by Lizzie Shane
She looked up at the deep voice. Cross stood in the doorway, his brown eyes concerned.
“Yeah, of course,” she assured him, unsure whether she was speaking as herself or as Maggie. He’d been distant since Mel scolded them. Professional and reserved. She wanted to tell him that she hadn’t been flirting with intent—but Mel appeared in the doorway before she could make her tired tongue form the words she needed.
“Everything all right here?” Mel shot Cross a pointed those-are-not-the-rumors-we-want-to-start look, shooing him back to his seat, and stepped into the bedroom, sliding the door shut behind her.
Mel had kept everything running smoothly, like a well-oiled machine, and Bree wondered how the real Maggie was doing now that she only had Mel’s silent assistant to see to the details of her life.
“Did the other group make it to their destination okay?”
Mel narrowed her eyes. “We aren’t going to talk about that. You need to focus on the here and now.” Her frown intensified. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What?” Bree blinked, startled by the sharp question.
“You haven’t said two words since we left the house. You know that isn’t Maggie. She hates silence.”
“I know…I just…what if I say the wrong thing?”
Mel frowned, unimpressed by her nerves. “You’re Maggie Tate. Nothing you say is the wrong thing. Everyone you meet wants to please you. They are nervous to meet you. And they won’t be looking for anything other than what they want to see.”
“And what’s that?”
“A movie star. And movie stars are never nervous.”
She laughed shortly. “Wanna bet?”
“You need to own it. If you can’t commit then we may as well stay home. Can you do this or not?”
Bree swallowed down a rush of nerves that rose up at Mel’s question. Part of her desperately wanted to just say no and retreat back home, but then she remembered Maggie’s face. Her effervescent smile. Her sheer joy at the idea of marrying Demarco without the rest of the world looking on. Didn’t she deserve that just as much as the next person? And hadn’t Bree promised to help her with that?
Not to mention the money.
“I can own it,” she promised, stiffening her spine.
“Good.” Mel opened her satchel and whipped out her tablet. “I made this for you to study. Don’t worry. You’ve done this before. You’re going to be great. I’ll tell Kaydee you aren’t feeling well and keep her out of your hair until we land.” She snorted. “Hell, if we’re lucky we might even get a pregnancy rumor out of it.”
Pep talk complete, Mel set the tablet on the bed beside Bree and stepped out of the small room, closing the door behind her. The engines fired up and Cecil Two immediately resumed his shrill baying. Her headache throbbed. If Cecil Two made that unholy noise the entire flight, she wouldn’t have to worry about having a dog as a prop on the island—she would smother him.
Bree reached into the carrier to lift Cecil Two out, but it was like trying to hold a furry eel, all wriggling and slippery and he shattered her eardrums with a series of pained yelps as if she was torturing him when she finally got her hands on him and lifted him out. His tiny claws scrabbled frantically at her arms, leaving pink grooves in her skin, and she hissed out a curse, dropping him onto the bed. The spaniel was off like a shot, leaping to the floor and darting around the bedroom to sniff everything, his entire little body shimmying with excitement—but at least he was being quiet. He could run to his little heart’s content if he stopped making that ungodly noise.
The plane began to move, taxiing toward take off, and her instincts urged her to buckle in or at least locate the nearest emergency exit, but stars apparently played by different rules. Cecil yipped nervously, scrambling back up on the bed and onto her lap. She soothed the wriggling mass of puppy as the plane lifted smoothly into the air, the force barely pressing her down on the bed.
The tablet began to slide and she caught it with one hand, the other bracing Cecil in place. Scooting farther onto the bed, she glanced at what Mel had left her. The tablet was paused on a video of Maggie on a late night television show.
She hit play and listened to the rise and fall of Maggie’s voice, her bright, sweet laugh. This was what people were expecting of her. This was what she had to give them. Bree settled in to watch with Cecil tucked against her side.
*
“How is she?”
