“I wouldn’t wear any of these clothes.”
Russel puffed his chest out a little. “Give them a chance, you might be surprised.” He rotated his hand and then pointed where Mac had appeared from. “Next outfit.”
Mac growled but did as he was told because it was far easier than arguing with Russel. As he stripped out of the hideous outfit and pulled on the next one, he decided that they’d need to work some arguments into their vague backstory. There was no chance anyone was going to believe they actually got along all the time or most of the time or at all. As far as he could tell, they had nothing in common.
Three outfits later and he hadn’t tried anything on that met with Russel’s approval or his own. He was onto the last set of clothes—a dark pink tight-fitting shirt with large floral designs in a slightly darker, shiny shade and a pair of pin-stripe trousers that were figure hugging in all the right places. Mac looked at himself in the mirror. The outfit wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t anything he would ever pick for himself, but he looked pretty damn fine in it. Hopefully, Russel would like it, and they could stop fucking shopping.
When he walked out to find Russel, the slim man sat up straight, eyes wide, hands clapping together.
“Oh! Now that is gorgeous. Do you like it?”
“It’s all right.” There was no way Mac was going to admit that he was actually pretty happy with it.
Russel stood and walked around him, occasionally adjusting the way the shirt was laying or smoothing out the fabric. When he’d finished, he stood in front of Mac, his thumb and forefinger curled around his chin.
“I think it’ll do. Although we could check out—”
“No!” Mac waved his hands. “This is great. I like it.”
Russel shifted his weight, rolling one shoulder back. He dropped his hand so his arms were loosely folded. “Just like?”
Mac shuffled his feet. “All right, I think it’s pretty fucking nice.”
Russel swept an appraising stare over him. “You look hot in it, and I think I have just the right outfit to complement it.”
Mac let out a sigh of relief. He’d been sure they were going to shop for Russel next.
Russel glanced at his watch. “Okay, let’s get this rung up and then go for a coffee. We’ve just about got time to get our stories straight before I need to go home and get ready.”
“How long does it take you to put a shirt and trousers on?”
“Bitch, please! Please tell me you’re at least going to take a shower and put some aftershave on?” Russel tipped his head to the side. “You could do with shaving too.”
Mac ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the prickle of afternoon stubble. “Yeah, probably.”
Russel clapped his hands twice. “Go get changed. We’re running out of time.”
Less than twenty minutes later, they were sitting down with large cups of coffee in a small independent coffee shop that Mac hadn’t even known existed.
“They do the most gorgeous cakes here,” Russel informed him. “You really should try one next time.” He blew over his coffee and took a sip, hissing in a breath.
“Careful.” Mac chuckled.
Russel set down his mug. “What’s the best way to do this, do you think?”
“Do what?”
Russel rolled his eyes. “Get to know each other well enough to convince people we’re boyfriends.”
Mac shrugged. “Is anyone really going to care?”
“They might ask us questions, like how we got together and—”
Mac held his hand up. “Okay, I agree we should probably figure that out, but as for the rest… can’t we just tell people we’ve only been together a week or so?”
Russel shook his head firmly. “This is a couples event.”
“And?” Mac drew the word out. “That doesn’t mean everyone has to have been going out for years.”
“True.” Russel scrunched his lips up. The muscles underneath his eyes twitched fractionally, which Mac found pretty cute. “Why don’t we compromise? Say we’ve been together for a couple of months?”
“Ummm… okay.” Mac really didn’t care.
“Is Mac your real name?”
“It’s Macauley, but I’ve been Mac for as long as I can remember.”
“A nice Scottish name.” Russel beamed.
Mac hunched his shoulders. He wasn’t as enamoured by his full name as Russel seemed to be. He’d put up with too many Home Alone jokes to like it. “My parents gave us all traditional names.”
Russel winced. “Ooo, you have siblings?”
Mac grunted. Talking about his fucked-up family wasn’t on his to-do list for the day.
“We can leave that topic for now,” Russel said, obviously taking the hint. “And for what it’s worth, I think Mac is a cute name.”
“Cute?” Heat flushed to Mac’s face, and he felt his pulse pick up as his blood pressure ramped up to boiling point.
“How did we meet?” Russel asked in a welcome change of subject.
“In a strip joint,” Mac deadpanned.
Russel gasped. “Oh no, no, no. That won’t do!”
Mac chuckled at Russel’s over-the-top reaction. He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, when you’re lying, it’s best to stick as close to the truth as possible.”
Russel’s eyebrows shot up. “Tell a lot of lies, do you?”
Mac stiffened and shuffled in his chair. “I used to.” He was shocked at how gruff and pissed off he’d sounded. He’d told plenty of lies when he was covering for his dad or trying to buy booze for the drunk while he was underage. Not that any of that was Russel’s business.
Russel stared at him curiously.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mac said. “If anyone asks, we can tell them we met in a nightclub.”
“I suppose it will do.”
“Damn right, it will. Stick close to the truth.”
“Noted.” Russel took a more cautious sip of his coffee.
“And of course you propositioned me.” Mac grinned.
Russel grumbled something under his breath. “I guess it’s close to the truth.”
