Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“You’re going to be great,” whispered Patrick in my ear.

“I haven’t been on TV before.”

“The awards were televised. People saw you on that and you were wonderful.”

“This is different,” I said.

“I know, but you’re a natural.”

I frowned. “What if they think I smell funny or something?”

“Fortunately for us, not even digital television has mastered the art of scent yet. No one outside of this room will ever know.”

“That’s still a fair amount of people.”

Patrick bent down and sniffed at my neck. “Nothing funny smelling about you. Try not to worry. We’re going to do this together, okay?”

“It’s live to air. Live, Paddy.”

“I think there’s like a five-second delay, but yeah.”

“What if I mess up and people think you’re an idiot for dating me?” I asked.

“Fuck ’em.”

The intro music started and the audience clapped and cheered and, oh shit. There was a good chance I was about to pee myself. This is exactly why stars and average people shouldn’t date. It was much too dangerous. I could have been hiding from the world, highly dissatisfied with my life, and polishing silverware right now. Yet here I was, dressed in designer gear and holding his hand. Despite my palm being slick with sweat, he didn’t let go.

From the other side of the set, Margarita walked onstage in a cool pale blue pantsuit, waving all the while. Her unbound hair bounced with each step while her smile grew and grew. She took a seat and started to talk, welcoming everyone to the show. Her voice was even warmer in person, her gaze sharper. Talk about competence porn. I wanted to be her when I grew up. Then she started talking about Patrick. About his early beginnings in Arizona and his career up until now. About his past dating history and our recent engagement. There were photos of him in character for various movies, walking into clubs with this supermodel or that, and then him and me being chased by the paparazzi outside the grocery store. His arm around me at the awards. And finally, there was us making out in the pool dressed in diamonds and formal wear. It was all there, both the lust and the bond between us, in the grasping hands and the hungry mouths. Talk about not being fit for public consumption. I hoped Gran wasn’t watching. Someone needed to slap an R rating on the damn thing.

Margarita made a show of fanning her face as the audience went wild.

“Just in case this all goes to hell and I say the wrong thing and you never want to talk to me again,” I said, “I enjoyed every moment with you.”

For a long moment, Patrick just stared at me. Then he opened his mouth and said, “Norah, they’re going to love you just like I do.”

I froze. “Wait. What did you say?”

But there was no time. Our names were announced and we were walking onstage while the world watched. I slapped a smile on my face and straightened my shoulders. So many people staring at us, and that was just the studio audience. Given that I lacked the space and time to properly overthink what Patrick had said, I put it to the side for now. After all, he was probably just being nice and supportive. Things like that. While he might have thrown the L word out there, he couldn’t possibly mean it that way.

We settled into the sofa and Margarita went straight into it with, “Patrick, you’re notorious for being tight-lipped about your private life. What’s changed?”

“In a word, Norah,” he said. “There’s been a lot of interest in me over the last few months and I wanted to set the record straight. I’m with this beautiful woman and everything is great.”

Margarita grinned. “Oh, my.”

I clung to his hand for all I was worth.

“What do you say, Norah?” asked Margarita.

“What can I say?” I grinned. “I’m a very lucky woman.”

“And he’s a very lucky man.”

“I am,” agreed Patrick.

The audience went wild at our lovefest.

Margarita sat forward in her chair, inviting confidences. “How did you two meet?”

“Where I used to work, at a wonderful restaurant called Little Italy,” I said. “Patrick would come in every few weeks or so when he was in LA.”

“They had good food?” asked Margarita. “I love pasta.”

“They have great pasta. Best in the city. You should try it sometime.” Patrick gave her his devil-may-care grin. Oh my God. That smile slipped off your panties while it slapped you on the ass. No wonder he earned the big bucks. “But I went there because of her. Every time I was back in LA, I couldn’t resist sticking my head in and seeing if she’d finally talk to me.”

Margarita raised a brow. “She made you work for it?”

“She did. She’d take my order and be perfectly polite, but she wouldn’t talk to me otherwise. Never asked me anything. Never asked me for anything either.”