His eyes widen, and he shakes his head, the picture of confusion. "In that case, what the hell is going on?"
Before I can even think how I'm possibly going to answer that, Lyle bursts inside, his expression tight, as if he's holding in a burning rage. "I'm sorry," he says, then looks around, as if ready to kick something. An assumption that's borne out when he lashes out brutally and punches the air. "God, Sugar. I'm so damn sorry."
"Really?" I snap. "And what exactly are you sorry about? Sneaking out of my house this morning? Setting a horde of reporters on me? Making up a fake engagement? Because I'm a little fuzzy on the details of your apology."
"All of the above," he says. "Except I didn't make up the engagement. I came here trying to warn you and do damage control."
His voice is calm. Rational. And I don't care at all. Right now, I'm not in the mood to be soothed.
"Well, thanks for that tiny little favor. Now do you think you could quit with the hollow apologies and just tell me what the fuck is going on?"
"I'll second that," Greg says, making me jump. He's only standing a few feet away, but I'd been so focused on Lyle, that I'd completely tuned him out. "I saw your picture from last night at that art thing, and I was going to ask how you know an actual celebrity. But fake engagement? I mean, Christ, Laine. Are you in trouble?"
I shoot an angry glance toward Lyle. "Not the kind you mean."
"Then what kind do you mean?"
"Look," Lyle cuts in. "This is between Sugar and me."
"Greg was invited," I snap. "You weren't."
"Exactly," Greg says, looking smug. "And she prefers Laine," Greg says, and my stomach twists a little. Because generally, Greg is right. But when Lyle says Sugar, it sounds like an endearment. And even as furious as I am right now, I kind of like the sound of it.
Shit.
I square my shoulders, reminding myself that he is not off the hook--not by a long shot--then turn my attention back to Lyle. "So?" I demand. "Tell me what this is all about."
He cuts a glance toward Greg, and stays silent. I sigh. "However this plays out, I'm not keeping it a secret from Greg or from Joy."
"Dammit, Laine. You--"
"You don't agree? Then leave right now. Because I'm thinking that we're way, way, way outside any NDA. And you know what? Even if we weren't, you can just sue me." I put my hands on my hips and stare him down.
And the bastard actually smiles.
Okay, he's fighting it. But I can see his mouth twitching.
I cross my arms and glare.
"Fine," he says. "But right now, can we talk in private? And the two of them need to be able to keep a secret."
Greg steps forward. "Who the hell do you--"
"Please," I say, taking his arm. "You have to keep this to yourself. It's important."
"To him?"
"To me," I say. "And I really will fill you in, but later. Right now, I need you to do something for me."
It's his turn to cross his arms. "What?"
I turn to Lyle and hold out my hand. "Give me your keys."
He stares at me, clearly baffled by my out-of-context request.
I snap my fingers. "Now would be good."
To his credit, he drops them into my hand before he asks, "Why?"
"You're double-parked in front of my car, and you're going to end up getting towed. Greg's going to take your car to Totally Tattoo and leave it in the back with the keys under the mat." Cass is one of the few business owners with an actual parking area on her property. "You can tell Joy what's happened," I tell Greg. "And that Lyle will get the car soon, and I'll fill her in more later. They both know Lyle, so I don't think anyone will mind."
To his credit, Lyle doesn't balk at this plan.
"I don't like leaving you here like this," Greg says. "That mess outside? He's the one who set you up for that." He points an accusing finger at Lyle, who holds his hands up in defense.
"Please," I say, suddenly exhausted. "I really need--I just need to talk to Lyle alone."
"Fine," he says curtly.
"Thanks," I say, then give him a hug. "I'll explain everything later, okay?"
He doesn't look happy about it, but he nods, shoots Lyle a nasty glare, then heads out the front door.
The moment it shuts behind him, I lash out. "You son-of-a-bitch. I let you into my house--I bring you into my home--and you skulk out without even saying goodbye? In case you forgot, last night wasn't a commercial transaction. So how the hell do you think that made me feel?"
"I wanted to let you sleep."
