Max came up and slapped him on the back. “He tried to jump off the roof.”
I gasped.
“Chill with the hero worship.” Max shrugged. “It was ten feet. Home skillet would have been just fine.”
“Where’s the damn waiter?” Grandma shouted. Somehow the wine bottle was empty, and her lips were red. She was the antivampire—the picture you showed children in order to get them to realize vampires weren’t cool but terrifying and covered with liver spots.
“So . . .” Max squeezed Reid’s shoulder. “Do you concede?”
Reid’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenched in a hard line. “Never.”
Max lifted a glass into the air. “Then shall we toast?”
Reid slammed his glass against Max’s. “May the best man win.” At this point I was a bit confused as to what winning entailed. It almost seemed like it was more of a competition between how long Reid could torture Max before he broke. After all, Reid and I were still in a situation where we had to pretend to be in a relationship, so really all Reid had accomplished with his silly taunt was keeping Max from sex for a few extra months.
“He already has,” Max offered in a bored tone. “Trust me, a few weeks of trying to tame this one—” He paused and offered an apologetic smile. “No offense, small fry, but when I went through your stuff, I didn’t even find red underwear. It wouldn’t hurt you to try to look sexy, just sayin’.” He shifted his eyes to Reid while I was ready to scratch his eyes out. “And you’ll back down, they always do. At least until this whole media storm blows over. You guys will have had some good times, right? Playing house while living in hell.” He chuckled.
Reid let out a bitter laugh. “Please, all I have to do is make everyone believe I care about her. How hard can it be?”
Something inside me snapped. It’s not like Reid owed me anything. I mean, for the most part I was semi in his debt, but hearing his lack of interest from his lips still made me flinch and my heart skip with disappointment.
Because he was gorgeous.
And even though I was no longer invisible to him.
I’d turned into something else much worse.
A game.
A means to an end.
And I knew it would end. He’d walk away happy as a clam, successful, rich, even more famous. And I’d still be lonely, at home with my dog and my plant. I needed to stop focusing on what I’d be losing and think about what I’d be gaining.
More money.
I knocked back more wine.
A promotion.
Someone filled up my glass again.
An impeccable reputation!
More chugging.
“I like her,” Max whispered. “She drinks when she freaks out. Does she know any party tricks?”
I ignored his jab and met Reid’s stare. “We’ve got this.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed. “Of course we do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
REID
Of course, as life—or the universe—would have it, the minute the words of course we do left my mouth, a few cameras went off.
Several screams followed.
And to save time and the embarrassment of retelling the story and suffering through it for a second time, I’ll condense.
Grandma’s shirt flew off, landing on Jason’s head.
Midtoss, the shirt grazed the candle, landing near Jason’s hand and causing second-degree burns.
Max, trying to be helpful, threw wine in Jason’s general direction.
Jason, before the wine could reach him, stopped, dropped, and rolled. This is where I pause the story and say, kids, Jason made the right choice in this situation, and at any other time we’d be talking about the importance of fire safety.
What Jason didn’t know was that Grandma had used the commotion as a way to slink under the table and make her way on all fours in my direction.
Jason landed on her.
Her wig covered her face.
She felt man.
And just went for it.
Let’s pause again. An on-fire Jason is being held down by a freakishly strong elderly woman with smeared lipstick and a thirst that can’t be quenched.
Oh, and there are cameras.
Somehow, Milo managed to grab Grandma before anything illegal and not very biblical took place.
Colton tried to usher the paparazzi out of the private room.
And everything seemed to be dying down.
Until Max.
You’ll hear me say that a lot. Until Max. Because of Max. That’s my life. I’m used to it by now, or I should be.
But what he did in that moment was so unforgivable he’s lucky he’s not walking funny.
“Jordan!” he yelled. “How dare you! I’m to be married! Married!” he screeched, then dumped water on her hair. Immediately her hair started fighting against the constraints of whatever flimsy pins she’d put in it to fasten it down.
It popped out of its bun.
Cameras went crazy.
I rushed over to her, tripping over Jason, who was still on the floor rolling and smoking like a sausage.
My hands reached out to grab something to stabilize myself. That something just happened to be Jordan’s wrap dress.
I fell.
And took the dress down with me.
Leaving her exposed for the world to see.
“Huh.” Max knocked back another glass of wine. “Didn’t take her for the corset type of girl, but look at that—black!” He lifted his glass toward me. “Black lingerie for the win, bro!”
“Reid!” Jordan shrieked at the top of her lungs.
I slowly released her dress and winced as I used Jason’s head to help myself to my feet. Jordan’s cheeks bright red.
“Bravo!” Grandma shouted as she made her way out from under the table. “What a show!”
I groaned as Jordan hurriedly covered herself up and seethed in my direction. Body trembling, she looked like she was ready to burst into tears.
“Jordan, I’m—”
“Don’t!” she hissed.
“It’s not that bad,” I said helpfully as Jordan slammed a newspaper onto the breakfast bar a few days later. Quite honestly I’d thought the worst was over and Jordan had managed to do what she did best and spin the story into something that even I would believe—we were acting out a scene from the movie.
