by Roxy Reid
That doesn’t stop the weird caveman part of my brain that wants to keep anyone else from seeing her with her guard down.
I open door the door, and realize I’ve made a mistake when the delivery guy almost drops his pizzas in shock.
Yep, he definitely recognizes me. I take the pizza, throwing in an extra forty and a murmured request to be discreet. But even as I close the door I know it’s a lost cause.
If you’re famous long enough, you get pretty good at telling who’s going to treat you like a person and respect your privacy, and who’s going to treat you like a trophy and shout that they met you from the rooftops.
The guy I just met is definitely a #2.
I set the pizza on the table, peaking at Sienna to see if she’s going to yell at me for drawing more unwanted attention to her. But she’s deep in thought, and doesn’t seem to notice me.
The pizza smells amazing.
“Plates?” I ask.
“Top shelf,” she answers automatically, still deep in thought.
I grab two plates and dish us both up pieces. I remember a text message conversation where she said she likes red pepper flakes on her pizza, so I get some from her spice rack, and bring it to the living room along with her pizza.
Sienna finally turns her focus back to me when I pass her a piece of pizza. “So…” she says, and I settle on the couch and take a bite of pizza. The commoner waiting for his verdict.
“You’re saying we have to keep pretending to be engaged,” Sienna says.
I choke on my pizza, “What? No. I just had to distract them in the moment. And I’m really sorry I didn’t come up with a better idea. But it’s over. You don’t have to do anything else, other than keep working on the launch party.”
But Sienna shakes her head, “No. If they figure out we’re not really together, they’ll realize you were playing them. And then they’ll ask why you were playing them. And then they’ll figure it out, and you’ll be screwed. And all my hard work on this launch party will get overshadowed by stories about Elinor Swift pulling out of the project, and how you lost your chance to work with the greatest actor of our generation.” She reaches for the red pepper flakes and covers her pizza with them. Like there are so many red pepper flakes, I can’t actually see the pizza anymore.
I set my own pizza down, “What are you proposing?”
Sienna winces. Ok, maybe proposing wasn’t the best choice of words. Still, she shakes it off and looks me in the eye, “I think we should get engaged.”
My heart stops.
“Fake engaged,” she hurries to say. “For the press. Until Elinor Swift has signed the contract, and we’ve made it through the launch party.”
“But what about your professional reputation?” I ask.
“You’ve already ruined it,” Sienna says bluntly. “And it’s going to stay ruined unless we pull this off, at which point we’ll have a discreet fake break-up. But you need to give me one thing.”
“Anything,” I say.
“You become a permanent client at the firm. And you back me up when I tell my boss the truth. And then you give me a fucking glowing review.”
I take another bite of my pizza to give me time to think about it. Finally I say, “I’m happy to do two and three. But I don’t make business decisions because of who I’ve dated. Or fake-dated.”
“Fine,” Sienna shrugs. “Then let’s go tell the press we’re not really together.”
“You’re bluffing. You promised not to say anything about the production company.”
“I’m not. I’m just telling the world that I’m not fucking dating you. Which is, you know, the truth.” Sienna stands up and goes to get more pizza, taking the red pepper flakes with her, “It’s your choice.”
And she’s right. It is my choice. So I weigh my options while she drowns another innocent piece of pizza in red pepper flakes.
Option A: I get the thing I want most in the world, and all I have to do is sign a contract with a capable company that has gone above and beyond to meet my needs on this project. And with the production company taking up more of my own time, it does make sense to off-load more of the non-production related projects to an outside firm like Sienna’s.
Plus, I get an excuse to spend time with Sienna. Which shouldn’t factor into my decision, but let’s be honest, it absolutely does.
Option B: I ruin Sienna’s reputation and mine, shoot my production company in the foot, and after the launch party, I never see Sienna again.
When Sienna comes back to the living room, I’m down on one knee.
Her eyes widen.
“Sienna Bridges,” I say. “Will you be my fake fiancée?”
For a moment she doesn’t say anything, and I start to sweat. Which makes no sense. It’s not like I’m really asking her to marry me.
But I don’t think my body knows that.
Finally, she throws me a brilliant smile that makes my chest tighten. “But Joshua,” she says, in a soft, husky voice that my body definitely doesn’t know is fake. She bats her eyelashes, “Wherever is my ring?”
“First, you promise to make an honest man of me,” I say rising to my feet. “Then, we go ring shopping.” I’ve learned my lesson about springing things on this woman.
“Deal,” Sienna says, and holds out her hand. We shake on it. “But first,” she says, “we lay down some ground rules.”
“Let’s hear them,” I say, settling back down onto the couch. Knowing Sienna, they will be lengthy and specific.
To my surprise, this time she settles on the couch with me. And I know I made the right decision.
9
Sienna
I stand in front of my bedroom mirror and smooth my hands down my dress nervously. Joshua and I have been laying low for a few weeks, only meeting up to work on the launch party. (Pros of a man accidentally ruining your professional reputation and feeling guilty about it: he agrees almost instantly when you tell him where you want to host his launch party).
