Reeve
Escorted Lives was one of the bestselling books in the last few years. It started as a self-published novel and shot up the charts with its red-hot story of a woman who ran an escort service but also had her own particular sexual proclivities. After one too many episodes of cheating by her husband, she turned to voyeurism for her kicks and got off watching her stable of hot young men handle their lady clients. It had been jokingly referred to as the novel the world beat off to.
Funny that the other night, I’d told Jill I had no interest in being an escort for Upper East Side ladies. And here I was being offered something of a man-for-hire gig . . . to help Sutton Brenner get a contract to cast a movie about a man-for-hire gig.
“I’m prepared to offer you five thousand dollars,” Sutton said, and the thought of the money made my heart beat a whole lot faster. I could use that dough. Oh hell, could I use it. But then I flashed back to my parents, to my dad who’d been a cop his whole life. To my mom, who taught high school English. My parents had a hard enough time accepting that I wanted to be an actor and make a go of it in New York City. But to take money for a fake boyfriend job?
Sutton had specifically said “no funny business,” so she wasn’t asking for anything salacious—other than putting on a con, I guess. But there was something I wanted more. And this was my moment to ask for it. Go big or go home.
Putting it all on the line, I met her gaze, gave my terms. “I don’t want money. I want an audition for the producers and for the director. I want a chance to get the lead role.”
I watched as she took a deep breath and considered my request. It was unconventional to bypass the casting director, but then, this deal was unconventional. Besides, it wasn’t every day that I landed an opportunity like this. I would have liked the money, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I wouldn’t have felt right asking for a role outright, either. I wanted to be paid in the currency most valuable to me—opportunity. I had confidence I could parlay it into something good. I’d have a great audition. I planned to do everything differently from the Joss Whedon audition. I’d be as natural and I’d be as authentic as the producer could want.
Sutton didn’t take long to answer, nodding a second or two later. “I’ll get you an audition for them, Reeve,” she said and flashed a smile, then winked. “How strange would it be if my fiancé—such a fine specimen at that—didn’t get an audition, right? But if for some reason I don’t nab the job, I will insist on paying you.”
I waved a hand. I had enough faith in her talent for both of us. “Fine. But I know you’ll get the job. And I will nail the audition, I promise. I won’t disappoint you. Not as an actor, and not as your fake fiancé,” I said confidently. “So we don’t really need to worry about money. We’re both going to get something we want out of this. I will be your perfect pretend boyfriend.”
She smiled. “I knew you were the right man for the job. We’ll have dinner at their penthouse Friday night.”
“Sounds like a blast,” I said, and truth be told, I meant it fully. I didn’t hate the idea of seeing Sutton “off-hours,” fake boyfriend or not. Out of the office, with no money at stake, there was some wiggle room, so to speak. Room to think about undoing a few more buttons on her shirt and getting a glimpse of what those sexy collarbones hinted at.
She rose, held out her hand for shaking. I looked at it, then at her as I stood. This was another opportunity. “That’s not exactly how I’d seal a deal with my fiancée.” I moved her hand out of the way and stepped closer. “And I bet that’s not how you’d do it, either.”
“Do I hear a counteroffer?” She cupped her hand to her ear, cocking her head.
The temptation was too great, and I leaned close enough to tease her with a whisper. “Let’s start with a hug.”
She shivered and slanted me a doubtful look. “A hug?”
“It’s easy,” I said, taking her hand and putting it on my shoulder. “You put your hand here, and I’ll put mine here . . .” I slid my arm to circle her waist.
“Excuse me, Ms. Brenner . . .” A voice boomed through the speakerphone on Sutton’s desk. “There’s a Janelle Pinkerton here to see you.”
6
Sutton
I snapped back from Reeve like a teenager caught with a boy in her room. “Bloody hell,” I muttered and pressed a hand against my suddenly racing heart. “What could she want?” It felt as though she was checking up on me—a product of my guilty conscience, or perhaps my fear of being found out before the ruse had even started.
Reeve studied my reaction. “This is the woman we need to convince?”
“The very same.” I hid a grimace as I walked over to the phone. “Go ahead and send her in please.” Then I turned to answer Reeve’s unspoken question. “She’s on the producing team. So, time to improvise.”
“Ah. I see.” He stretched an arm across the back of the sofa, settling into character, I supposed. Just moments later, Janelle walked into the office, a thin-lipped smile on her face.
“Hello, Ms. Brenner.”
“So good to see you again, Mrs. Pinkerton.”
Janelle cast a glance at Reeve on the couch, then back at me with an arched eyebrow. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Actually, the timing is perfect. This is my, er, fiancé.”
Janelle seemed to catch my stumble over the unfamiliar word, and her arched brows made me nervous. I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my hands, and I had new sympathy for the actors who auditioned for me.
With remarkable aplomb, Reeve stood up, drawing Janelle’s attention, and then took her hand and placed a kiss near her wrist. “Such a pleasure to meet you,” he said, distractingly roguish.
Even thin-lipped Janelle wasn’t immune, it seemed. “And you as well. I had no idea I’d be lucky and meet you so early.”
