Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“Good,” said Angie. “The trick here is to answer the question without really giving them any personal information. Or at least, nothing you’re not willing to own up to and possibly have thrown back in your face during every slow news cycle forever.”

Patrick cleared his throat and said, “Norah’s grandmother is a wonderful woman.”

We all waited a moment, but he was done. What a champ.

“Would an espresso help with your hangover?” asked Mei.

“No,” he said. “Thanks.”

“The question is, how much of your background are you willing to discuss, Norah?” asked Angie. “The details of your mother’s death and your grandmother having custody are all pretty much a matter of public record. So far, articles about you have concentrated on the waitress-and-the-heartthrob angle. There’s been some digging into your past, as expected, but only the basic facts have been presented. Beyond the episode involving the nude photo, of course. Do you want to give them more? It would—”

“No,” said Patrick, tone adamant.

“I was asking her.” Angie pointed a shiny red fingernail in my direction. “Norah’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions.”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Let’s see . . . there’s the trauma of losing your mom at a young age,” said Angie.

I winced. “I don’t know.”

“How growing up in an all-female household, first with a single mother, then with your grandmother, helped to make you a strong, independent woman fit to tame a superstar. We could also touch on your previous bad dating experiences,” continued Angie. “How that asshole tried to rip you off, in particular. Those would all help you come across as both sympathetic and relatable.”

Patrick’s frown amped up to a scowl. “Norah, please say no. This isn’t necessary.”

“You want to save her from the scrutiny of fans and the media,” said Angie. “It’s laudable, really. But she’s already in the public eye, Patrick. You’re too late.”

Something shifted in his jaw.

“Just over a month ago you were caught up in a sex scandal with one woman,” she said. “Now you’re engaged to another. Both of you need to work hard if we’re going to sell this. We need to keep our eye on the prize . . . and that is fixing your reputation, Patrick.”

“Along with you two having a long and loving committed relationship, right?” Mei raised her chin. “I mean, that goes without saying.”

“Right,” said Patrick, his voice lacking all credibility.

My fingers twisted in my lap. “Let’s just concentrate on getting the facts right for our whirlwind romance first. We can think about the rest later.”

My cell buzzed and I picked it up without thinking.

Angie sighed. And while she had a point regarding cell phones distracting people during important meetings, I kind of needed a minute’s break. A barrage of new emails and messages had arrived. Nothing new in that. I opened the text and ignored the rest.

“You sent Gran flowers?” I asked, turning to Patrick.

Two small spots of pink blossomed on his cheeks. “Figured I better keep Harold on his toes.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” he said, without meeting my eyes.

“I suggested he send some to you as well,” said Mei. “But he said you had allergies.”

“Allergies?” It wasn’t as if I needed flowers, but still. “Right.”

“Such a bummer.” Mei smiled. “I love getting flowers.”

Patrick, meanwhile, seemed mostly miserable, all huddled up down his end of the couch. This was right and just, since he’d vetoed all flowers for me forever. Just joking. Business arrangement. No flowers required. An unnecessary expense.

“Have you done the sensible thing and taken some Advil?” I asked. “Rehydrated with water?”

“I’m fine,” he told the ground.

“Oh, really? Because you look like shit.”

Patrick’s laugh was rough. “Thanks, sunshine.”

I just shook my head.

“She’s right,” said Mei. “And the photographer and his crew will be here soon.”

“That’s today?” asked Patrick, doing a very convincing portrayal of a deer caught in headlights. A sickly deer who needed a nap and some Hydralyte.

“Yep. What exactly did you do last night, Paddy?” asked Mei with interest. “I’m sensing some tension here.”

“I know what you were doing,” said Angie. “And you’re damn lucky no paparazzi were following you.”

Which was when the door to the spare room opened and the tall, lanky man wearing jeans and not a hell of a lot else wandered down the hallway scratching at his flat belly. Lots of tattoos. Longish straight blond hair. I’d been unaware we’d gained another house guest. Let alone one who looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of Lady Boner Weekly. Which wasn’t actually a thing, but probably should be. I mean, he was no Patrick Walsh, but still . . .

“Holy hell,” was all he said, voice rough.

“Hi, Jack.” Mei waved. “Happy divorce. What is this, the second one?”

“Who’s keeping count?” The dude yawned loud and proud. “Coffee?”

“In the kitchen. Help yourself.”

“Oh, shit,” he said, catching sight of me on the couch. Immediately he came toward me with a hand outstretched. “You must be Norah. Damn good to meet you. Patrick wouldn’t shut up about you last night. Cole either, for that matter.”