Tonight will be our first official outing as a couple. We’re going to the opening of one of his friend’s movies, where we will walk the red carpet, and in general be gross and couple-y in front of a million cameras and Hollywood’s biggest gossips.
So no pressure.
Now I’m waiting for Joshua to pick me up and examining myself in the mirror because, apart from everything else, tonight is the night I find out what I look like from every angle, while surrounded by hundreds of professionally beautifully people.
I went with a gold tea-length strapless dress with a fitted bodice, and a soft flowing skirt. It’s a classic cut, but I think the delicate golden glint of the fabric saves it from looking too old-fashioned. I actually got my hair done, so it falls in soft, retro-glam curls around my face. My lips are a bold red, and my eyeshadow is all delicate browns and creams dusted with gold. My high heels are a gorgeous burgundy, and a good inch taller than I normally wear. Technically speaking, it is the most beautiful I have ever looked in my entire life.
I’m terrified it won’t be enough.
There’s a knock at the door, and my heart leaps. It’s that sharp, impatient knock I’ve come to know as Joshua’s.
I answer the door, and all I can think is, it’s a good thing I’ve had time to build up something of an immunity to Joshua’s beauty, because if I was meeting him for the first time, I think the sight of him in a dark, perfectly fitted suit, crisp white shirt, and wing-tipped shoes, would have me melting into a puddle of lust on the carpet.
As it is, I merely feel my temperature rise and get a little flustered, “Hold on. Let me grab my purse.”
I try to ignore the way he’s looking me over from head to toe. I know it’s just a quick check to make sure I look the part. But it feels like more. It feels like… well, like what I was doing to him a second ago.
But that makes no sense. He’s a literal movie star. I’m just me.
“Um. Yeah. That’s fine,” for some reason, his voice is rough, and he
clears it, looking away. “No rush.”
I grab my purse — an elegant velvet maroon clutch that matches my shoes — and turn back to Joshua. He’s staring at me again, and I begin to feel the panic rise. I look like an idiot. He can tell I got the dress from Nordstroms Rack, instead of some trendy boutique. Or hell, instead of even regular Nordstroms.
“Would you just stop looking at me like that!” I burst out. “I tried, ok. You’re the one who started this stupid engagement thing, I’m sorry I don’t look like some perfect red carpet model–”
“Hey, stop.” Joshua cuts me off gently, and takes my hand. The warmth of his hand calms me a little. But only a little.
I glare at him.
Which, inexplicably, makes him grin, “I was looking at you because you’re gorgeous.”
“I know I’m gorgeous. But that’s not what this is about. This is about looking like I fit in, like I belong.”
Joshua digs in his pocket, and pulls out a ring box, “Will this make you fit in?”
He opens the box, and I’m pretty sure my eyes bug out. Inside is what is probably the most expensive ring I’ve ever seen. There’s a huge diamond, surrounded by a swirling silver band with smaller diamonds set into it.
It is absolutely not the kind of thing I’d want — or wear — in real life, but it is undeniably gorgeous.
And, undeniably, something someone who belongs in Joshua’s world, on Joshua’s arm, would wear.
I don’t think I remember to breathe until he slides the ring on my finger and slips the ring box back in his pocket.
“Wait, leave that here,” I say. “I’ll need something to put it in when I’m not wearing it.”
“What do you mean when you’re not wearing it?” he says. “We’re engaged. You’re wearing my ring until the launch party.”
I open my mouth to argue that I will look ridiculous wearing that thing to the office, let alone to the grocery, but Joshua gets a mulish look on his face that I’m learning means it’s no use arguing.
“You’re wearing the ring,” Joshua says, as imperious as if he were playing an emperor. Which he has. He won a Golden Globe for it. “It’s one of my ground rules.”
I roll my eyes as I grab my keys and we leave the apartment, “You can’t add to the ground rules. They’ve already been finalized.”
“You’ve got way more ground rules than me,” Joshua points out. “I should get one more rule to make us more even.”
He’s got a point. These are my ground rules:
No physical affection in private.
In public, physical affection is limited to hand holding/ hand on waist/ that sort of thing. Kissing is allowed to sell our lie but only when absolutely necessary.
Our fake engagement can’t interfere with the rest of my professional life.
We don’t date anyone else while we’re “dating” each other.
After the launch party, I decide how and why we “break up”.
After the launch party, I decide how much of the truth to tell my boss, and Joshua backs me up.
There will, at no time, be any actual wedding planning. (I’m not having the first time I try a wedding dress on be a big fat lie.)
Joshua has one rule. Two, if I allow him to add one tonight:
He gets to tell Poppy the truth.
I wear his ring.
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Ok, fine!” I say. “I’ll wear your stupid ring.”
“I’m sure Tiffany’s is happy to have their merchandise described in such glowing terms,” Joshua says. He offers his arm, “Shall we?”
I take it, and walk down my rickey apartment steps on the arm of a world-famous billionaire to go to a red carpet event. Because, apparently, that’s what Tuesdays are like when you’re fake-dating Joshua King.
“Hanging in there?” Joshua asks, as he joins me in a corner at the after party and passes me a drink. He’s got a glass of whiskey for himself.
