said Rhody. “Nice to see you again, Joan.”
Arnold shook his head. “Cheap laminate counters. These cabinets weren’t hung well--do the doors swing open?”
“I used to think the place was haunted,” I said. “They open up in the middle of the night.”
“This stove is a fire hazard from the 70s. Surprised you haven’t burned the place down.” He started nosing through my cabinets and pantry.
I blinked at Joan. “I guess he gets right to work.”
“That’s a good sign. Arnold is the one who tells us whether a kitchen is salvageable enough to be on the show.”
For all that I was nervous, I felt a little thrill of excitement. Normally when people see my kitchen, they sigh and look depressed. They didn’t have the avid expression Arnold had as he looked under my sink.
“How long will it take you to know whether you can include me on the show?” I asked.
Joan laughed. “I know you’re eager. But as I mentioned on the phone, there’s more to Kitchen Miracles than just the kitchen. There’s the human story. Otherwise, we’d be just another renovation show.”
“I know. I loved the one you did with that Arts and Crafts house, where the couple were on the verge of getting a divorce until they saw what you did with the kitchen--”
“Oh, that was a good one. I think it really showed the power of the show. So what’s your story, Nat Jackson? Everybody’s got one.”
“Me? I’m pretty boring, actually.”
Joan smiled, but there was a tightness to her sm
ile. “Yes. Everyone says that. But we can’t put boring on the air. How long have you two been together?”
I shot Rhody a confused look, and she shook her head and laughed. “I’ve been rescuing his ass since high school, but we’re not together.”
“Oh!” said Joan. “It’s just, from our conversation at the party, I thought--”
“No, no.”
“But you talked about him so much.”
I squinted at Rhody, and she shook her head.
“You see,” she said, “I like girls, and Nat likes loneliness and moping.”
I could feel myself blushing. “I’m single.”
She blinked. “Unmarried? Or...completely single?”
“Yeah, totally single. Just me. All alone.”
Now I was worried, because as soon as I said that, her face fell.
“Is that okay?” I asked.
A little shrug, but now she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Oh, it’s my fault, I should have asked on the phone, I know. It doesn’t totally disqualify you from being on the show. We don’t discriminate. But our viewers do like to see a relationship, I have to be honest with you. And the network wants to give the viewers what they like.”
I found myself looking around the room as though a mate might suddenly appear out of thin air. “But...but I really need a new kitchen.”
“I know.”
“Arnold agrees. Look at him.” I pointed to where he was peeling up a corner of linoleum on the floor near the sink.
“What can I tell you? At its heart, it’s a show about relationships. I am sorry. We’ll keep you in mind, I promise.”
“But...but wait! You’re leaving already?”
Rhody grabbed my arm and whispered, “Damn it, I’m about to lose my shot at Joan, hold on. Hey! Joan!”
The producer turned.
Rhody said, “So...what if he were seeing someone?”
“He just said he was single. All alone.”
“I know, I know, but hypothetically?”
I looked at Rhody. “What are you talking about?” I whispered.
Joan raised one eyebrow. “He’s going to get in a relationship today? Oh, no. You’re not going to fake a relationship to be on TV. It’s the oldest trick in the book!”
“No,” said Rhody, “It’d be great! I mean, not the fake part. You wouldn’t tell anyone that. But, you know, young love, blossoming relationship with all its crazy ups and downs, wouldn’t viewers like that?”
“I can’t believe you’re trying to set me up with a fake boyfriend!” I said. “Everybody’s going to know!”
“Do you want this kitchen fixed or not?” said Rhody. Although I knew what she meant was, Do you want me to have a chance with Joan or not? Still, she had a point. This might be my only shot at getting a renovation done.
Arnold came in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pants. “Joan, I think we can work with this. That kitchen needs help. Lots of good material.”
Joan looked back at me. “It will never work. You can’t fake it in front of the camera.”
“Actors do it all the time,” I said.
“You’re not an actor,” she countered.
“Look, I think this idea is crazy. But I need your help. If it means I can get this awful kitchen replaced, I’ll date anybody.”
“And you’ll make it look convincing?”
I gulped. What would my friends think? What would my parents say?
“Um...yeah,” I said.
Joan sighed. “I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this. But sure. Find a girlfriend or boyfriend--I’m not trying to make assumptions here--and give me a call.” She gave me her card.
After they were gone, Rhody and I stood in the kitchen, staring at its narrow, dimly-lit recesses. “What have you signed me up for?” I asked. “I don’t know anybody who would be my boyfriend. Hell, if I did, I’d already...you know, have a boyfriend.”
“Don’t panic yet,” she said slowly. “I think I know someone who might help.”
2
Owen Potter: To Impress An Ex
When Harris sent his text, I was out on the pier with my feet propped up, Mr. Thurgood in my lap, playing the part of Relaxed Saturday Guy. Mr. Thurgood’s ears stood up when he heard my phone ding. “I don’t think it’s for you, buddy. Very few Boston Terriers get text messages.”
