Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

Maybe because Charlotte seemed so happy to see the show. Hell, taking her to Broadway is the least I can do for her, since she’s pulling off a fantastic performance this week to help seal the deal on my dad’s sale.

Mystery solved. I like making Charlotte happy because she’s my friend, and friends help each other.

There. I teetered, but avoided breaking another ground rule.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The reporter joins us at Sardi’s. His name is Abe, his face bears a passing resemblance to a horse, and his clothes might belong to an older brother, given that they appear two sizes too large. I’m also not sure if he has a driver’s license yet, or if he’s even started shaving.

He snaps photos of the two families toasting and nibbling on appetizers, and I’m truly amazed at what a puff piece this feature article is going to be. Must be why the magazine assigned a cub reporter to it. But then, Metropolis Life and Times is known for giving the best blow jobs in the journalism business. Open up and take it all in.

The photos are technically candid, but we’re all keenly aware of the lens as we order, chat, and raise our glasses as black-and-white caricatures of theater and movie stars preside from the walls of this Broadway institution. Only couples are in attendance this time—Mr. Offerman and his wife, my dad and my mom, and Charlotte and me. Ordinarily I’d tease Harper that she was banished tonight, but she’s probably thrilled to sit out this required event and skip the phony “we have no clue the reporter is here” conversation.

But I get why Mr. Offerman set up the story. Pieces like this aid in the transition of a business, and showing the friendly handoff of a jewelry powerhouse as well-known as Katharine’s will reassure customers. We sure look polished and spit-shined for the magazine. I’m wearing a light green button-down shirt and a pale yellow tie with cartoon pandas on it, while Charlotte looks stunning in a black short-sleeved dress with a pink ribbon cinched through slim belt loops.

“You didn’t bring your daughters along tonight,” I remark to Mr. Offerman as I finish an olive. “They’re busy with end-of-year school stuff, I presume? Or not fans of theater?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “We only had six tickets, and it seemed more important to bring the men.”

I nearly choke on the olive pit. “Excuse me?”

“My girls don’t get involved in business affairs,” he says, knocking back some of his scotch before signaling to the waiter for another.

“I’m not involved in my father’s business, though, and you invited me,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his logic.

“True, but I’m sure your opinion is more vital than, say, your—”

His remark is cut off when the reporter taps me on the shoulder. “Picture of you and Charlotte by the bar? Our society page would love one of the happy couple.”

My gut twists as I stand, knowing this photo is a sham. It’ll either run online tomorrow and then be out of date when we split up in a few more days as planned. Or it will never run because…well, because we won’t be the “happy couple” much longer.

As we step away from the table, Charlotte shoots me a look that says she’s thinking the same thing. That we’re skirting the line. Our charade seemed fine at first—a plausible enough way to ensure my romantic entanglements didn’t derail Dad’s business deal—even though I was lying to my family. Now, it borders on bald-faced manipulation as I lie to, well, everyone, leaving a pit in my stomach.

But the end justifies the means, I remind myself as we head to the bar. When I talked to my dad this morning, he said he expected to sign the deal by the weekend, once the final bank paperwork is completed. I hate the thought that Mr. Offerman might have walked had I not fit the mold he wanted. Still, I’m starting to see myself as more of a snake oil salesman, and I don’t care for this side of me.

The good part is I’ll only have to lie for another few days.

The bad part is I only get a few more days of pretending.

“Smile for the camera,” Abe says as we reach the bar, the sketches of Tom Hanks and Ed Asner in the background.

I wrap my arm around Charlotte and flash a grin, then steal a quick sniff of her neck. She smells like peaches. I dust a quick kiss on her cheek, and her breath catches. She inches closer, and yup, what was fake is real again, and that nagging feeling drifts away. There’s heat between us. Sizzle even. The camera’s got to be picking up on the sparks.

When I let go of her, I shoot a sheepish grin at the reporter. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. She’s too lovely.”

“It’s obvious you like her,” he says, then lowers his camera and retrieves a notebook from his pocket. “But I can’t help but wonder, when did it become exclusive?”

“Sorry?” I ask, knitting my brow.

“It’s new, right? The exclusivity in your relationship?”

“Of course we’re exclusive. We’re engaged,” Charlotte says possessively, wrapping a hand around my arm as she deflects his question.

“I can tell,” the reporter says, pointing at Charlotte’s rock. “I was asking, though, when it became exclusive.”

A hint of red blazes across Charlotte’s cheeks, and I chime in. “The engagement is relatively new, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, it must be new,” Abe says, like a dog grabbing a bone, refusing to let go. “You were in last month’s South Beach Life magazine with a Miami chef, and just a few weeks ago I believe you were seen with a celebrity trainer.”

Fuck me and my playboy ways. I tense, my muscles tightening, and here it comes—the situation my father desperately wanted to avoid.

“That was just chatter,” I say, as I maintain my grin. “You know how it goes.”

“You mean with Cassidy? It was casual with Cassidy Winters?” he asks, inserting the adjective of his choice— casual —as if he can get me to agree to use it.

“No, I wasn’t saying that it was casual. I was saying it was chatter. Meaning there was nothing going on,” I say crisply, correcting the bold little bastard.

He nods and strokes his chin. “Got it. But that’s not the case with the chef. Because in Miami last month, you were tagged in a Facebook photo that has you giving her a kiss on the cheek.”

He reaches for his phone, slides his fat thumb across the screen, and shows me the photo. He had it ready and waiting. He’d called it up in advance, preparing to pounce. I shrug, my mind quickly playing out scenarios. Then I go for it. I pucker up and give Abe a quick air kiss on the cheek. I fight every instinct to cringe as my lips come within millimeters of his baby face, but I’ve got to pull this off. “See? I’m just an affectionate guy.”

He wipes his palm across his cheek. “So it was nothing with the chef?”

I nod and gesture to his face. “Just like that was nothing,” I say, wishing I could give him the brush off he deserves. But if I walk away, or say ‘no comment,’ it will just fuel him. Answering coolly gives me the greatest chance of diffusing this bomb.

Abe anchors his attention to Charlotte. “Does it bother you that up until a few weeks ago, Spencer Holiday was in the papers as a noted New York City playboy?”

She shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “No. I know who he comes home to at night.”

“Not every night,” the reporter mumbles.

Anger lashes through me. That’s the end of Mr. Nice Guy. “Excuse me? What did you say, Abe?” I ask pointedly, because it’s one thing to be pushy. It’s entirely another to be an asshole.

He raises his chin. “I said, so every night you’ll be running The Lucky Spot as husband and wife?”