The Act

by Stella Gray

  He was right. I should post more of my professional work on social media, for the whole world to see. But I always hesitated. I worried my life would start revolving around the number of likes and comments I managed to get, and the possibility of getting trolled or harassed.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, trying to deflect.

  “Seriously,” he said, his voice going softer. “What kind of photos would you want to fill your account with? If you knew nobody would judge you?”

  “Hmm,” I said, sipping my drink while I mulled it over. “I think I’d put up photos I’ve done during my off hours. I work with a lot of beautiful models, but I like showing them in a different light. Not just shooting them for the sake of a pretty picture. Some of them have the most incredible bone structure. I like exploring different kinds of beauty, I guess.”

  “I love that,” Andrew said, completely rapt.

  I knew I might be crossing a line, continuing to engage with him—especially since our conversation was moving away from the magazine and work—but I needed the distraction. Andrew wasn’t taking my mind off of Ford entirely, but at least I had something to do.

  After all, my brothers were still busy schmoozing and making contacts with people who might be able to help Danica Rose, leaving me to fend for myself. Or maybe this conversation with Andrew was exactly the kind of networking that Stefan and Luka wanted me to be doing.

  Andrew looked at his watch. We’d been at the bar for a few hours already, talking and nursing our drinks.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting. I’m totally monopolizing you.”

  “Not at all. Would you like to continue this conversation over dinner? My treat.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, telling myself it was still all about business—because it was, right?

  And even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter what Andrew wanted out of it. I was going in a purely professional capacity. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty. Ford going out with Claudia sure as hell hadn’t been business.

  First, though, I needed to get ready and text my brothers to let them know I wouldn’t be meeting back up with them.

  “I should change,” I said. “I’ve been sweating in this wool suit all day.”

  “Good idea,” he said as we paid our tabs. “Let me walk you to your room and I can pick you back up in an hour or so.”

  As we rode up to my floor in the elevator, we talked more about the power of Instagram.

  “People scroll through their feeds so mindlessly now, you have to grab them as quickly as possible,” I said. “Every image has to be its own story.”

  Andrew nodded and I could tell he was listening, but I also knew that he was focused on what would happen at my hotel room door. If I asked him to, he’d probably come right on in. All I had to do was give him a sign that I was interested.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. I hesitated.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  “Right. I’m just at the end of the hall,” I said.

  We headed toward my door, and I could feel a subtle tension building between us. I couldn’t help fantasizing about how different it would be to kiss a man who was actually interested in me. Who wasn’t doing it because of some stupid hoax. Who wanted to kiss me because I was me. Not because I was the solution to some problem he had.

  But even in my fantasy, and even with Andrew right in front of me, when I imagined kissing him, he ended up looking like Ford.

  We reached my room. I slid my keycard into the reader, and the green light blinked. Andrew was lingering just a little too close.

  “I’ll, umm, see you soon?” I said, looking up.

  And that was when he made his move.

  Leaning in, it was obvious he meant to kiss me. Without even asking. Startled, I put my hand on his chest to push him away.

  It was at that exact moment that the door—my hotel room door—opened.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  I turned and found Ford standing in the threshold of my room.

  Had he seriously flown to New York to surprise me?

  Well, I was definitely surprised.

  And I wasn’t the only one.

  Ford

  Chapter 22

  There wasn’t enough time to savor the “I told you so” moment in my head before I realized it was Andrew Homewrecker Apellido who was moving in on my wife.

  Nor was there enough time to fully enjoy the look of total shock and awe on that slimy asshole’s face when he realized what was happening.

  As he stood there in the hallway gawping at me, my fist went flying. Straight for Andrew’s face, and practically of its own accord. It wasn’t even planned. I punched the guy purely on instinct, and damn did it feel good.

  “Ford!” Emzee cried out.

  Andrew staggered back, stunned. “You son of a—”

  He lunged forward to throw his own punch. It hit me square in the jaw.

  Which was unexpected, truth be told. But fun. Because a good fight was exactly what I needed right now.

  “Andrew!” Emzee scolded. “Both of you, stop!”

  Our blood was up, adrenaline pumping. Neither of us paid her any mind.

  Andrew swung again but I twisted out of the way just in time, then delivered my own shot to the gut, which had him gasping. When he threw an elbow, it knocked me backward into the hotel room. He charged in after me like a raging bull, wrapping his arms around my waist and trying to knock me down.

  Instead, I used his momentum to shove him into the desk—a desk I’d spent the last few hours fantasizing about fucking my wife on top of—and then leaned over him to see if he was still conscious. That was when his fist came up and connected with my brow bone.

  I barely registered what was happening. Everything was a blur of pain and triumph as we rolled around on the floor trading blows.

  My frustration and rage, my disappointment, the pressure to succeed and the ever-looming fear of failing—my marriage, my job, my parents, my ex-girlfriend—all my warring emotions and the things in my life that I couldn’t control were boiling over inside me. Fueling me. It didn’t matter that Andrew Apellido himself had little to do with my problems.

