Page 33 of Fake Dating the Silver Fox

But I’m supposed to be talking, not kissing.

I push a hand to Graham’s chest, forcing space between us. We both breathe heavily, chests heaving together.

Heat floods my system, and my heart races. I can feel Graham’s heart beating hard under the flat of my palm.

Graham smiles down at me. “That was worth the wait.”

Reality crashes in. I’d meant to end things with him on the way to the event, not make out with him.

“We need to talk.”

His smile fades. “Can it wait? It’s bad luck to have a serious talk before an award ceremony.”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

He shrugs. “Besides we’re here.”

The car comes to a stop in front of the convention center, and I can see a crowd forming behind the ropes blocking off a press area. My heart bangs in my chest. I hate having my picture taken.

But that’s what I get for fake dating a celebrity.

“Make sure you keep a tight grip on Cupid’s leash,” I tell Graham. “He’s unpredictable in a crowd.”

“Really?” Graham’s brows draw together. “He seems to eat it up.”

This doesn’t describe the anxious ball of nerves that is usually Cupid. He loves riding in my purse and being close to my body, but give him a long leash, and you’re asking for trouble.

Graham climbs out of the car first, carrying Cupid in his arms. A cheer goes up from the crowd, and my confidence takes a nosedive.

These people love Graham. And they hate me. I brace myself to be called fat, ugly, and a whore.

Usually, I’m not the type to be put off by mean comments. I can take insults about my age, my occupation, or my ass.

But being called a hooker? A gold digger?

Ouch. Those comments really sting.

I take a moment to fix my smeared lipstick, mentally preparing to be attacked.

Then I hear the chant of a name from the crowd. It’s not Graham.

It’sCupid.

The outpouring of love is not for my best-selling fake boyfriend. It’s for my sweet rescue pup, who has a moderate-to-severe case of anxiety. They’re going to scare the poop out of him. Literally. I’ve cleaned up enough messes to know.

I scramble out of the backseat, leaving grace and dignity inside as I rush to rescue Cupid.

I nearly face plant on the sidewalk getting my spiked heels under me. And that’s when I witness a miracle.

Cupid trots on the end of his leash, pausing occasionally for a photo opportunity.

He’s not anxious or stressed. He’s loving it every minute of it.

The best part is that the crowd is so enamored with Cupid, they don’t even notice me.

Graham turns around, reaching for my hand. His grin makes my heart soar. I place my hand in his and allow him to lead me down the red carpet to the entrance.

I try not to hold my breath, coaching myself to take one step at a time. Cupid’s anxiety seems to have found a new home in me.

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