Page 6 of Faking the Pass
His condescending tone shamed me. It was echoed by the ever present voice inside me thatoh so helpfullyreminded me of all my past mistakes and warned I couldn’t trust my own instincts.
How could I have been so stupid?
Again?
I dropped my chin to my chest, my ears growing hot and no doubt glowing like taillights on the highway. I wished I could fold in on myself, forming smaller and smaller shapes until I disappeared altogether.
He was right. Ishouldhave known it.
Fans had started shipping us as soon as the announcement went out that Randy and I would be co-starring inOnce Upon a Charm.
Anticipation of the movie’s premiere was now at a fever pitch thanks to our “true love story,” which echoed the film’s Cinderella-inspired storyline.
A rags-to-riches story with a fairytale ending. A nobody chosen by a wealthy, highly sought-after man.
As one of the film’s producers, Randy had been nothing less than thrilled by the public buy-in to our off-screen relationship.
He loved to tell the story of how he rescued a struggling actress from poverty and anonymity, presenting himself as a starmaker.
A real-life Prince Charming.
While I’d craved privacy and had sought to protect our newlovefrom invasive attention,he’d been positively triumphant about all the press and was eagerly anticipating a blockbuster opening weekend.
Now I understood.
My face dropped into my hands as my head spun, and my meager breakfast curdled in my stomach.
What a fool I am.
For the first time since her death six months ago, I reallywasglad my mom wasn’t here.
Today’s event was never meant to be a real wedding but the crescendo of a strategic run-up to a big budget film release.
A PR stunt.
I just wished someone had bothered to tell me.
Chapter 2
Something I Never Allowed
Presley Lowe—two hours earlier
“I appreciate everything you and Dad have done for me this week, but really, I need to go home and be in my own house. I’ll be fine.”
My mother paused in the act of sliding a fresh batch of doughnuts onto one of the many food platters lining the kitchen island and slidmea chiding glance that made me feel nine years old again.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Presley,” she said. “It’s only been five days since your surgery. You can’t possibly take care of yourself yet. You can’t even button your own shirt. Wil, talk some sense into your son.”
Dad, wise man that he was, didn’t contradict her. “Your mom’s right, Pres.”
A former player himself, my father towered over my five-foot-two mother. Physically.
Her will stood tall though, and she’d rocked an enormous stage presence back when she’d been the frontwoman in a popular 80’s rock band—thus her younger sons’ musician-inspired names.
Our oldest brother Wilder had been named after our father.
“I’m a thirty-four-year-old man and a professional athlete,” I argued. “I think I can manage showering alone and scrambling a few fucking eggs.”