Kaydee glanced up, also listening for Mel’s answer to Cross’s question as the manager sank onto one of the leather captain’s chairs. “She’s fine. Just a little under the weather.”
Kaydee started to get up. “Should I—?”
Mel waved her back to her chair. “She just wants to rest. I’ll check on her in a bit.”
Cross glanced past Mel’s shoulder to the closed door behind her, wondering if Bree was really ill or if the “sickness” was for Kaydee’s benefit. He didn’t like knowing there was someone in the entourage they didn’t entirely trust.
It went against the grain for him to pretend he was securing the client without actually protecting her privacy but that was the name of the game this time. A carefully constructed farce, complete with a decoy dog. Which sounded insane, but he’d seen how far the paparazzi would go for that shot.
He’d had his own little flirtation with fame as a professional athlete, but it hadn’t been in the same league. Most people hadn’t recognized him, even when he was at the top of his game. He was a ball player, not a personality. His wife had wanted him to be showier, to make a name for himself and stand out beyond his actions on the field, but he’d never wanted that. He couldn’t imagine seeking out the lack of privacy that true celebrities had.
Now Bree was at the center of that hurricane of attention. It was only natural that he would feel protective of her. This urge to check on her was normal. Professional. She was the client—sort of. It wasn’t personal. It was the job.
And if he was a little more interested than he should be, he blamed Candy. He’d guarded the decoy before and he’d always marveled at how perfectly she pulled off the act, but Candy’s words from yesterday had burrowed into his brain and now he couldn’t seem to stop wondering about the woman behind the Maggie act.
She’d seemed nervous when she got on the plane. Vulnerable.
His gaze went to the bedroom door, but Mel caught him looking and glared until he returned his attention to familiarizing himself with the security of the villa where they would be staying. Best not to think about Bree. He had a job to do.
*
Bree jerked awake, one hand flung out in an attempt to brace herself as the bed jolted beneath her. Disorientation swamped her as her gaze darted around the unfamiliar space—until the bed shuddered again and she remembered where she was. Forty thousand feet in the air, shaken awake by turbulence, inside the insane bubble of Maggie Tate’s life.
She must have fallen asleep while watching her Maggie tutorial videos. Groggily, she scrubbed the sleep from eyes that itched from the turquoise contacts and swiped at her chin. Did movie stars drool when they slept? Somehow she doubted it.
She sat up, searching the compartment for Cecil Two, her stomach clenching when she realized someone must have opened the door to let him out at some point. Someone who would have seen her sleeping. Had it been Kaydee? Had she already messed things up by not sleeping like Maggie?
The weight of everything she was trying to do pressed on her stomach, the absoluteness of it. She couldn’t let her guard down, even to sleep.
There was no clock in the room—not that she would have known what time zone they were in or what time they were supposed to arrive if there had been. She glanced out the window, trying to get her bearings and figure out how deep they were into the seven hour flight, but her gaze caught on the view outside, the sun painting the tops of the clouds.
She hadn’t been able to bring her camera.
The luggage was all Maggie’s. Maggie’s clothes. Maggie’s wallet. Mag
gie’s dog. The only thing she had of her own was her cell phone—and she only had that because it looked exactly like Maggie’s—and while the cameras on phones may be getting better all the time, they still left something to be desired.
She wanted that shot. The clouds out the window seemed to be speaking to her, somehow perfectly encapsulating the surreal reality of this moment, flying high above the world she normally saw, luxury at forty thousand feet, seeing life through Maggie Tate’s eyes. A beauty that was impossible to touch, turning to vapor when you got too close.
But even if she took the shot, it probably wouldn’t say what she wanted it to say.
How could she explain to the Olivia Hwangs of the world that it wasn’t that she had nothing to say, it wasn’t that she lacked a perspective, it was that she never seemed to be able to break through that barrier that stopped her from being able to execute her vision perfectly so that it said what she needed it to say.