It was the only way to explain the craziness of the situation.
But, as luck would have it—or should I say, Jordan’s luck—it was leaked that there was no grandmother in the movie, with the help, I’m sure, of Max’s talking to reporters, and, well, suddenly all the pictures surfaced. I coughed into my coffee, the noise distracting me from Jordan’s seething. She’d been living with me for four days and already we’d stumbled into a routine. She made coffee, I made breakfast, and no words were spoken until both were consumed. It worked.
She cursed as she turned the paper over.
I winced. “I mean you look great naked, so . . .”
Jordan’s nostrils flared. “The headline says ‘Trouble in Shrewland’!”
I made a face behind my coffee cup. “Right. Let’s focus on the positive. Any publicity is good publicity, right?”
She slammed her hand onto the newspaper and pointed at the rest of the pictures. Grandma’s blouse was open, Jason was on fire, wine was taking flight midair along with Jordan’s hair, and I was on my knees—like either I was waiting to get knighted or my head was about to get chopped off. Then again, one could also argue that it looked like I was about to sexually please Jordan amid the chaos. That had to be good, right?
I took a sip of coffee. The silence in the kitchen was deafening. I’d woken up to Jordan pacing back and forth in my living room, coffee in hand, arguing with someone I could only assume was her boss on the phone.
The dark circles under her eyes screamed no sleep.
And I had to report to set in about a half hour.
Meaning, she was on her own as far
as our publicity was concerned, which was kind of nice, if you asked me. Having Jordan was like having my own personal OnStar button. I pressed her, she dealt with the drama, and I was free to work without stress.
I cracked my neck and went to pour myself another cup of coffee while Jordan continued silently fuming, her fingernails making an irritating tap, tap noise against the granite.
She stopped tapping.
And for some reason, the hair on the back of my arms stood at full attention. “Jordan?” I asked without turning around. “Don’t do anything crazy, okay?”
“Reid . . .” Her voice was syrupy sweet. I’d always hated sweet things—candy, ice cream—and holy shit, this was why: because after you eat something sweet you always feel sick. My stomach rolled.
“Yes?” I said hoarsely.
“Your brother was on a reality show . . . yes?”
Dread pumped through my system. “Uh-huh.”
“And you were one of the producers, right? On Love Island?”
I backed away slowly. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean anything, right? Hey, Jordan, I need to go—”
“Stop!” she yelled in a low voice. “Right there.”
I did.
“Turn.”
Hanging my head, I slowly turned around. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to work! I’m a professional, I still have two more weeks of filming and—”
Her toothy grin was captivating albeit terrifying.
“How do you seduce a woman?”
“Huh?” My jaw snapped shut, then opened. “Not what I was expecting, but okay . . . you give her compliments, buy her drinks, tell her she’s—” I stopped talking as fear trickled down my spine, leaving me a little shaky. I crossed my arms as her eyebrows shot higher and higher at my explanations. “What? What’s wrong?”
“They want a story.” Jordan bit down on her bottom lip. “So we’re going to be the ones to tell it.”
“I’m confused.”
“Two weeks of complete access . . .” Jordan clapped her hands. “It’s perfect! We’ll air little snippets of your”—she snorted—“advice on taming.”
I nodded. “That could work.”
“You have a YouTube channel?”
“No.”
“Oh, then we’ll just put it up on Twitter.”
I frowned.
“Facebook?”
“I’m never on.”
“Do you have the Internet?” she said slowly, her mouth enunciating each word like I was three years old and still couldn’t sound out cat.
I rolled my eyes. “Of course I have Internet.”
“Right, but do you use it?”
I shifted on my feet. “I’m busy, I don’t have time to tweet or get online and share pictures on the instogram!”
Her eyes widened in what I could only assume was horror as she covered her face. “Instagram, Reid, it’s Instagram!”
“Why does this matter?”
“Because!” She slammed her fist onto the table. “I refuse to let you take me down! I’m the best damn publicist in the business and you WILL be successful even if I have to hold your hand and kick you in the ass the entire time!”
“Violent,” Max yelled through the wall. “I can dig.”
She started pacing in front of me. “This is all my fault! Normally on the first day I grab all the passwords to your social media sites and start scheduling posts about whatever project you’re working on to get you to connect with your audience, but I’ve been so stressed with this shrew business and . . .” She placed her hands on her hips and huffed out a breath.
I set my coffee on the counter and leaned against it. “Jordan, it’s going to be fine. So, you hook me up with social media, and we—what?”
Jordan grinned, took a sip of coffee, and winked. It was a hell of a turn-on, that smoky look she was giving me, but I knew, in my gut, it meant bad things for me and all my male parts.
“Why, Reid,” she said in a low voice. “We give the people what they want.” She stalked toward me, then trailed her fingertips down my chest.
I shuddered out a strained breath as my eyes took in her button-down shirt. One more button and I could see her breasts. Two more and I could grab—
Jordan snapped her fingers. “Eyes up here, focus.”