“I can’t wait for Friday night,” Reeve said. “Can I bring anything? I’m not a very good cook, but I will tell you this—I can bake the best chocolate chip cookies in the world.” Then he flashed a smile at Janelle, and I marveled at the ease with which he slid right into his role as fictional fiancé.
“Oh, I do love a good chocolate chip cookie,” Janelle said, and I was sure it was the first time I’d seen the woman smile. She turned to me, and I tried not to look wary. “I stopped by since I was in the area. Johnathan and I have extra seats in our box at the theater tomorrow night. I know it’s short notice but . . .”
She opened her purse and took out an envelope, then two tickets out of that. “If you can join us, we’d be so pleased.”
“Oh. How kind of you to think of me—I mean, us.” Would it be suspicious to avoid being around the Pinkertons? On one hand, it was last minute. On the other hand, I didn’t want to miss any opportunity to distinguish myself from the rest of the list.
Reeve rescued me again, smoothly taking the tickets from Janelle and picking up the conversation. “Sut and I will confer on our schedules, but I have heard great things about this play. I mentioned it the other morning while we were walking The Artful Dodger. And now, look at this. You give us tickets. It’s like serendipity.” He flashed his utterly disarming smile.
I didn’t allow myself a sigh of relief, but I felt it. On the fly, he’d come up with a cutesy nickname—even though I was not a nickname type, it sounded just right from a fiancé—and worked in personal details of my daily routine. In fact, he was so convincing, I found myself wondering what route we’d taken through the park.
“I’m Reeve Larkin, by the way.” His easy smile smoothed over my lapse in introductions. “Love your movies. All of them,” he said.
“Well, aren’t you kind,” Janelle said to his acknowledgement of her behind-the-scenes efforts, looking almost human. Then she resettled her designer purse against her side. “Well, I better be on my way. I’m sure you two have plans for the rest of the day.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper and winked. “A little session on the casting couch, perhaps?”
I was shocked and cau
ght my jaw hanging open. It was hard to close when I was stunned and indignant that she’d think I would stoop to casting couch shenanigans—ever, but especially in the wake of the #metoo movement. Even industry people without ethics didn’t so much as joke about such things. And I had plenty of ethics—
Or at least I did before I hired an actor as my fake fiancé to get a job. Remembering that robbed the moral high ground as well as any argument.
But almost as shocking was that the wink and innuendo came from Janelle Pinkerton, who had seemed so conservative—even prudish—in the meeting just this morning. I’d have thought I’d imagined it if not for Reeve’s sheepish shrug.
“What can I say?” He moved over to drape an arm over my shoulder. My skin heated wherever he touched me, and to my surprise, I shivered as he ran his thumb against the fabric of my shirt. “Sometimes I just need to stop by and visit my woman in the middle of the day.”
Janelle slyly nodded, as if she understood exactly what Reeve meant when I wasn’t even sure myself. I suddenly felt unmoored, as if Reeve and Janelle were in on some secret and I—the one who’d engineered this fake engagement—was the clueless one.
“See you at the theater,” Janelle said as she turned and started down the hallway. She glanced back, and with perfect timing, Reeve pressed his lips lightly against mine. I was so off-balance and tense that the kiss surprised me when it shouldn’t have, and I jumped.
“Oh!”
I looked down the hall, and thankfully, Janelle was gone, so she wouldn’t wonder why I reacted so strangely from a kiss from my fiancé.
“You okay?” Reeve asked.
“Absolutely,” I assured him—us both, really. “Just startled is all.”
He slid his arm from my shoulders and stepped back, but not much. “Well, if we’re going to pull this off, you might want to get used to me kissing you. Just a suggestion.”
“Right. I should definitely get used to that.” I nodded resolutely. What I really needed to do was get my groove back. I was a take-charge kind of woman and needed to start steering this ship properly. If that meant getting used to kisses, so be it. If that meant reviewing the basics of our relationship so I could say the word fiancé without choking on it, then I’d do that too.
I placed a hand on a hip and appraised Reeve from top to bottom. “I think we’re going to need a better outfit for you to go to the theater. We do have box seats.”
“What?” Indignantly, he smoothed an invisible tie. “You don’t think I have nice clothes for the theater? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you know.”
“Hmm. The implication that you fell off the turnip truck at any point in your history makes me think we need a shopping trip.”
He folded his arms. “All right, Professor Higgins. Have it your way.”
“I usually do.”
I didn’t realize how . . . sexual that sounded until Reeve’s eyes darkened suddenly and he darkened his voice to match, not quite growling, “If you want to change that up, let me know.”
The heat spreading over my face must have been a flush because I was not a woman who blushed at such a subtle innuendo. I looked at my watch and pretended I didn’t notice it. I’d have to point out it was inappropriate, since this was a job, and I didn’t actually mind.
“I have to make some calls on this TV guest doctor role I’m casting for Overnight Shift next Monday,” I said, referring to the popular medical drama. I’d written down my list of ten potentials this morning on the cab ride over to my office, pulling them from my mental rolodex. “I need about fifteen minutes. Can you wait in the lobby, and then we’ll go to Elizabeth’s and get you a new shirt and pants?”
