Just Fake It Page 10

  She comes over to me and hugs me, just as tight. She whispers in my ear, “Justin is so dear to me. I’ve known him since he was a baby.”

  Now I definitely know there’s a blush on Justin’s cheeks. I laugh. “And what was my husband like as a baby?”

  Emilia clasps her hands to her heart. “Oh, he was such a chubby little bundle! Used to run down there, among the waves, on his tip-toes, in not a stitch of clothing!”

  She and Angelo roar with laughter at the memory, and Justin hangs his head as they clap him on the back and tell us to take some time with the menu. “Wine?”

  Justin starts to shake his head, but I say, “Yes. Please. Pinot Grigio, please.”

  Justin nods. “All right. A bottle of your best Pinot.”

  As they leave, I say, “No clothes? I guess some things haven’t changed, huh, husband?”

  “Yeah. Well,” he sits back and regards the menu, never taking his hand from mine. “Come on. If you had what I have, would you keep it under wraps?”

  Great, now I’m thinking of his monster cock. He’s right; it is definitely not something that should stay covered.

  “You’re a cocky one, aren’t you, Mr. Avignon?” When he shrugs, I motion inside. “So how did you find this place?”

  “My parents used to come up to this place together, before I was born. Then after my father died, my mom would bring me. When we needed to, you know, get away.” He looks out over the setting sun, where seagulls are swirling in the sky. “This is one place the paparazzi can’t seem to find. My mom always said she’d never felt at home anywhere but here.”

  “How old were you when she died?” I ask.

  “Almost eighteen,” he says. “I’m sure you read about it.”

  I had. Her third husband at the time, a well-known actor with a serious lifelong drug problem, had run off the road on the way back from a weekend gambling trip to Las Vegas, killing them both. She was barely fifty. “And you just stayed in the house?”

  “I started film school, but left after Fury came out and was such a success,” he says. “Figured I’d already learned everything I needed to know, hanging around my parents’ film sets. My mother played the bombshell but what people didn’t know—or refused to comprehend, because it wasn’t a part of her public image—was that she was also a genius director. She directed a lot of the episodes of the television shows she starred in during her later years. She taught me a lot. Fury came out wide-release when I was twenty.”

  Angelo returns with the wine, pouring us each a glass. I hold it up to him for a toast. “To Mr. and Mrs. Avignon,” I say. “May they be forever happy.”

  He smiles thanks Angelo, and takes a sip. When Angelo leaves, he says, “What about you? Did you leave Nebraska with the sole purpose of becoming an actress?”

  I nod. “Unfortunately. You were right. I am the cliché. I went to college for two years but I’d been bitten by the acting bug and couldn’t wait. So I high-tailed it to Hollywood five years ago, when I was nineteen.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  I shrug. “Brandon happened. Yes, career-wise, it started with a stupid mistake that changed the trajectory of my life completely and made the actor’s life impossible. It’s okay. I wouldn’t change it for the world, really. He’s everything to me.”

  “A stupid mistake?”

  I blush. “That’s another cliché. I got taken in by a bunch of lies from a seedy producer who told me I was special and that he’d been looking for me his whole life. He said he wanted to cast me in his movie.” I feel completely idiotic, so I look away. “I was dumb to even think anyone could want me like that. I mean, I’m not Alicia Nash.”

  His face twists. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a hell of a lot better than Alicia Nash.”

  Please. That’s why Alicia Nash is A-List and I was waiting tables at Rudy’s. “Yeah. You say that because you conquered her already, and have yet to conquer me.”

  “Is that what you think? It’s not a line.” He looks toward the door just as Angelo appears there. He waves at him. “Give us a few, okay?”

  Angelo nods and retreats.

  He leans forward, his hand wrapping around mine. “My life is an act. So you have no reason to believe me. But Alicia Nash is just another Hollywood peacock. A B-level actress with big boobs and no substance. You, Lee? You don’t even compare.”

  I laugh. “Right. I’m the character actor. The ugly duckling.”

  His eyes blaze into mine. “Fuck that. You’re a swan in a sea of peacocks. Above them all. Trust me.”

  The breeze is blowing. The sun has almost completely set. There is plenty of air. But why can’t I breathe? Why is it suddenly hot out here? “Um. Okay.”

  “Are we ready to order?”

  I nod, even though I haven’t looked yet at the menu. Because I don’t think I have an appetite for anything but him.

  Oh, hell. I’m doomed. What is wrong with me? How can I let another Hollywood liar charm his way right into my pants?

  Because, goddammit, he’s doing everything right, and pressing all the right buttons. I’m in so much trouble.

  He motions to Angelo, who appears in the doorway, pad and pen at the ready.

  I look at the menu and say, quickly, “I’ll have the scampi.”

  “And I’ll have the steak,” he says, closing his menu. “Rare.”

  Then he leans over, stroking my fingers very gently, and maybe it’s the breeze and the setting sun and the way he’s looking at me, but I’m pretty sure that act or not, any way you slice it, this is pretty damn romantic.