I tilt my head and give him my look of doom. "You know what? Fuck it. Just go. I put on the little show for your reporters, and now I think we're done here." I start to push past him toward the kitchen.
"Wait." He reaches for my arm, but I twist out of his grasp. "Please. I really am sorry. I didn't mean--"
"What? To leave? I'm pretty sure you meant it."
He exhales, looking completely worn out. Then he walks past me and sits on my couch.
"Make yourself at home," I mutter as Skittles jumps onto his lap, curls up, and starts to purr.
I take a seat across from him on the coffee table, mostly because I want to see his eyes while we have this conversation. Except he doesn't start talking. "Well?"
"About this engagement thing, I swear I didn't--"
"Hold on, there, pal. We're still at the part where you left me in bed, wallowing in humiliation."
His exhaustion seems to shift into frustration, though whether it's aimed at me or at himself, I can't tell. "I apologized, Laine. Do you think I don't know I screwed up? That I hurt you? I get that. But I'm not used to this."
"Not used to what? Waking up next to a woman whose body you didn't pay for? Gee, I wonder why. Maybe it's because you're an emotional idiot who doesn't have a clue how to deal with a woman who's not on his goddamned payroll."
My anger propels me up and off the coffee table. I turn, lashing out to kick a wicker basket full of pillows. They tumble out soundlessly, and the whole thing is so anticlimactic, I drop to the floor and clutch one to my chest.
"Oh, crap. I'm sorry." I take a deep breath, mortified by all the vitriol that just came out of my mouth. "But you've really managed to piss me off."
"I see that," he says. "And if it's any consolation, you're right."
"Good to know. About what?"
"Pretty much everything," he says, coming to sit on his heels in front of me. "But you can lead with the emotional idiot part."
I have to force myself not to smile, but there's no denying that I feel better. This is the guy I like. The one who made me smile last night.
Who made me feel things I haven't felt in a very long time.
I twist my fingers together, my head bent now, because if I look into his eyes, he's going to be the one who sees too much. "You left," I say again, only this time I sound much calmer. "There was something between us--at least I thought there was. And you freaked, then you bolted. And you didn't even care how that would make me feel."
"Hey," he says gently, taking my hands, so that right then, his touch is the only thing I'm aware of. "Emotional idiot, remember?"
"Why did you go?" I pull my hands away. His touch is too soothing, and I'm not sure I want to be soothed.
"I had to be at a media circus at nine. But you're right. I should have said goodbye."
He brushes my cheek, then cups my chin, so that I don't have any choice but to look at him. "Last time, okay? I really am sorry."
He leans forward, and I feel my chest tighten in anticipation, my lips tingling from the memory of his kisses. I want that, damn me. That closeness I felt last night. And I lean forward, not even thinking. Just reacting.
And it's only when I feel that first tentative brush of his lips against mine that I realize what's happening, and I turn my face sharply away. "No," I whisper. "I don't think so."
For a moment, I think he's angry. But then he nods, just one quick jerk of his head, before he stands
up and returns to the couch.
I stand as well, but I'm too restless to sit. "All of that was just door number one, remember? Now it's time to talk about the press invasion on my front lawn."
"Yeah," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. "About that..."
"Why would you tell someone we're engaged? And then not clue me into that little fact?"
"I didn't. Rip did."
It takes me a minute to process that information. "The guy you were in that sitcom with?"
He nods. "Apparently, he did a little rumor spreading during the opening last night. And then Frannie chatted up a few reporters, and it spun out of control from there."
"Why? I mean, why would Rip do that? And for that matter, why did it have to start spinning? Couldn't you have told Frannie or the reporter or whoever that Rip had his facts wrong?"
"As for the first, he probably did it to piss me off. He knows I don't date and don't like to be in the spotlight where relationships are concerned. And he's a little jealous that I'm doing movies now, and his last show was a web series.
"And as for why I didn't correct him," Lyle continues, "I honestly didn't think about it. Then again," he adds softly, "maybe it was there in the back of my mind."
"What was?"