Was that why she wasn’t an artist? That frustrating disconnect between what she wanted to say and what was actually said? Like struggling to find the right words when she was exhausted and her entire vocabulary seemed to have slipped out of her brain.
She wasn’t sure how long she stared out the window, lost in her thoughts, before Mel knocked on the door and poked her head inside. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
The dog slipped through the opening, scurrying over to the bed and popping up on his hind legs, his little front paws braced on her thigh. She scooped him up as she’d seen Maggie do a thousand times, and crooned to him wordlessly, which he seemed to like this time since he settled down, a soft, furry weight in her lap. He was sort of sweet, Cecil Two. When he wasn’t making that hideous dying seal noise.
Mel stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. She produced a comb from her Mary Poppins satchel of All The Things and matter-of-factly strode over to fix Bree’s bedhead. “We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes,” she explained as she gently tucked and tugged at Bree’s hair. “A helicopter is meeting the plane which will take us to the resort’s private island. Right on schedule.”
“Do we know anything about the others?” If she knew this was working, if she knew Maggie was getting her dream wedding, then maybe it wouldn’t be quite so hard to focus on doing what she needed to do.
“Don’t you worry about the others. Your focus is here.” Mel tucked away the comb and considered her work with a satisfied nod. “We’ll see you in twenty.”
And with that she left Bree alone again with her doubts—for twenty minutes that passed in a blink. Probably because she wanted time to move slowly, dreading their arrival when she had to sell the lie.
How was she going to do this?
After the plane’s wheels touched down, she settled Cecil back into his carrier and tucked the tablet with her Maggie primer into the purse that probably cost more than a month of rent for her. When the plane stopped moving, she opened the door into a bustle of activity. Cross was already halfway out the jetway door, seeing to whatever needed seeing to, securitywise. Kaydee relieved her of Cecil’s carrier, moving quickly after Cross, and Mel stood with her satchel over one shoulder, sending Bree a questioning glance.
“Ready?”
“Any tips?” she asked under her breath, though they were alone in the cabin.
Mel gave a droll look that was somehow encouraging. “Own it.”
Bree took a deep breath, hoping her nerves weren’t visible beneath the hat and sunglasses. “Right.”
The helicopter waited to whisk them to the tiny island resort that was their final destination, but she couldn’t tell anyone it was her first time on one or even act like she enjoyed it without blowing her Maggie cover. Maggie, who had been on so many helicopters they were as boring to her as limousines.
She was going to screw this up somehow.
Then not only would she not get the money, she’d destroy her chance of ever working for Maggie again—and for the last couple years, the jobs with Maggie were the only thing keeping her financially afloat.
When she’d first moved into her Mar Vista apartment, there had been five of them sharing the two bedroom space. A cabal of starving artists, living off Ramen noodles and ambition.
It had been heady. Even being broke had felt like a magical dream back then. But over the years, her roommates had gradually moved on and moved out—getting their own apartments and jobs with benefit packages—while Bree stayed in the same place, both literally and figuratively, clinging to the dream of being an artist and always on the verge of going broke.
Andi had been a good roommate—always paying her rent on time and understanding Bree’s tendency to get sucked into her art for days at a time—but it had been almost six months since Andi had moved on and Bree still hadn’t gotten another roommate. Or four. Though the idea of living without personal space was much less appealing now than it had been when she was twenty-two.
Was she too old for this? Was she just another dreamer who’d wanted to be an artist until reality kicked in?
Her mother told her she should be proud of herself, that most people never even tried to chase their dreams—but it was always a preface to “and now you can come home” which lessened the feeling of pride it inspired. As if she was bound to grow up and stop fooling herself at some point and everyone in her life was just waiting to see when it would happen.
But who was she if she wasn’t an artist? She couldn’t exactly be Maggie Tate for the rest of her life. Even if she did somehow manage to get through the next three weeks without screwing things up. Was she just resisting her inevitable future as a graphic designer and mall Santa photographer?