  Chapter 10

  The next day, I wake to a body wriggling into bed with me. I tear open an eye as the sun streams in and realize it is much later than I usually wake as a little voice says, “Hi.”

  It’s Brandon, curled up against my back. “Hey you,” I say, rolling over and hugging him. “Did you have a good night last night?”

  He nods.

  I stroke his silken hair. “Want breakfast?”

  He nods again.

  I get up, my head swimming from the too-much-wine. I’d had several glasses, and I’d felt myself falling for Justin, all starry-eyed and tipsy, leaning on him in the darkness as we’d made our way out to the limo. We’d been talking and talking and talking, trading stories and favorites and getting on like a house afire. I don’t think I’d ever connected so well to another man before. And then?

  Shit. I can’t remember.

  The only thing I know is that I’d never had such a romantic night, ever. Even if it was just an act, I’d felt dizzy. Like I was in one of my romance novels. I’d felt that flare of excitement and possibility I hadn’t felt in forever. And then . . . who knows? Well, at least I’m here, in my own bed, in my own pajamas. So that’s a good sign.

  As I’m preparing to open the door, the phone rings. It’s Ava. Before I can say a word, she says, “Spill. Where are you? I went to your apartment yesterday and Maude said a limo picked you up? What is this amazing thing you said you’re doing? You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”

  “No, I promise,” I say, the headache making me collapse back into bed. I grab Brandon and cuddle up with him. “It’s not. I’ll tell you, but you have to swear to secrecy. You can’t tell anyone. Especially not mom or dad.”

  “Okay, okay! Dish!”

  Ava’s the only one on earth I’d ever tell this to. I know she’d never tell a soul. So I lower my voice and whisper, “Do you know Justin Avignon?”

  “Duh. Who doesn’t? He’s a filmmaker. Everyone knows his movies,” she says.

  “Well, I’m lying in his bed right now.”

  “OH MY GOD, BEVERLY! You’re prostituting yourself? Really?”

  I shush her. “No. Of course not. Not his bed. I mean, one of his beds. In his house.”

  I hear her sigh with relief. “Oh, good. Because yes, while he’s definitely a tasty morsel, he’s a little bit of a manwhore. And a little bit of a douche, too. I wouldn’t put it p
ast him to have fucked his way through the town.” I swallow. I’d thought that before, but now, I’m not so sure. “So what are you doing there? Are you his maid?”

  “I’m his wife, actually.”

  I think, at this point, she drops the phone. There’s a strange scrabbling sound on the other end, and then, “What?”

  “It’s fake. A Hollywood image thing. He has to clean up his image and I’m supposed to be his squeaky-clean wife.”

  She snorts. “Well, if anyone could make him look good, I guess you could. But that would be hard to do. He’s totally—“ She stops. “Oh, my god. Was that him? That day? In the diner? He looked different, but, that was Justin Avignon!”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him! He’s SO HOT in person! I was going to ask you about him, because he couldn’t take his eyes off you. God, he can set ice on fire! Tell me, has he . . . come onto you?”

  “Yeah. A little,” I say. I will not mention that last night, if he had come onto me, I would’ve probably rode him like a pony, as tipsy as I was. “But he’s not nearly as much of an asshole as people seem to think he is. It’s all just part of his image. An image he has to change now that his movie’s going for an Oscar. I’m going to the red-carpet premiere tonight. Can you believe it?”

  “You’re a lucky bitch,” she says. “Living in the lap of luxury and attending Hollywood premieres. That’s every girl’s dream, right there.”

  I smile, my toes curling. I haven’t told her the best part. “He’s also paying me a million dollars. For four months.”

  Then, the phone really does fall. I hear her shrieking in the distance as she rushes to pick it up. “Are you kidding me? Oh my god!” She’s hyperventilating, I think.

  “So you think it’s okay that I took the job?” I ask. “I mean, even if it is deception, there’s no way I could possibly say no to that.”

  “Are you kidding? For a million dollars, I’d have become his lifelong love slave. I’d have eagerly let him fuck me in every orifice I have. You go girl.”

  My jaw drops. “Ava!”

  “What? It’s true. A million dollars can buy a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, but it can’t buy dignity,” I say, feeling a little better. After I made the stupid decision with Steven Long, I’ve always been afraid of making another one. At least I know Ava, the smart one, would’ve done the same thing. Now, I just need to keep ahold of my dignity, which is easier said than done, considering who I’m living with. “I do have to go. Brandon wants breakfast.”

  “Okay. Call me. After the premiere.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and go downstairs, my head feeling a little clearer.

  “Good morning,” a deep voice says from the kitchen as we hit the bottom step. I walk inside to see the manwhore himself sitting at the center island, eating a bowl of cereal and paging through his phone.

  “Morning,” I say shyly, glad I have Brandon to fuss over. I get him ready with his breakfast, and then turn to Justin, who is bare-chested again, wearing a pair of lounge pants, like he just got out of bed. As usual, even just out of bed, he looks like a magazine cover.

  I go over to him and whisper, “What happened last night?”

  He dangles the spoon over the bowl and grins at me. “What? You drink too much?”