  In the background, I could still faintly hear Emzee yelling at us to stop, and I wasn’t entirely sure whose blood was on my shirt, but it wasn’t until Andrew held his hands up and stopped fighting that I finally stopped, too.

  Both of us were panting and disheveled, furniture was upturned, a smear of blood marred the cream and gold pattern of the carpet. My anger was fading, but Andrew had gotten some pretty good shots in. My face throbbed, and every muscle in my body ached.

  “Gentlemen,” a sharp female voice said.

  Our heads swiveled toward the doorway, where the very unamused hotel manager and a few burly security guards were looming.

  “I’ve come to escort you out of my hotel,” she said, sounding for all the world like a harried elementary school principal. “Your transportation to Urgent Care awaits.”

  Andrew held up a hand. “Ma’am, I really don’t think it’s necessary—”

  “Unless you’d prefer I have the police take you there,” the manager finished.

  That was when I started to come back to my senses.

  Behind the manager, I could see into the hallway, where Emzee stood glaring down at me with her arms folded over her chest. Even angry as hell, my wife was beautiful. And even knowing I was in deep shit with her, I couldn’t help smiling a little.

  “To tell you the truth, jail time might be preferable to whatever my wife has in store for me,” I joked as I dragged myself up off the carpet.

  Nobody laughed, and all I saw was a scowl on Emzee’s face as she stepped aside to make way for me and Andrew and the phalanx of guards separating us.

  It wasn’t until all three of us were loaded into the van headed for the Urgent Care—Andrew in the passenger seat, Emzee in the second row, and me in the far ba
ck—that I fully realized exactly what I’d done.

  Beyond the physical fight and all the pain that came with it, I felt a mixture of shame for losing control and regret for upsetting Emzee, who so far had refused to look at me or even acknowledge my presence during the ride.

  Up in the passenger seat, I could make out Andrew holding his wadded-up necktie to his bleeding lip. Looking at him made me realize that I was still angry, too. How dare that douchebag attempt to move in on my girl. I curled my hands into fists and winced as I grasped the fact that I’d fucked up royally as well.

  In fact, the more I examined it, the more obvious it became that I was mostly angry at myself. At the fact that my brilliant plan to win Emzee hadn’t been convincing enough for the rest of the world to see it. I’d told myself that I was going to do whatever it took to make her mine, and this was what had happened. Obviously, my ploy had been fucking useless if someone like Andrew had felt like he could make a move.

  Because he never would have tried to shoot his shot if he didn’t think the basket was open.

  And if I had thought Emzee was mad at me before over the whole Claudia thing, well, that was absolutely nothing compared to how furious she was right now.

  We arrived at Urgent Care and she didn’t even spare me a backward glance before helping Andrew out of the van and walking him inside. When I followed, she spoke to the nurse on call, making sure he knew that both of us needed medical attention, but she avoided my gaze the entire time. Once we were both checked in, she went with Andrew to his exam room and left me to wait for the doctor by myself.

  I couldn’t help wondering if I had really, truly fucked this up for good.

  I’d seen the way she had been caring for Andrew. Maybe this guy was the one she really wanted. Maybe if I hadn’t convinced her to get involved in this whole fake marriage scheme, she would actually be out dating and meeting someone like Andrew.

  After all, what had I done for Emzee?

  All I’d done was lead her further and further along a path she asked not to be on in the first place. Meanwhile, Andrew had already expressed interest in her work and career, offering her a job in a field that she loved. He’d been there for her when she needed to leave Chicago, and he’d even walked her up to her hotel room. That was something I wasn’t always allowed to do.

  The doctor came in, clearing her throat as she flipped through my intake forms.

  “Got into a bit of an altercation, did we?” she said.

  “You should see the other guy,” I joked weakly.

  “Oh, I did,” she said, chuckling as she clicked a small flashlight. “Can you look toward the light, please? Just want to be sure you’re not concussed.”

  After a brief exam, a nurse came in to administer a round of stinging antiseptic and gauze. I was also told that I’d need to get a few stitches above my eye.

  As the doctor began to stitch me up, I realized that I had been a giant, unfair shit when it came to Emzee.

  Our fake marriage had always had an expiration date attached to it. That was the deal. But I hadn’t thought much about what would happen to Emzee after it was all over. I had safety nets and fallback plans. I even had a fucking fallback wife—Claudia—if I wanted one.

  What did Emzee have?

  She’d accused me before of cockblocking her future, which I hadn’t agreed with at the time. Now I could see that in a way, she was right. Despite the fact that things had shifted over the course of our relationship (fake or not), that both of us had changed, I was still acting like it was a given that Emzee saw me as her superior. Her hero. That whatever I needed, whatever I wanted, I could get from her with minimal effort on my part.

  I expected her to be happy just to get crumbs of my attention and affection, the way she had been in high school. I’d even spent half a day flirting with Claudia right in front of her, like a total jackass, not realizing until later what it must have felt like for Emzee to have to see me and my ex together. I’d been so focused on my own shit that I hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences of what I was doing to Emzee and how it was going to affect her—not just now, but even after our marriage was over.

