Fake (West Hollywood 1)

I didn’t expect to be greeted by the man himself. I figured he’d be too busy and important for something like this. For someone like me. I hadn’t seen him since the other day at the restaurant. Everything had been handled by his “people,” as in, his lawyers. I doubted I could sneeze without express written permission for the next six months.

I’d done my fair share of wondering why me? As Angie stated so succinctly, I was average. But I guess my lack of glamour worked for the whole reformed-and-no-longer-shallow-player persona they were attempting. I don’t know. But he’d paid me a lot to put my life on hold and resurrect his reputation. So that’s what I’ll try my best to do.

“Norah,” he said with a frown, which seemed to be his face’s go-to setting. “Let me take that.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for, ah . . . for doing this.”

“Sure,” I said.

With my suitcase trailing behind him, he headed inside. As wrong as it was to objectify people, the man had an amazing ass and his jeans really showcased it. I’d never considered myself a connoisseur of asses, but his was something else. Don’t even get me started on the breadth of his shoulders.

The interior of the house wasn’t bad either. Open plan with polished concrete floors and pristine white walls. A chunky cream couch and a shaggy gray rug, along with a fireplace and various pieces of art. One side of the building seemed to be constructed entirely of glass walls or fold-back glass doors. We were perched on the side of a hill, overlooking the entire city. Talk about, wow. It almost distracted from the shaking of my hands.

Two people were waiting for us in the living room. One was Angie the publicist. AKA the Dragon Lady—which is mean and insensitive to dragons, but, oh well.

“You must be Norah,” said an Asian woman with a beautiful smile and shoulder-length dark hair. “I’m Paddy’s assistant, Mei.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She beamed. “Don’t you two look great together? The press are just going to eat you up!”

Patrick gave me side-eye. Like incorporating me into this grand plan hadn’t been his bright idea. Idiot.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“I’ve got stuff to do.” He took several steps, then stopped and turned back to me and frowned some more. “Later, baby. Babe.”

My stomach did not perform somersaults. It was just gas or something. “Later.”

“That doesn’t feel right.”

I froze. “It doesn’t?”

“No. Wrong terms of endearment.” His gaze narrowed. “We’ll work on it.”

“Okay.”

Mei appeared charmed by our weirdness. It had been decided by Angie that she would be our first audience. A trial audience to test out our characters, if you will. To see if we were in the least bit believable as a real couple. I didn’t like our chances of fooling her.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

He nodded and took a small and somewhat cautious step my way. As if he might kiss me on the cheek, or pat me on the head, or something that could be perceived as being semi-affectionate. Only, he changed his mind at the last minute.

Huh.

Not to be mean, but this was definitely not his finest acting performance. (I much preferred his work in Zombie Run, where he’d been part of a brave group of people about to finish a marathon when an outbreak occurs. A cool, if somewhat gruesome, film.) He about-faced and headed for the other end of the house. Guess that’s where the bedrooms were, et cetera. This area consisted of the living room, dining room, and kitchen. A pale blue kidney-shaped pool sat outside at the far end of the house, sparkling beneath the morning sun.

So this was how the other half lived. Nice.

Mei leaned in close. “Don’t mind him. Patrick isn’t exactly used to being in a relationship. Having someone in his space. You know.”

“I do know,” I lied.

“Of course you do. It’s huge that he asked you to live here with him.”

“Yeah. My, um, lease was up and he said, why not?”

“That’s fantastic. Might be the first spontaneous thing the man has ever done. Guess when it’s the right person, you just know,” she continued. “I always told him he needed to find a civilian. Someone outside of the industry. I can’t wait to hear how you met and everything. Whirlwind romances are so . . . romantic.”

I’d been in training for the last week for just this moment. Mostly in front of the bathroom mirror. Oh how my cheeks had hurt after one particular session of fake smiling. I’d iced them internally with a vodka, soda, and lime. Since I’d passed on drama club back in high school, I had a lot of catching up to do.

I smiled. It was my happy-with-a-hint-of-whimsical smile. Not the easiest one in my arsenal, but I felt it projected a sort of young-and-in-love vibe—which seemed appropriate for the situation. And with Patrick paying me top dollar, it was important that I gave this my all. “We met at my work, at a restaurant. He, uh, kept coming in and eventually we started talking and—”