Andi had suggested that she could move to a cheaper apartment—a one bedroom in a part of town that wasn’t so location-pricey—but Bree knew that would be the first domino falling. As soon as she stepped away from Venice Beach and Santa Monica and the creative fuel her soul got in those artistic communities, it would be a tumble downhill away from her dreams until she landed back in Clement again. She would know she’d given up.
But if she could make people believe she was Maggie for the next three weeks, she could buy herself another two years in Venice. Two years to focus on her art and make it happen. And if, at the end of two years, she still couldn’t hack it, she would know she’d done all she could.
Provided she could sell the lie.
The pilots were lined up on the tarmac at the base of the stairs, like soldiers awaiting inspection. She half-expected them to salute, but when her foot hit the ground the pilot simply said, “Always a pleasure flying you, Ms. Tate.”
“Thank you. Magnificent as ever, gentlemen,” she declared with a breezy smile as Cross fell into place beside her, putting a hand on her back to steer her toward the waiting chopper.
She was disproportionately aware of that hand, gently encouraging her to bend forward and duck under the spinning blades, but she didn’t look toward him, instead focusing on pinning her giant sun hat to her head with one hand as its brim rippled wildly in the wind. He was the bodyguard. Part of the white noise of Maggie Tate’s life. Not a strong, sexy man with his large hand spread on her lower back.
Kaydee and Cecil were already inside when Mel climbed in. Bree took Cross’s hand, letting him boost her into the helicopter’s cramped interior. The noise was deafening—but she could still hear Cecil Two’s high pitched yelping over the thunder of the helicopter.
Their luggage took up half the passenger compartment, but Cross found room for his long legs, wedging himself onto a seat that seemed too small for him between Bree and the door. And her mouth went dry.
Was Maggie this aware of him when he was pressed up against her side? The firm, muscular presence of him? His legs splayed out in front of her? The length of his thigh pressing against hers?
Bree caught Mel studying her and smoothed out her face before she found herself as the recipient of a “Those aren’t the rumors we want to start” speech later on.
Abrup
tly, the helicopter lifted—and Bree’s hand shot out, reaching for anything steady to grab onto and landing on Cross’s thigh, gripping it tight.
Okay.
She was okay. She wasn’t scared of flying. She’d been on planes. Lots of them. This was just like that. But as the helicopter swooped into the air, her stomach fell behind and her hand tightened on Cross’s thigh. She closed her eyes behind her sunglasses, but that only made it worse, visions of fiery crashes dancing in her head.
Maybe she should have mentioned that she didn’t like heights. Not that she was terrified of them or anything. She could go on balconies and in glass elevators without batting an eye. She’d swung out on the rope swing over Martin Lake more times than she could count as a kid. She’d even entertained the idea of taking flying trapeze lessons at one point, though she’d never actually gone.
But this—as the helicopter angled sharply, banking into a turn and she had to swallow the squeak that wanted to leap out of her throat—this was different. This was climbing the two story ladder to paint a mural on the wall of the gym senior year of high school, her palms sweaty and heartrate galloping faster with every second that passed. This was the eighth grade fall carnival, stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel with Marcus Bradley, whom she’d been told had a crush on her, but who’d laughed when he saw her gripping the safety bar and swung the basket, whooping the entire time.
She didn’t like this.
A hand closed over hers and, startled by the touch, she looked down. Cross’s hand. The grip fear had on her trachea eased, allowing oxygen into her system again.
Her gaze jerked up to his face. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his reflective shades, but he wasn’t looking at her, his face turned to the view outside the window and the brilliant turquoise seas. He didn’t even seem to be aware of her, but his hand was warm and firm over hers, squeezing gently, comfortingly, where she clutched his leg.
She averted her gaze before she earned another “Thou shalt not spread rumors about lusting after thy bodyguard” lecture…but she turned her hand over beneath his.