Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“The rest is history,” finished Angie.

Mei kept right on smiling at me with nary a hint of doubt on her face. “That’s so sweet.”

Whew. I’d done it. Someone actually believed that I and a Hollywood heartthrob were an item. How extraordinary. The rush of victory rolled through me from head to toe. Not that lying to people was a good thing. And Mei seemed like a lovely person. Though it was just a small white lie. Sort of. Okay. So the truth was, the morals in this situation were murky as fuck. But at the end of the day, I needed the money and no one would get hurt. That’s what mattered.

An audience of one certainly scared me far less than facing the inevitable red-carpet events lurking in my future. I kind of wanted to puke at the idea. The last formal thing I’d attended was my prom, over a decade ago. My date ended the evening by stumbling drunkenly into one of Gran’s rosebushes and getting scratched to shit. Sadly, my taste in men hadn’t necessarily improved since then. No wonder I hadn’t dated in the past year or so.

Angie’s cell pinged. “That’ll be the aesthetician team and so on arriving.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Think of them as your fixers,” said Mei.

“I need a whole team to fix how I look?” I laughed, because, awkward. “Things are really that dire?”

Angie’s smile was all teeth. “Yes.”

“This is bullshit,” I grouched.

“There, there.” Mei patted my hand. “The French manicure looks great and your hair is so soft and shiny.”

Angie’s gaze remained fixed on her cell. “What’s your problem?”

“Let’s just say that was an extreme amount of waxing,” I said. “And I really should have had a say in some of it.”

“Au naturel was not acceptable. What if we decide to do a bikini shoot as part of the ‘relaxing at home’ article we’re planning?” asked Angie. “You can’t have all that going on down there. Even Photoshop has its limits.”

“It wasn’t that bad. And a bikini shoot?” I asked with horror. “No one mentioned that.”

“The things we do for love,” said Mei.

Angie ignored me.

But I was not done, dammit. “A woman’s bush is sacred and the state of it should be no one else’s business but her own.”

Mei laughed, then quickly cleared her throat. “Yes. Totally. Very true.”

“Well.” Angie’s brows rose. “I had no idea either of you felt so passionately about it.”

Patrick wandered in. “About what?”

All day, he’d been in hiding down at the far end of the house while people marched in and out of his home. The nail technician, hairstylist, facialist, and an aesthetician to handle the body treatments and waxing. A clothes stylist to explain my new wardrobe to me while I stood there like an idiot in my underwear. Along with a makeup artist to give me lessons in shading and so on. And this is when he decides to show up?

“Pubic hair,” says Mei.

Patrick blanched. “Forget I asked.”

“Don’t be so delicate,” chided Angie, rising to her feet and heading for the door. “We’ve all seen you in a merkin. At any rate, we’re done here for the day.”

“Bye.” Mei waved, while straightening the cushions on the big, plush modern sofa. “Okay, Paddy, it’s time for your daily update. I sent your mom flowers and received a full refund for the New York trip. The new personal trainer is booked for tomorrow and there’s some clothing from that designer I told you about hanging in your wardrobe. And Mary cancelled tomorrow night’s meeting.”

“She did?” he asked, tone aggrieved.

“Yes. Sorry. No reason given.”

He scowled.

“Do either of you need anything else?” Mei asked us.

“Just a printout of the Freisen script,” he said, leaning against the wall all cool and hot and disgruntled. Of course, his breathing and general existence was cool and hot.

“It’s on the office desk.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’m done. See you tomorrow!”

For the very first time ever, we were alone. Somewhat nerve-wracking. Patrick’s gaze skipped over me, taking in the day’s work. The team had done a good job. I still looked like me, just a slightly shinier version. His expression, however, remained a perfect blank. Completely unreadable. I might as well have tattooed a pony on my forehead for all he cared. Next, he crossed his arms over his chest, turning his attention to the view. It didn’t seem like he was able to relax fully even in his own home. Though that might have more to do with me being here.

While I knew he preferred me silent and submissive, I couldn’t possibly keep my mouth shut for six months. “What’s a merkin?”

“A pubic wig. They use them in sex scenes sometimes to cover your junk.”

“Huh.”

He said nothing more. The silence wasn’t wildly uncomfortable at all.

“We need to discuss the home situation,” I say, taking a seat on the couch. “The contract didn’t really cover that side of things apart from me not inviting anyone to the house or giving out the address, et cetera. Which is totally understandable. Your privacy needs to be protected and all.”