We’re in a luxurious outdoor space that alternates between garden and patio, with the most artistic bistro tables I’ve ever seen scattered throughout so people can cluster and set their drinks down. My corner has a bistro table, a heat lamp, and an excellent view of the other guests.
Clearly, I’m rocking this opening night thing.
I take a sniff of the drink Joshua gives me. “What is this?”
“You said you were sick of thinking about champagne, so I got you a Moscow Mule.”
“Awww, you listened.”
Joshua smiles down at me and puts an arm around my shoulders, “Always, darling. Always.”
I gratefully lean into his warmth — it’s chilly at night when you’re in a strapless — and a camera flashes. Joshua’s arm tightens around me.
“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. “I thought they were done paying attention to us tonight.”
“Maybe they don’t quite believe it,” I say, and I can’t blame them. I’m not sure I believe it.
Joshua looks indignant, “Why wouldn’t they believe it? I’m marry-able.”
I laugh, which just makes him more indignant, “That’s not what I meant.” I pat his chest soothingly, the way a woman would when the man she loves is being a bit of a prickly porcupine. “I’m talking about me. I don’t belong here. Even with this on my hand.” I wiggle fingers against his chest, and the cameras flash again, no doubt catching the unholy sparkle of my whopper of a ring on my left hand.
“You could belong here,” Joshua says. “If you wanted to.”
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. I step away from the warmth of his arms and sip my drink. Reluctantly, he lets me go, looking troubled.
Which isn’t fair. He’s been nothing but supportive and attentive all night. A+ fake fiancé, would recommend. It seems to be important to him that I have a good time, and I don’t want him thinking like he failed.
“Hey,” I lean in and smile up at him. “Don’t look so glum. I’m having a magical night.”
Joshua perks up, “You are?”
“Of course!” I say, gesturing with my drink. “I’m dressed like a princess, I watched a movie sitting next to the woman who wrote it. I met my own personal hero, She Who Went Up To Accept Her Oscar While Holding Her High-Heels In Her Hand. And I met the hot guy from that one really sexy BBC drama about industrialization.” I fan myself. “You should watch it.”
“Try to control yourself. You’re an engaged woman,” Joshua says. But he’s smiling. Like watching me be happy makes him happy.
I touch his arm, “Seriously, Joshua. This is a night I’ll remember forever. I’ll tell my grandkids about this.” I laugh. “Plus, I now have the perfect story to whip out on first dates. That time I was fake-engaged to a movie star and casually met my favorite actress in line for the ladies room.”
Something in Joshua’s face changes, becoming inscrutable.
“I’ll be part of your backstory,” he says. He sounds oddly monotone, like he’s trying to push down a feeling he doesn’t want to be having.
“That’s a weird way to put it? But sure, I guess,” I finish my drink, and look around the room for a place to put my glass. It feels too gauche to just leave it on the bistro table. “Have you considered having a hobby that isn’t related to the movies? You’re getting a little obsessed with narrative structure, even for Hollywood.”
A camera flashes, and a waiter appears out of nowhere to spirit my glass away. When I turn back to Joshua he’s got a fierce, intense look on his face.
And it’s all focused on me.
My head doesn’t have an explanation for that look, but my body is pretty sure it knows what’s going on.
Joshua King is about to kiss me.
Joshua slides a hand delicately down my arm, and I shiver, as his hand finds mine and our fingers thread together.
“Cold?” he murmurs, cocking an eyebrow at my shiver.
He knows what he’s doing, the bastard.
Still, I try to keep my head, “What do you think yo
u’re doing?” But my voice comes out breathy. And when he gives a light, experimental tug of my hand, I slip toward him like a boomerang returning home.
“I think,” Joshua says, “that we’re not in private.”
There are all kinds of promises in his tone, and my mind flashes to our ground rules.
“Go on,” I say, casually, to the sexiest man alive.
“If this was the first time I took my wife out in public–”
“–future wife.”
“–I think I’d want the world to know she was mine.” Joshua tugs me in even closer, and this time it’s not a request. It’s a demand.
We’re not touching anywhere other than my hand, but I can feel his heat everywhere.
Did I actually think it was cold tonight?
“More importantly,” Joshua continues, oblivious to the chaos going on in my head, “I’d want her to want to be mine. To want to stay mine. I’d need to make her want that. Desperately.”
“I don’t know,” I say, knowing I’m playing with fire. “There are a lot of gorgeous men here. It makes you look almost ordinary.”
But my hands give the lie to what I’m saying, as I let go of his hand to slide my own under his jacket and up his back. God, the strength of him. The heat of him. If Joshua was mine, I wouldn’t have waited until the after party to put my hands on him. And I certainly wouldn’t have smiled politely all those times that tall, curvy blonde from NBC tried to flirt with him over the top of my head.
Joshua’s not the only one who can play at being possessive.
I’d want her to want to be mine. To want to stay mine. I’d need to make her want that. Desperately.
I can’t shake those words out of my head. I know this is pretend. I should change the topic and move on.
Instead, I look up at him, coy, and say, “What would you do, Joshua, to make a woman want you like that?”
“I’d kiss you like this.”