Page 12 of Damsel in Defense
Our conversation is cut off after that as the plane comes to a stop and passengers begin to move around the cabin.We wait our turn to exit, then start making our way through the airport together.The moment we step past security, it happens again—phones lifted, flashes flickering, whispers spreading.
I feel her tense beside me.Her body goes rigid, and she instinctively shrinks inward.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, ducking her head.“I’m like bad luck with a pulse.Maybe we should say our goodbyes now.It was—”
I stop walking.“Victoria,” I say, gently but firmly.“This attention?It’s not your fault.”
She lifts her eyes to meet mine, skeptical.
“You didn’t take the photo,” I add.“You didn’t sell it.You didn’t make people care more about gossip than facts.That’s onthem.”
Something softens in her, just for a second.
It’s the kind of softness that comes from surprise.Like she’s not used to people saying that sort of thing and meaning it.
I reach for her hand, intertwining our fingers, and give it a squeeze.“Now, ignore those bastards and come with me.I have a ride service picking me up, and we’re going to the same place.”
She nods and follows without another word.
We head toward the pickup area, and I text my driver that we’re here.He’s been circling the airport, waiting for my flight to arrive.A minute later, I wave a hand at the black SUV as it comes around the corner.
I can still hear the snapping of pictures and the distant shouts of the photographers, but I don’t turn around.Instead, I pull Victoria closer to my body so that she’s protected from all elements.
“Good afternoon, sir.I’ll get your bags if you want to make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks.”Opening the back door, I gesture for Victoria to get in first.She doesn’t hesitate, practically throwing herself across the leather seats.
The ride home goes by too quickly.Victoria is glued to the window, seeing Toronto from a new vantage point and asking questions.I’m happy to answer her questions, but I also have one of my own.
I know what I’m about to pitch to her is mind-boggling, but I truly believe it will help both of us.
By the time we reach our building, she’s almost relaxed again.We pull into the underground garage, grab our bags with a thank you to the driver, and then we ride the elevator in silence.
It’s only when we hit her floor that I speak again.
“Victoria,” I say, turning toward her as the doors ding open.“There’s something I want to run by you.”
“No, you can’t borrow any sugar.Mostly because I don’t have any sugar.I don’t have any food in my apartment right now other than chips.”
I smile at her joke.“No, I wanted to ask… How do you feel about fake dating?”
“Like in books?”
“No, like you and me.As a couple.”
She stares.Dead silent.
“I—” She blinks, then laughs once, disbelieving.“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“Youwant to dateme?”
“Fakedate you.”
“Right.That makes way more sense.”She drops her bag on the floor.“What the hell are you talking about?Is this because of the photo?”
“Yes and no.You and I both have a PR problem.The tabloids are making you out to be a villain right now.If you’re dating the ‘Golden Boy’”—I make air quotes, hating myself for even uttering that nickname—“a little bit of my good press may carry over to you.It may change perceptions and minds.”
