Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“Good,” was all he said.

“Great. What did you do?”

A flicker of a frown crossed his face before he smoothed it away. Like how dare I interrogate him, i.e. make conversation. Eventually he said, “Finishing up PR duties for the latest movie. They had us do a bunch of interviews.”

“You and your co-stars?”

“Yeah.” He fussed with the silverware. “Grant and me.”

I nodded in encouragement. If he didn’t offer any further information about spending quality time with Liv’s husband, then I wasn’t going to ask. Though it had to have been uncomfortable as all hell for him. For them both.

“Also had a meeting with my agent.”

“Sounds like a busy day.”

“It was.”

One of us had to be brave and start the touching. So I reached across the table, offering my hand. And after a moment, he took it. His big hand dwarfed mine, his skin warm, with slight calluses. From all of the working out, I guess. Okay. Now we looked more couple-like and romantic. Angie would be pleased.

“Got asked a lot about you,” he said. He had a nice voice, low and a little rough.

“What did you say?”

“I don’t answer questions about my private life.”

“That makes sense.”

“If I started answering now, it would look off.”

The candle flickered between us while some moody hypnotic music filled the room along with the quiet hum of conversation. I could feel the curious gazes of the other diners. People in general enjoyed looking at Patrick. They wanted to do things for him. Being an accessory to someone like that was interesting, to say the least. People don’t look at waitresses. Not really. You’re disposable. There to fulfil a function, then be forgotten. Of course, there’s always the exception. The drunk asshole out to cause trouble or the moron who thinks he’s charming. But to be plucked from relative obscurity and thrust beneath the spotlight like this was a whole lot of whoa.

With my free hand, I picked up my glass and took a sip of the lime and basil gimlet. When I licked my lips, his eyes tracked the movement before he returned to frowning. Interesting. He hadn’t seemed to register me as an actual female of the species in a sexual manner before. But it probably meant nothing. Who was I kidding?

“Did you want a taste?” I asked, offering the drink. “Gimlets are a great cocktail. Excellent for helping to stave off scurvy.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay.”

“What did you do today?” he asked, frowning some more.

I leaned in and smiled. “I worked with the stylist to pick an outfit for tonight and read a book and called my friend Zena and stayed out of the way of your house cleaner. That’s about it. I’m not used to having so much free time. It’s been interesting to slow down. I might even look into doing some online courses since I’ve got the time and money.”

“It’s a lovely dress.”

“Thank you.”

It was a short black puff-sleeved, V-neck midi dress, with a cinched waist. Elegant without being showy. Just right for the supposed everywoman/girl-next-door part I was playing. And along with the Louboutin black suede block heels, my outfit had cost him a bomb. My highlighted hair was styled into beach waves and my lipstick was red. All in all, I felt . . . capable of the job. No, that’s not right. I felt fucking awesome. If he had any sense, the man would worship at my feet.

Alas, he did not. Instead, he grimaced as if either paying me a compliment or just having to communicate actually hurt. “I mean, all of you looks nice. Not just the dress.”

“Thank you. You look nice too. Very handsome.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, then he gave my fingers a gentle squeeze in lieu of a response. At least it was something.

“I can’t actually remember the last time I held hands with someone,” I said.

“No?”

I shook my head. “I’ve taken a break from dating for the past year after about a decade’s worth of questionable choices. I feel like online dating has sucked the soul out of the experience. But how else are you supposed to meet people?”

Nothing from him.

“Though I guess that’s not an issue for someone like you.”

“Not usually.”

I smiled and waited for him to say more. Anything would do. But nada. And this was the problem with our fake relationship. Well, one of the problems. His reluctance to engage on any sort of personal level about himself and his life and pretty much everything. Getting to know the man was next to impossible. If I ever actually got interviewed about him, I’d just have to say something along the lines of “He seems nice enough. Very good-looking. Has a great house.” And that’s about all.

The waitress placed our meals in front of us with a great deal of ceremony. And she definitely eyeballed my date. Patrick thanked her and let go of my hand, neatly spreading the linen napkin out on his lap before taking a sip of his red wine.