“It is the truth!”
“We can’t tell people you’re a stripper, though.”
Mac cleared his throat. “Is exotic dancer good enough for you?”
Russel narrowed his eyes.
“If it helps, I also work in a gym as a fitness advisor.”
“A personal trainer, I like it!”
Mac opened his mouth but shut it again. “And you said you do graphic design?”
Russel nodded. “But tonight, I’m a reporter.”
“Got it.”
“Star sign?”
“Does it matter?” Mac sighed when Russel glared at him. “Leo.”
“I’m an Aries.” Russel grinned at him. “That means we’re compatible.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Mac muttered under his breath. Even if Russel were the last man alive, there was no way he’d consider dating him for real. “We don’t live together.”
Russel looked like he was going to argue but then breathed in and pushed his palms down on the outbreath. “Keep close to the truth,” he said like it was some kind of mantra. “On our first date, you took me for Chinese.”
“No one’s going to ask about our first date.”
“You never know.”
“I don’t like Chinese food. How about Pizza Hut?”
“Please! Surely you can do better than that?”
Mac grinned. “Laser quest.”
Russel gasped in the most over-the-top way, making Mac chuckle.
“There’s a nice family-run Italian café on Commercial Street, just down from WHSmith.”
Russel nodded. “I know of it. I’ve never eaten there, though.”
“The woman who runs it is a total mama bear, always takes care of her customers, and they make the most amazing lasagne. I’d have taken you there and then on to see a film.”
“A romcom, obviously
.”
Mac pulled a face. “Are you sure you wouldn’t have preferred an action movie?”
Russel shook his head firmly.
“Okay, a romcom.”
Russel smiled dreamily as he clasped his hands at his chest. “Sounds delightful.”
Mac couldn’t help but smile, and he felt a little thrill of satisfaction at making Russel happy. He tried to ignore it. There was no reason for him to care whether Russel was happy or not.
“What next?” Russel asked.
Mac laughed. He didn’t think they needed to know much more to pass as boyfriends to a room full of strangers, but he realised he didn’t mind sitting and chatting to Russel for a little while longer.
“I guess we should trade music tastes,” he mused. He picked up his coffee, settled into his chair, and got ready for a long conversation.
6 Russel
Russel hired a taxi to take them to Remy Lawrence’s country house. As they pulled up the wide, leafy drive, Russel stared out of the window, gaping at the magnificent house, which looked like it had been pulled straight out of Pride and Prejudice; the Colin Firth version, obviously. The house was entirely white, with a wide staircase leading up to it, and—oh my God!—there was a red carpet! Well-dressed couples were milling around outside, while waiters in black and white with cute bow ties served champagne and strawberry spritzers on silver trays.
“I should have hired a limo,” he muttered under his breath. “Oh God, am I underdressed?”
Beside him, Mac chuckled. “You look great.”
Russel checked himself out in the rear-view mirror. He’d smoothed his pale blond hair down so it draped over his right eye. He was wearing foundation to smooth out his skin tone and hide the chickenpox scars on his face, as well as a small amount of eyeliner and mascara to make his ice-blue eyes really pop. He’d worn a flamboyant white linen shirt, laced up at the neck and cuffs, which was tucked into skin-tight leather trousers. Although his clothes were fairly monochrome, his boots were not. Luckily, he’d had a knee-length pair in almost the exact same shade of pink as the shirt he’d bought for Mac.
He turned his face from side to side, making sure his foundation was definitely doing its job. “I do look fantastic, don’t I?”
“You know, I hadn’t realised how modest you are.”
Russel rolled his eyes. “Look, Big Guy, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. There’s no point in wandering through life, putting yourself down. There are more than enough people out there who will be happy to do that for you. Open the door for me.”
“What?”
“We need to make a good entrance. What better way than for you to act all Prince Charming and help me out of the car?”
“It’s a taxi. Not a fucking limo. And you’re a reporter, not the star guest.”
Russel pressed his lips together and stared at Mac.
Mac rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
He got out of the car and shut the door more softly than Russel was expecting. He tromped round the back and opened the door for Russel, holding his hand out. Russel graciously accepted it, smiling and preening like a peacock as he stepped out of the car.
The taxi pulled away, and a man in a suit, holding a clipboard, hurried over to them.
“Names?”
“Russel Cantillon and guest.”
He tried not to fidget as Mac stared at him and the attendant checked his name off the list.
“The party will start soon,” the attendant told them. “Feel free to mingle. If you wish to take photographs for your publication, you may do so outside. When you enter the house, hand your camera to me, and I’ll take care of it for you until you’re ready to leave.”
Russel almost complained but stopped himself. “I’ll be sure to take lots of photos while I have the chance.” He gave the attendant a saccharine smile before looping his arm through Mac’s. “Come along, darling. Doesn’t everyone look absolutely divine?”
As they walked away from the attendant, Mac leant in to him. “That’s not your last fucking name.” Luckily, the big man had the decency to whisper.
“How would you know?” They hadn’t actually swapped surnames, so it was almost alarming that Mac had guessed the truth.
“It’s not, though, is it?” Mac jostled his shoulder.