But I groaned when I saw who it was. Harris was my ex. My successful, happy ex. The one I used to introduce as “my boyfriend the neurosurgeon with big hands.” Serene, generous, cultured, amazing in bed. He was the first guy I’d ever met that I considered Too Good For Me. I wasn’t even putting myself down when I thought that. A little while after we broke up, he met this gorgeous sculptor while on holiday in Italy, and now they were happy and perfect, and the worst part of it was, Harris was still friendly. We got together at least once every couple weeks for coffee, and he’d tell me how great his life was, and I’d make something up about how great my life is. Mr. Thurgood would sit there wagging his stub of a tail, happy to be in the presence of such a great blond doctor.
--Owen, HUGE favor to ask you. Huge and weird, said the message.
--Does it require me to go places and do things? I responded. It’s Saturday, you know.
--Yes, I know all about your need to be Relaxed Saturday Guy. Do you know Nat Jackson?
I tried to think. The name was vaguely familiar; I pictured a nervous guy at a party, staying carefully outside any circles of conversation. Possibly wearing a sweater vest, but my mind might’ve been playing tricks on me. Maybe? Isn’t he friends with Rhody? I texted back.
--That’s the one. Anyway, he needs some help, and your name came up.
Ah, that great and grand word, Help. The last time anyone had asked me for help, it was when Cal and Edgar were moving in together and Edgar needed his 5000 couches moved from his old place to Cal’s. I spent an entire day lugging furniture up an endless spiral of stairs. And then they broke up a week later.
--Nah, I texted. Big plans this weekend.
Suddenly, right as I hit the send button, the phone rang. I lifted it to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Dude, don’t bullshit me,” said Harris. “I know your big plans. You’re probably at the pier right now, aren’t you?”
“Uh...”
“You’re going to hang out there until it gets crowded, then you’re going to go to the dog park and check out guys. Then you’re going to pick up lunch at Emperor Panda and feed the snow peas to Mr. Thurgood. Am I close?”
I glanced at my pup. “He’s onto us,” I said.
“Would you just talk to him? Sergio was talking to Rhody this morning--”
“Sergio! How is my sexy Mediterranean replacement?”
“Anyway, she was talking to Sergio, and apparently Nat needs someone to be on TV with him.”
“TV? What? Actual television?”
“Yeah, I didn’t get all the details.”
“This isn’t some kind of amateur porn deal, is it? I’ve got my dignity to protect.”
The laughter over the phone was so loud I had to pull it away from my ear. “I’ve done my moral duty, giving you the message. I’m sending you his contact info now. Do with it what you will.”
I had to admit I was a little bit curious. I was remembering Nat a little better now. You’d see him now and then at people’s apartments, usually hanging out near the bookcases. The sweater-vest was definitely present during colder weather. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had an entire conversation with him, but could recall his nervous laughter. And he was going to be on TV? I couldn’t imagine doing what.
“This could be our brush with fame,” I told Mr. Thurgood.
“Mmph,” sighed the dog.
“You would say that. Just because you feel like you’re beyond all these human concerns, doesn’t mean I have to be.”
The phone dinged again, and now Nat’s number was on the screen. My thumb hovered over it, but hesitated. I had a sudden moment of uncertainty. What was I getting
into, if I called him? Nervous was one thing, but was I about to be dragged into someone’s drama? There was no room for drama in Relaxed Saturday Guy’s life. Besides, I really wanted to get to the dog park to watch all the guys with their mutts.
I sighed and hit the number.
“Wait, let me understand this,” I said. “You need a fake boyfriend so you can be on television?”
Nat nodded. “See, my best friend applied for me to be part of this kitchen makeover show, and…”
We had agreed to meet at Emperor Panda. Or, rather, Nat had suggested The Spaghetti Concern, but I explained that Mr. Thurgood expected his Saturday snow peas. So here we were, at one of the outside tables, me with my moo goo gai pan, and Nat carefully separating his Mongolian beef from its green onions.
As he outlined his absurd plan, I was being distracted by his voice. I hadn’t remembered it being this deep, almost husky. A mellow sound. He should have been a narrator or voice actor. His sleeves were rolled up neatly over his forearms. Those forearms were surprisingly defined, interesting to watch as his hands moved. He still looked pretty stiff and formal, with his hair carefully smoothed down; I wondered what it would look like if someone tousled it out of its current state of dignified repose, and couldn’t help grinning a little at the thought.
“Basically they say they need a ‘human element.’ I don’t make a very good story by myself.” he said.
“Why don’t you just...you know, have a real boyfriend? There are plenty of single guys in town.” I tried to remember any dirt on him that I’d heard. Was he maybe a psycho, living in his grandma’s basement making taxidermy out of his past boyfriends? But I couldn’t remember anything. Strange, that a guy this cute shouldn’t have anyone.