"That if you were my pretend fiancee, I'd get to see you again."
"Oh." I draw a breath, hoping he can't tell how much I like hearing those words.
"Will you do it?" he asks. "Backing off now would draw the kind of attention I don't want. And besides, being engaged is a sure fire way to keep Frannie at bay for the filming."
"The filming? You aren't even set to begin for weeks, right?"
"Our engagement doesn't have to be that long. Two weeks, very public. Then we can break up. With any luck, Frannie will have found another man. And even if she hasn't, I can claim a broken heart and the hope of reconciliation. She'll leave me alone," he says with certainty.
"And that's it? That's all I have to do? Pretend to be engaged?"
He nods. "You in? I'm willing to pay."
"Damn right, you are," I say. "This is going to be an arms-length transaction or not at all."
He laughs. "Well, then name your price."
I think about it, then nod. What the hell, right? I might as well go for broke. "Sixteen thousand, nine-hundred seventy-four dollars."
"Well," he says with a small frown. "That's a very exact number."
"The amount I need to pay off the loan, minus the ten I already applied, and the five you paid me for our date. I'm not applying the value of the thousand-dollar bill, because I think it's cool, and I don't want to sell it. And I'm not applying the two grand I've saved because that would clean me out. Or the money I could get as a cash advance off my credit cards. Because then I'd just have more debt." I shrug. "So that's the number. Take it or leave it."
"Done."
"Really?" I grin. I was expecting more of a battle.
"Really," he acknowledges. "You're my adoring fiancee, in public and in private."
I take a step toward him. "Fair enough," I say. "As long as we're clear on one thing. I'll be your girl, and I'll put on a show for whoever's watching. As for the private part? You can sleep here, or I'll sleep at your place. And we can take day trips together and put on quite the show for the media. And if you really want me to, I'll even do your laundry."
I'm right in front of him now, and I press my finger to his lips, then trace it down, down, down, all the way to the fly of his jeans. "But that's as far as private goes. This," I add, cupping his crotch, "isn't part of our deal at all."
I back away as I feel his cock stiffen under my hand, then smile sweetly. "Those are the terms," I say. "Take them or leave them."
16
Lyle caught himself smiling as he walked toward Totally Tattoo. The kind of big, goofy grin that spreads across a guy's face when the cute girl in fourth period agrees to go out with him. A happy smile, chock full of possibilities and promise for the future. Or, at the very least, one really awesome night in a parked car.
A smile that, in Lyle's case, was nine kinds of ironic considering Sugar had pretty much shut him down cold.
But he didn't care. Or, more accurately, he considered no sex a small price to pay to have her at his side for the foreseeable future.
And that was ironic, too, considering that just this morning he'd practically bolted from her house with his tail between his legs.
But that was when it had been a free-range type of situation. Without rules or parameters or expectations. Now, they both had roles to play. Which meant he was back in his comfort zone. He was a guy in love. A guy planning his wedding. A guy happy to finally have it out in the open that he'd found the girl he wanted to marry.
He could play that role. Hell, he could play that role so well they'd give him a damned Oscar even without an actual movie.
With a chuckle he rounded the corner and came up the alley behind Totally Tattoo. As he approached the low brick wall that blocked his view of the parking area, he slipped his hand into his pocket for his keys, only to remember that they weren't there.
He frowned, hoping Greg remembered to put them under the mat like Sugar had said. Surely he had--what else would he do with them, especially since it wasn't as if Greg had borrowed the Volvo to go joy riding.
But they weren't there.
Lyle checked all four mats, and there was nothing. Not even a loose coin or a cellophane wrapper from a mint. The car was completely pristine, just the way he liked it. And it was also completely absent of keys.
Well, hell.
He considered calling the guy, but he didn't have his number. And, he realized with a frown, he still didn't have Sugar's. He'd meant to get that at her house--it would have been a hell of a lot easier to warn her about the possible flood of reporters if he'd been able to make a call--but after their negotiation, he'd totally forgotten.