“Huh?”
A soft finger tilted my chin, like I was getting inspected. “You gush about how you’re trying to seduce me, how you’re treating me, how all men should treat the women in their lives, even the difficult ones. We do a few videos for YouTube, post to Facebook, hell, we’ll even do a few exclusive interviews. We hit it hard for the next two weeks, and by the time I’m finished with you, every woman in America is going to want to have your love child.”
“Oh, good.” I gulped. “Because that’s what every little boy dreams of when they’re little. Forget being a firefighter, Mom. I want to be a whore!”
“Shh.” Jordan released my chin and slapped my chest. “How hard can it be? With eyes like that, you’re a natural. Just do what you normally do to get chicks: throw some poetry in the mix, some chocolate, and some personal advice from yours truly and we’re going to have the world eating out of your hand. Reid Emory.” She nodded slowly. “America’s newest heartthrob. So sweet it hurts.”
My balls were tingling, like they’re prone to do when the male body senses danger. I took another step toward the door. “Okay, but . . . you can’t freak out when it works.”
“Works?” She frowned.
I grabbed my keys and smirked. “When you want me so desperately you can’t think of anything else except finding ways to rip my pants off and crawl into my bed.”
“Oh, please!” She snorted. “If you’re done dreaming”—she pointed to a nonexistent watch on her left hand—“you should get to set. I’ll meet you there after I send out the press release.”
I froze. “You’ll meet me? Why?”
She grinned. “Because I’m your shrew . . . and you’re seducing me, taming me, showing me how big bad boy actors get shit done. It may be fake, but it’s a love story and people want to believe in love. Look at The Bachelor! Almost every single couple breaks up, yet this last season was the highest rated in history. People want to believe it’s real even if they know the facts point in an entirely different direction. Your movie is a love story, but if they think it’s not just a movie but your life, we can drum up some incredible PR. Now, you better knock my socks off during your first break today. Because it’s going to be the first thing America sees. Welcome to day one, soldier.”
“I don’t remember signing up for the army. Or boot camp, for that matter.”
Jordan gave me a knowing grin. “Welcome to Hollywood.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JORDAN
It was the perfect plan. The type of plan that would solidify the promotion. I’d been so terrified of being in the public eye that I’d forgotten what it could actually do to help Reid. If I controlled what the media saw and was able to time everything myself, then I wouldn’t be as stressed. It was so perfect that I was irritated with myself that I hadn’t come up with it sooner. Give the people what they want, just like Max said. And what did they want?
What I told them they wanted, that’s what!
Women want an actor they can identify with. They want the next Channing Tatum, the next Ryan Reynolds. The hot guy who loves his wife or significant other, has gorgeous babies, smiles all the time, and is both sexual and sexy. Never over-the-top, always willing to party with Jimmy Fallon, and so thankful they’re in blockbuster movies that they feel the need to blurt said thankfulness on social media on a daily basis. They’re kind, selfless, buy groceries, and never party on the weekend.
I was creating the perfect actor.
I had no idea if Reid was any of those things. Was he nice? Yes, he saved me from homelessness.
Did he love his family? Of course! One could even say he loves others’ families too! Grandma, anyone? Ha!
Was
he dedicated to his career? How could he not be? Since he took in his poor shrewlike publicist and was teaching her the art of seduction?
My fingers flew across the keyboard as I put together his press release, including all the information about how breakout star Reid Emory was going above and beyond the role of a lifetime and truly dedicating both his mind and heart to his craft. He wasn’t just taming the shrew—he was going to be taking her, or me, with him to all public events.
I threw in a few key details about the movie as well as some of the reviews his show had gotten on Broadway. It was about piquing people’s interest, making them want to interview him. What makes Reid Emory tick? And why was it imperative the public not only see him for who he really was, but adore him?
I was brilliant.
And the best part? I wasn’t asking him to be anything he wasn’t already! Did I feel slightly guilty that he’d be forced to act like someone he wasn’t in some situations? No. That would be like feeling guilty for putting on makeup every day. I have eyes, you just can’t see them very well without eyeliner. Does that mean that my eyes don’t exist? No, it just means they exist better with my black Nars pencil!
I giggled out loud and took another sip of coffee.
“I recognize that laugh well!” Max yelled from the other apartment.
“Don’t you work?”
He coughed twice. “Doctor’s appointment?”
“Right, and I’m naked.”
He was quiet. And then: “Does Reid know?”
I took a soothing deep breath and licked my lips. “Look, if you have something to say, just come over and say it rather than yelling through these paper-thin walls.”
He didn’t answer.
Which led me to assume he was done bothering me.
I learned very quickly one should never assume where Max was concerned. The door to the apartment opened and Max waltzed through holding two Starbucks cups.
It was like he knew my thoughts.
My eyes narrowed. “How’d you know?”
He handed me a cup and shrugged his muscled shoulders. The man wore a suit well, and I was pretty sure he was aware of it. “I’m Max.”