Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If it works out, then great,” Mei continued. “If not, Norah gets an ah-mazing ring and Patrick gets some great press. Because they definitely won’t be dwelling on that hiccup with Liv once news of you and your number-one fan here getting engaged is out. People are going to fall over themselves with swooning. It’s a modern-day love story.”

My forehead furrowed. “That’s true. About the press, I mean. I’m not keeping this ring; it must have cost a fortune.”

“Oh no, go ahead and keep it.” Mei grinned. “It looks great on you. Or you could sell it and put a down payment on a house. Your choice.”

Patrick gave his assistant a bemused look.

“What?” asked Mei. “You want her to keep it, right?”

“Of course she can keep it.” He turned back to me, his blue eyes earnest. “Whatever she decides. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re getting great at this romance stuff, Paddy. I’m so proud of you.” Mei socked him in the shoulder before returning to whatever she was doing with the cell. “Okay, you two crazy kids, enough with the dallying. Am I posting this beautiful picture and engagement announcement to Instagram or not?”

I squeezed my eyelids shut and took the leap. “What the hell. Do it.”

CHAPTER SIX

In the eyes of the world, I was now officially engaged. To Patrick Walsh. It still didn’t feel real, which was fair enough since it wasn’t. Though it did make for a hell of a distraction from the horrible nipple thing. I’d discovered that being a bottomless pit of rage got old after a while. Random strangers on the internet did not get to ruin my life. And yet, fuck every last person who’d looked at the photo. I hope they got crabs.

In an effort to shift my mood, I got busy grilling salmon and making a salad. Having a clear-cut achievable goal was a good thing. It got my brain to stop freaking out and focus on the here and now. Washing the vegetables. Heating up the pan. All of those things.

“You’re not wearing the ring?” asked Patrick, appearing at the end of the kitchen island.

“It’s in my pocket. I didn’t want it to get damaged.”

“It’s a diamond. One of the hardest known substances on the planet. You should be safe.”

I put some extra oomph into chopping up the cucumber. There was something soothing about slicing and dicing a phallic-shaped object today.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked in a slightly more subdued tone.

“No. Nearly finished.”

He pulled up a stool and sat his fine behind down. Not that I was in a mood to appreciate it right now. Or him as a whole. “Just talked to Angie. The legal threats worked. We’ve managed to get it down off all of the bigger websites.”

“Good.”

“Apparently the guy is claiming he didn’t release the picture of you.”

“Is that so?”

“He was approached by a journalist in New York where he lives now,” said Patrick. “Said he lost his cell on the subway a few days ago. He definitely reported it to the authorities. That much has been confirmed.”

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t mean we still can’t look into things and double-check his story.”

A few days ago, Patrick and I had barely been a whisper on the internet. The likelihood of someone planning this in advance seemed low. And what was the chance of hunting down some random asshole who’d found or stolen the cell and decided to make some money off of me? It didn’t seem likely. But mostly, it was fucked that people felt entitled to look at any part of my naked body without my consent.

“Whatever you want to do,” he said. “It’s up to you.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m done.”

He waited for me to say more, to explain, before eventually coming out with, “Alright. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

Truth is, I never wanted to think about it again. This shit didn’t deserve my time, energy, or emotion. The price of fame was being the subject of this sort of prurient interest. This bullshit. And it sucked. I set aside the cucumber and started in on a tomato. It was, however, a little too delicate to truly satisfy my need for violence. Chopping up the feta cheese worked much better.

“Norah, talk to me. Please.”

I looked up, startled.

“Usually you’ve got plenty to say,” he continued in a gentler voice. “I’m not used to you going all quiet.”

I had nothing.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he said, quoting me to me. Elbows resting on the island, he waited me out with all due patience.

“I think I’m having a bit of a bitter and twisted moment.”

“That’s understandable.” His expression was calm, composed. But his gaze never strayed from my face. When it came to Patrick, you got the sense that there was a lot going on beneath the surface. He was just better at hiding his thoughts and feelings than most. “You know, there’s a fire pit outside. If you still want to burn things, we can do that.”