Page 16 of False Start
The thought had me equal parts terrified andstrangely relieved. The Weston I’d spent the night with a week ago hadn’t been present in the texts he’d sent me since we agreed to our arrangement. He’d sent practical notes like confirmation of thetime and place we would meet tonight, and tickets for his first game of the season. The lack of warmth, while not surprising, hurt more than I cared to admit. I’d openly proposed I use his fame to further my own career. Nowhere in there had he agreed to be nice to me.
It didn’t stop me craving the flash of connection I’d felt with him that night.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I unlocked my phone and found a short text.
Weston: On my way. Will text when I’m out front. It will look better if we arrive together.
I sent a thumbs up and checked the mirror again for any imperfections.
A buzzing echoed through the small bathroom, and for a moment I wondered if Weston was calling to chat. An unwanted thrill ran through me, extinguished almost as quickly when I checked the screen and the name Mom flashed across it.
“Not today, Lucifer,” I muttered, rejecting the call and wandering into my closet to find my shoes. I knew I’d have to talk to her eventually, but my anxiety was high enough without her particular brand of ‘rip you down to build myself up’ love. I wondered if Duckie felt the same way about her, or whether having Dad as a buffer meant she didn’t feel as utterly worthless as I did. My phone buzzed with a notification, and I breathed a sigh of relief when it was Weston’s name that appeared.
I slipped the device into my purse, then pulled on my shoes in a rush, worried any delay would upset my date.
The noises of the city crashed over me as I stumbled out the front door of my tiny apartment complex. Car horns, raised voices, the rush of tires over asphalt, all of it built to an overwhelming crescendo that faded into the background as Inoticed a towering figure leaning casually against a black SUV. The gray suit fit him like a glove, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the trim cut of his waist, even in his relaxed pose. Beneath the double breasted collar, a forest green shirt peeked out — a perfect match to the dress I had chosen. He’d forgone a tie and left a couple of buttons undone at the base of his throat. My stomach warmed at the sight, and I had to send a reminder to my vagina to behave. She wasn’t getting a redo with this man. He was doing us a favor. That was all.
A very sexy, unattainable favor.
He glanced up from his phone as I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of him, and I had to swallow past a nervous lump as his eyes took a slow sweep over my body.
Did I look appropriate? Should I write off the entire night and go hide under my blankets upstairs?
“You look beautiful,” he said, tucking his phone away as he straightened and opened the car door. “Are you ready to go?” He held a hand out toward me, guiding me into the seat.
“Thank you. And yes, please.”
Yes, please?
He jogged around the front and slid into the driver’s seat a moment later.
“Have you been to one of these events before?” he asked, merging seamlessly into traffic and heading toward downtown.
“Umm… I catered one once. When I first moved to Chicago. I haven’t attended as a guest, though. I’m still working on getting my name out there.” I cut myself off as I realized I’d stumbled across the elephant in the room. My name was going to be out there now. Because of him.
“Showbusiness is pretty cutthroat, huh?” he asked, but I couldn’t read anything in his tone.
Was it condemning? Or was I just hyperaware of the circumstances we had found ourselves in. How were we going to sell this relationship if I stressed over every interaction we had?
“We should talk about how tonight is going to go,” I said, picking at the hem of my dress. The more I thought about the event, the more images of us being called out on the fallacy of our relationship danced through my anxious brain.
“What if people know it’s not real?”
Weston slowed the car as we approached a red light and turned in his seat. “No one has any reason to suspect it’s fake. We can talk about limits in public, though. I want you to be comfortable. Are you okay with hand holding? Is there anywhere you would be uncomfortable with me touching you?”
“I’m ok with anything.”
He frowned, glancing at the still red light before refocusing on me.
“Anything is a very broad term. Would you be comfortable with a kiss?”
I hooked my fingers beneath the hem of my dress and pressed my nails into my thighs.
“Anything is fine, Weston. I’m an actress. Boundaries don’t exist for us.”
“So I could fuck you in the middle of the red carpet and that would be fine and dandy?”
I pressed my nails in harder. Beside me, he was statue-still, his eyes intent on me despite the green light coloring the interior of the truck.