  During the last seven years, I couldn’t remember a time where I hadn’t somehow held her back. Over and over I had proven that I wasn’t listening, that I was only focused on myself and my needs.

  Well. I was done with all of that now.

  It was time to stop standing in her way.

  Emzee

  Chapter 23

  Back in the hotel room, I was so angry I could barely see straight.

  Thanks to Ford, we’d been officially kicked out by the manager, so now we were packing up. I had no idea if Ford was flying back to Chicago right away or not, but my plan was to head to the hotel across the street, where my brother had luckily secured me a last-minute reservation. I’d texted with him and Luka earlier, giving them the least embarrassing version of the “my jealous husband got in a fistfight with Andrew Apellido” story I could manage. They’d been pretty understanding, but I was still humiliated.

  As I stormed out of the bathroom with my toiletry case, I shot Ford a glare. He was brooding, barely speaking or even looking in my direction as he zipped up his laptop bag and set it on his suitcase. He’d been that way since we got back from Urgent Care.

  I was sick and tired of it.

  It was bad enough that I felt guilty for spending the day with Andrew, even though we’d done nothing wrong. Having Ford sulk around like he thought I owed him an apology was just icing on the cake. I wasn’t the one responsible for our current plight.

  We’d just spent several long hours at a walk-in clinic, where poor Andrew got stitches in his lip, a splint for a broken finger, and was checked for a concussion. The whole time I’d been sitting with him, I couldn’t stop apologizing for what had happened. Ford had really gone off the deep end—he should be grateful Andrew wasn’t pressing charges.

  Part of me couldn’t deny that there was something hot (in a primal, caveman-like way) about Ford trying to defend my honor…but that didn’t change the fact that the violence had been completely unnecessary. And stupidly bloody. I had already rejected Andrew’s kiss, which my husband would have known if he hadn’t just flung open the door, jumped to conclusions, and sucker punched the guy in the face. If he had stopped for one moment and given me a chance to explain, we could have avoided the whole thing.

  So yeah. Ford was the one at fault. I didn’t need him acting like I was the guilty party.

  What the hell was he even doing in New York to begin with? Did he really not trust me at a business conference with my brothers? The irony was, I never would have left Chicago, wouldn’t have even come to this convention, wouldn’t have run into Andrew at all, if Ford hadn’t ditched me to go out with Claudia and their old crew.

  Sinking onto the bed, I looked at my husband. “I’m going to the hotel across the street. Stefan got me a room there. Are you coming?”

  Wordlessly, he nodded. We made the trek in silence.

  By the time I had checked in and we had taken the elevator up and dropped our bags down in the new room, I couldn’t take the tension between us any longer. As he started unpacking his work bag on the desk, I waited for him to say something. Anything. To apologize, or at least explain himself. But no.

  When he was done, he sat down in the desk chair and rotated to face me. Still saying nothing. Like he expected me to apologize.

  Filled with resentment, I exploded.

  “Okay, what is your problem? Is this about our marriage? Is it because I was on my way to a business dinner with Andrew? How is any of this fair? You’re the one who roped me into this whole charade to begin with. First it was fake dating, then it was a fake engagement, and now it’s a fake marriage. Except, surprise! We’re really married now. And all because you didn’t want to deal with your parents pushing you to marry Claudia—”

  “Emzee—” he interrupted, slumped in the desk chair.

  “No! I’m sp
eaking!” I interrupted right back. “You acted like it was do or die trying to get away from your ex, but then you let her flirt with you in front of me for an entire day—which you knew I didn’t like but which you were clearly enjoying—and then you left me and went out with her.

  “So yes, I came here to this convention. To remind myself that I’m my own person, and to maybe try to figure out what I’m going to do with my life after our divorce. But then you just pop up out of nowhere to sabotage me and punch my potential future employer in the face! And now you’re the broody one? Really? Ha!

  “I should be the one pouting and slamming closet doors and refusing to look you in the eye, not the other way around.”

  Losing steam, I finally stopped yelling and stalked over to the window. The lights of New York did nothing to calm me.

  “You have every right to be upset,” Ford said quietly, having the nerve to sound remorseful. Or maybe it was a ploy for sympathy. “I just want—”

  I was furious all over again, and nowhere near ready to hear his side.

  “No, Ford,” I said, whirling around to face him. “You know what your problem is? It’s that you have no idea what you want. You’re trying to keep all of your own options open, while ensuring that no one else has any other option but you. I can see right through you.”

  Stopping to catch my breath, I pushed away the feelings of tenderness I felt when I looked at my husband’s stitched-up eyebrow and gauze-wrapped knuckles. I knew he’d be hurting tomorrow, but I told myself he had more than earned his bruises. Ford’s injuries were Ford’s fault. He had left Andrew far worse, and deserved whatever pain he got.

  “I know what I want,” he muttered.

  “Oh really,” I scoffed, still burning up. “Tell me something, Ford. Why did you even come here?”

  Despite my confrontational tone, my bravado, my anger, all of it—I was scared to hear his reply. I wanted to know the answer, yes, but I was also afraid that I already knew what it was.