Russel bristled and tried to stand tall. “It’s the name I go by.” He could have lied about it but, for some reason, hadn’t wanted to.
“I knew it!” Mac said triumphantly.
“Behave.” Russel waved his free hand in the direction of a waiter. “And go fetch a couple of drinks while I start taking photos.”
“I’m your boyfriend, darling, not your slave.”
Russel’s mouth began to water as his imagination supplied an image of a very naked, very submissive Mac waiting on him hand and foot. He swallowed before trusting himself to talk. “Please could you get me a drink?”
Mac stepped away from him and bowed. “It would be my pleasure.”
Chuckling, Russel readied the camera that was hanging around his neck and moved away to start taking photos. He introduced himself before doing so, showing each couple his press pass. Unsurprisingly, no one had a problem with posing or showing him their best sides. While most of the men were dressed in lounge suits, there were some gorgeous dresses on show. There was a stunning burgundy ball gown with dozens of layers of tulle and embellished with thousands of crystal rhinestones. A Givenchy sheath dress in champagne looked exquisite, proving you didn’t need to spend several thousand to look like a million dollars. The list of designers and fabulous dresses went on and on, making the party a literal feast for the eyes. Remy Lawrence had certainly invited beautiful people and beautiful couples, which was starting to make Russel feel inferior.
“These people are so fake,” Mac said through gritted teeth as Russel joined him at the edge of the crowd. Mac handed him a flute of champagne.
“Well, yes. They’re all socialites dying to get into the press. But you never know, you might like them if you talk to them.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
Russel doubted it too. He barely knew Mac, but he could tell this was not the big man’s scene at all.
“How long do we have to stay?” Mac asked.
“A few hours.”
“A few—” Mac shook his head and downed the remnants of his champagne. “You can’t even take photos inside. Are you drinking that?” He didn’t wait for a response before relieving Russel of the champagne flute and downing the contents. The bubbles made his nose fizz.
“Rude!” Russel exclaimed, rolling the R. “I’m a reporter. Pictures are only part of it. I need to write an article too.”
“Fine.” Mac put both the champagne flutes onto the empty tray of a passing waiter.
Russel touched Mac’s arm, resisting the sudden urge to feel the man’s strong muscles. “We won’t stay until the end, I promise.”
“Whatever.”
The sound of a spoon ringing on glass drew their attention to the top of the stairs, where a man in a black morning suit cleared his throat and peered down at the assembled guests.
“Mr Lawrence would like to welcome you to his home. If you would all be so kind as to follow me…” He turned and walked primly through the open double doors.
Russel shifted his weight quickly from foot to foot. “Oh, this is so exciting!”
“You don’t normally come to these things?”
“I wish.”
“At least I won’t be the only one without a fucking clue, then.”
Russel gave Mac’s arm a light tap. “First tip: stop swearing.”
Mac gritted his teeth. “Don’t you love me for who I am, darling?”
Russel glared at him. “Not when you’re being an uncouth beast, sweetheart.”
Despite their exchange, Mac held his arm out for Russel to loop his through. Together, they walked up the steps behind the majority of the guests and into Remy Lawrence’s vast home. Before they went through the doo
r, the attendant who had welcomed them held his hand out for Russel’s camera.
“Take care of it,” Russel said as he reluctantly handed it over. He’d captured some amazing photos, which would look fabulous alongside his article.
The attendant nodded smartly and waved them through into the house.
Russel couldn’t help but gape at the artwork hanging in the hallway as they passed through it, into a huge ballroom. He leant closer to Mac so he could drop his voice to a whisper.
“There must be hundreds of thousands of pounds of fine art here.”
Mac shrugged. “Doesn’t look like anything special to me.”
“Oh my God!” It was hard for Russel not to raise his voice to a squeal. “Is that a Lowry?” He pointed as surreptitiously as he could.
“Looks like a bunch of stickmen to me.”
Russel’s jaw went slack. “You cannot be serious!” His voice rose into a high-pitched squeak.
“What? I’m not into art.”
“Clearly.”
The ballroom was a magnificent sky-blue room with a fresco-painted ceiling. Extravagant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, twinkling with lights. Food had been set out on long tables, covered in floor-length white cloths along the back wall of the room. A string quartet was set up on a temporary platform at one end of the room, and next to it, a man in tails sat at a white grand piano.
Mac whistled. “This is pretty fancy. Let’s get some food.”
Russel held him back. “We have to wait.”
“For what? The food’s there.”
“For our host.” Russel smiled. Mac’s cluelessness was pretty endearing.
Everyone had gathered in front of the food tables, facing the entrance they’d come through. It was an advantage to have come in virtually last because Russel and Mac found themselves at the front of the crowd, with a perfect view of the doorway, where the attendant was standing. He raised the glass and tinged the spoon against it again, causing silence to descend.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce your host, Remy Lawrence.” He stepped away from the door.
Russel’s jaw dropped when Remy Lawrence walked into the room. He was tall and slender, with perfectly styled designer stubble. He was wearing an electric-blue tartan suit, with an ice-pink shirt and burgundy bow tie. His shoes were also burgundy, slender and tapering to a point at the toe.
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