Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“I know you two are fake,” she blurted.

He just blinked.

“It makes perfect sense, really. The way it all happened so fast.” Her chin rose all defiant like. “A nice, normal girl to save your reputation after you’d rolled in the muck with me. I’m sure Angie was delighted with herself when she came up with the idea.”

My breath caught in my throat. Whatever he said next, however he handled this, would tell me what I needed to know. If we had a future or if we were just fucking around. Finding out it was the latter would hurt like hell. But better to know now and get my heart broken a little before things got more serious, and a little turned into a lot.

Patrick said nothing.

Liv’s chin dimpled and her eyes turned glassy once again. “We need to . . . can I talk to you alone? If we could just sort this out. There’s so much I need to tell you.”

His gaze moved between the two of us, all befuddled. The big idiot.

“Grant and I are over. I swear it’s true this time; I’m filing for divorce later today. We can be together,” she said, her voice breaking. “Just like you said you wanted. I panicked last time. Grant got all upset and I just . . . I gave in and said we could try again. But I know better now.”

My throat hurt. But I sure as hell wouldn’t be bursting into tears. This scene had enough drama in it already. Besides which, I didn’t cry nearly as attractively as Liv Anders. I was more of a bright-pink-nose-and-splotchy-skin mess. Not something anybody needed to see.

Another tear slid down her face. “Please can we talk? Alone?”

Patrick turned toward me and he was actually going to do it. He was going to ask me to leave so they could be alone. At such times, I found it was best to channel Gran. My heart was in splinters and my pride was shaken, but I knew exactly what she’d have to say about the matter and none of it was nice or polite. Because I’d been raised to speak my truth. It was about time I started doing just that when it came to men and relationships.

“You have a choice to make, Paddy,” I announced, hands on hips. “Right here and now, her or me. If I walk out of this room and you and her have your chat—then that’s it. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve made your decision.”

His brows descended. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“You’re damn right I am.”

He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, watching me warily. So he damn well should. While I might not be a Hollywood princess, I still knew my worth.

“I know you and her have been friends for a long time and that your relationship is complicated. I’m not asking you to explain any of that to me. That’s between you and her. But Liv asked you a question,” I said. “Though I guess it was more of an accusation, wasn’t it? What do you say, are we fake?”

“Norah . . .”

“I know that you are,” inserted Liv snootily.

“You shut the fuck up,” I said.

Her mouth fell open. “Patrick! Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

Give me strength.

His gaze jumped from me to her and back again. And still not a word was said.

“Paddy, is it her or me?” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was it. “I need to know. Guess we both do.”

For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at me. Long enough for the last vestiges of hope in me to shrivel up and die. I was such a fool to think we had a chance. Me and a Hollywood heartthrob. What a joke.

Then his lips finally opened and he said, “No, Norah, we are not fake.”

Liv squeaked. “What? But . . .”

“Okay.” My shoulders descended on a sigh of relief. “Alright.”

His smile was small, a bare trace of a curve. But it was the best one I’d ever seen.

Liv’s beautiful face, however, was set in stark lines. “You’re . . . you want her?”

“Yes,” said Patrick, tone final.

“I’m too late.”

His gaze saddened, but he didn’t disagree.

She scowled at the countertop. “I, um, I owe you an apology, Norah.”

I had nothing.

“This won’t happen again.” Then she grabbed her expensive handbag and fled. Thank fuck for that.

And there was too much going on inside of me. A giant upswell of emotion I didn’t know how to handle. It was good and bad and everything in-between. Maybe I was having an anxiety attack. I don’t know. I kind of wanted to try some more scream therapy, to just get it all out, but our neighbors would probably call the cops. So I did the next best thing. I seized an oven mitt off the counter and threw it at his head. Given it was soft and I’d never been much of an athlete, the man wasn’t in any real danger.