He nodded, and I returned to my office and shut the door. I sank down into my chair and scrolled through my files to find the numbers of the agents I had to call. I could multitask, though, and popped open my text app in one corner of the screen.
Sutton: I might have made a terrible mistake.
McKenna: How terrible? I’m in the middle of something and it’s going to be hard to get free to fly to NY and help you bury a body.
Sutton: No one’s dead yet.
McKenna: Is the fire department involved?
Sutton: If you mean literal fire, then no.
McKenna: Oh boy! Metaphorical flames? Is it the hot hipster? Did you audition him? And by “audition” I mean that as dirty as it sounds.
Sutton: No! Well. Not really. I had him come into the office, and then Janelle Pinkerton came in and now there’s no turning back because she met him and gave me tickets to the theater.
McKenna: The theater. That’s some commitment right there.
Sutton: Box seats. And now that I’m thinking about it, that seems a little out of the blue. What if she didn’t want to wait until Friday to vet my fiancé?
McKenna: Make sure he’s real, you mean?
Sutton: Exactly. And now she wants to see how we act together.
McKenna: I would say that you sound paranoid, except that your fiancé didn’t exist until this morning. Is Reeve the mistake? Maybe you don’t have the chemistry to be convincing?
Sutton: Trust me. Lack of chemistry is not the problem.
McKenna: Ha! I knew it!
Sutton: I can’t believe you made me admit that so quickly.
McKenna: Just being efficient. I’m afraid I don’t see the problem here. You wanted someone who was your type, right?
Sutton: It’s like I ordered him custom-tailored . . . Oh, wait. I did.
McKenna: Isn’t that good? Attraction will make you more convincing as a couple, right?
Sutton: That’s true.
I drummed my fingers on the desk as I waited for the voicemail beep on the last agent on my list and thought about McKenna’s point. When I cast a play, I was always looking for that indefinable spark between actors. The best in the world could only do so much without chemistry to work with.
And my chemistry with Reeve gave him a lot to work with. I just needed to keep my perspective. I wanted Janelle Pinkerton to believe Reeve was madly in love with me. I didn’t want to start believing it myself.
7
Sutton
On the way to the men’s department at Elizabeth’s, Reeve and I walked past the jewelry counters. I started to veer that way—I do that, like a squirrel drawn by shiny objects—then stayed on task.
Reeve missed nothing, though. He slowed and gestured to the counter. “Did you want to stop? I’m not in a hurry.”
I waved the idea away. “Another time. Nothing is really catching my attention.”
“You can tell that from over there?”
“I have a good eye.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He gave that lopsided grin. “You have lovely eyes.”
Perhaps, but I rolled them at that comment. “Let’s go use them to find you something to wear.”
He made that smile look challenging somehow. “You really do like to have your way, don’t you? I might point out that a good relationship is built on compromise.” He moved over to let a woman pass pushing a high-end baby stroller. His shoulder brushed mine, and a wave of tingles spread from that point.
That was good. McKenna was right. This attraction would sell our story, which would keep me in the running for the job. I should just think of any time Reeve and I spent together as prep work. Whenever I pitched new producers, I researched the production company, all their films or shows, and any personal details that would help me make a connection. When I could, I found out as much as I could about the project they wanted to cast, the roles, and what type of actors they seemed to prefer.
For this, I needed to make sure we were convincing on a non-verbal level—which was where the chemistry came in—and that we had our backstory straight.
“Right,” I said, intending to make the best use of our time shopping. “We can practice compromising while we work on our backstory. I want to make sure all the details are ironclad. I propose we go with the truth as to ho
w we met—I cast you in a day part for It’s Raining Men.”
“Yes, dear. I remember how we met.”
I slanted a glance at him as we walked. Yes, he was joking. I wanted to keep an emotional safety zone, but not to alienate him. Rapport—that’s what I was aiming for. “So, let’s start with the basics. Janelle already knows your name, since you met her already.”
“Damn.”
I stopped walking and looked at him in not-quite alarm. “What?”
“I wanted to be a Sven.”
That surprised a laugh out of me. “Sven?”
“Don’t I look like a Sven? What do you think?” He struck a model pose, tilting his head to highlight his cheekbones and jaw. The fact that he knew exactly how to do that was a good reason to keep telling myself “rapport” until it stuck.
“You don’t, actually, look like a Sven. Sorry.”
With a huge sigh, he let his shoulders droop. “Okay, I guess.”
We continued toward the men’s section at a less purposeful clip. “So, I’m Reeve Larkin from Ohio. My dad’s a cop. My mom’s a teacher. I went to Ohio State.”
I rolled my eyes. “Very funny.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“No one will buy that. It’s such a cliché. Cop dad and teacher mom? You look straight out of Central Casting—the too-good-to-be-true boy from Middle America who went to the hometown college to boot. Did you have a Collie named Shep too? Or was it Rex?”
The Pretending Plot (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 1) Page 4