Most likely, Greg had left the keys inside with Cass, so Lyle headed toward the back door, surprised when it opened and Greg stepped out.
"I was just coming to look for you," Lyle said. "Well, you or my keys. Do you have--"
But he didn't get the last words out. Mostly because the rock solid punch that Greg landed in his gut knocked all the wind out of him.
He reeled, but came up fast, Riley's diligent training coming in handy as Lyle caught Greg's arm, twisted it behind his back, and held it there, mere inches from breaking.
"Fuck, man," Greg yelled. "That hurts."
"It's supposed to. And your punch wasn't exactly a tickle, either."
The door slammed open again, and this time, Joy rushed out, her eyes wide. "What on earth is going on back here? Lyle! What the hell? Let him go."
Lyle did, releasing him and shoving him at the same time, so that Greg stumbled, lost his balance, then fell on his ass.
He got up, scowling as Lyle thrust out his hand. "Give me my damn keys."
"Hold on," Joy said, coming between the two of them, and spreading her arms like a referee in a boxing match. "What just happened?"
"This asshole just punched me in the stomach."
"And that prick set Laine up. Engagement my ass."
A fresh wave of anger boiled inside him, but before he could lash out again, Joy spoke.
"No, he didn't. I just got off the phone with Laine, and it's not his fault, okay? I told you--Lyle's a good guy."
Greg made a scoffing noise, and Joy's brow lifted.
"Fine," Greg said. "Whatever."
She lowered her hands and backed away, then pointed a finger at each of them in turn. "Play nice, you two."
"Hey," Lyle said. "All I was doing was getting my car."
Greg drew in a noisy breath. "We're cool," he said to Joy. Then he faced Lyle. "But if you hurt her, we'll be a long way from cool. And I swear, I'll make your life a living hell."
"Not a problem," Lyle said. "I won't hurt her." That, at least, was a promise he intended to keep.
 
; For a moment, he thought Greg was going to say something else, but all he did was toss Lyle his keys, then turn around and head back inside.
Lyle exhaled, all the tension draining from him. "Thanks, Joy," he said, then started toward his car.
"Hold up there, Cowboy."
He paused, not sure if he was exasperated or pleased that Sugar had so many good friends. "She told you what happened," he said. "I didn't set her up with the reporters."
"I know. It's cool. It's the rest we need to talk about."
He frowned. "The rest?"
She crossed her arms and cocked her head. "I know, Lyle."
"Know?" His skin felt clammy, and a heavy lump settled in his stomach. "What exactly do you know?"
"I'm Marjorie's cousin. And her assistant. I'm one of the few that has access to everything. All above board and legal," she added, her hands going up in supplication. "You read the NDA. You know her team has access."
"What do you want?" The words were harsh. Tight.
"Not a damn thing. It's what I don't want."
"What's that?"
"Christ, Lyle, what do you think? I don't know what goes on in your head, or why you hire escorts, and I don't really want to know. I figure you have your reasons, and I'm fine with that. No judgment here--I'm not that big of a hypocrite.
"But you don't date," she continued. "You don't repeat--at least not before Laine. And all of that adds up to one big screaming red flag called issues."
"Your point?"
"That I don't give a fuck what your issues are. I like you, okay, and I hope you work through them. But whether you do or don't really isn't my problem."
He stood tense and silent, hating feeling exposed, but waiting it out because he needed to know what she was getting to, since it obviously had to do with Sugar.
"There's one thing Greg and I agree on completely," Joy said. "If you hurt her, I will take you down. Slowly, painfully, and as publicly as I can. And screw the NDA. As far as I'm concerned, it's no more important than a grocery receipt if you hurt my friend."
"I meant what I said. I'm not going to hurt her."
She searched his face, holding his eyes for longer than was comfortable. Then she nodded. "All right then. We're cool." She flashed a smile as bright as the afternoon sun. "Enjoy the rest of your Sunday."
"Wait," he called as she started to turn away. "Do you know when and where she's working tomorrow?"
"No. Why?"
"Can you find out?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Probably. You want to tell me why I should?"