  I scowl at him.

  “Nothing,” he says, giving me a wide-eyed, innocent look. “You fell asleep on the ride home, so I carried you to your bed.”

  He did? “But this morning, I was wearing my pa—“

  “June dressed you. I didn’t even get a chance to sneak a peek.” He smirks at me. “Unfortunately. Tell me, do you usually fall asleep by nine in the evening?”

  “Ha, ha,” I mutter. Actually, yes. I have a kid. But I won’t tell him that. I’m already probably a total country-bumpkin to him.

  He shovels more cereal into his mouth. “Hope you’re well-rested for tonight. We leave at five, and it’s going to be a late night at Grauman’s Chinese. Partying into the wee hours of the morning. You’re not in Nebraska anymore, Dorothy. This is how we roll, Hollywood-style.”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  He nods.

  I make a mental note to fill up on caffeine and lay off the alcohol. The last thing I need is to fall asleep, drooling, in my “husband’s” lap, in the middle of the theater, with a bunch of paparazzi surrounding us.

  Then he pushes away from the table, leaving his dirty dish and glass of half-finished OJ there. For the servants, the spoiled brat that he is. I’m about to call him out on it when he goes past Brandon, who is busy gnawing on his waffle, and holds out a palm.

  “Gimme five.”

  Brandon, surprised, reaches up, sticking out his tongue, and smacks his hand.

  “Down low?” He puts his hand under the table, palm up.

  Brandon grins and reaches for it, but Justin pulls it away. “Too slow.”

  Then he walks away, leaving Brandon giggling after him.

  And me, staring open-mouthed after him, too.

  He may not be an actor, but the man really does know how to make an exit.

  I don’t have a huge amount of time to do any more studying, because in the afternoon, as I’m sitting down with a grilled cheese sandwich to go over a few more points in the binder, my style team arrives. “Um, what are you doing here?” I ask when Otto steps onto the patio and gives me an air-kiss.

  “You really think we’d let you go off to a star-studded movie premiere on your own, without our help?” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a glorious diamond but even glorious diamonds can use some buffing.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Because it was only this morning that it struck me. There were going to be famous people at this premiere. Real. Actual. Movie stars. People that up to now, I’ve only seen on the silver screen. Otto’s attention will give me the extra confidence I need to be able to face these people without feeling completely unworthy to share a theater with them.

  They do a mini-session of what they’d done a couple days before, touching up my mani and pedi, redoing my hair and make-up. By five, I’m ready. Otto hoots at me as I stand in front of the mirror. “Beautiful, Mrs. Avignon,” he breathes. “Just beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping into the tiny golden heels and grabbing the matching evening bag. I spin a couple times. “You think I’m ready?”

  “Yes,” he says, air-kissing my cheek. “Don’t worry about a thing, sweetie. You belong among the stars!”

  I go into Brandon’s room and kiss him goodbye. Then I take a deep breath, and proceed down the stairs leading into the foyer, wobbling a little on the unfamiliar heels. I see Justin, standing stiffly in a tuxedo, staring at a blank wall and cracking his knuckles. He’s obviously nervous, his face rigid. But the second he whirls and sees me, the muscles in his face relax. He manages a smile.

  “I was right,” he says, his eyes roving over my body. He doesn’t sound quite as nervous, now. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Avignon.”

  I have to remind myself that this is just an act, because this feels like a fairy tale come true. He lifts my hand and I almost expect him to drop a kiss on my knuckles.

  I smile at him as his arm wraps protectively around me, and his hand presses into the small of my back, warm on the bare skin there. Wow, that feels good, enough to make every nerve ending I have stand on end. I turn to look for June. “Where is . . .”

  “Everyone’s gone ahead,” he says to me, opening the front door. “I like to be fashionably late. Shall we?”

  I lace my arm into his open elbow and he escorts me to the waiting limo. And then we’re off, down the street toward downtown Hollywood, where Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a place I never thought I’d see, just weeks ago, awaits. Justin holds my hand in his, the entire time, whispering words of encouragement. “It’s okay. It won’t be bad. It’s a party. Don’t worry.”

  I smile at him. “I know.”

  He pulls on
his collar as we pull around the corner and approach the throng of press and waiting admirers. “Well, then tell me. Because I’m trying to make myself feel better.”

  I burst out laughing. And just like that, all the nervousness I’d felt for the past few days drains away. Even when I see the crowds—and they’re huge—it doesn’t faze me in the least. A lazy, content feeling that everything will be okay settles over me. The limo pulls to a stop in front of the red carpet, and I say, “I can’t wait to see your movie.”

  He raises an eyebrow as Logan steps out of the driver’s seat. “You like horror?”

  “Oh, no. I hate it. I don’t think I ever told you, I nearly peed my pants like, ten minutes into The Devouring.”

  He smiles and says, “Yeah?” just as Logan pulls open the door, and I’d like to think it’s that amused face, not the nervous one, that the press captures as we step out onto the red carpet. Asshole or not, a cheer rises up from the crowd as they see Justin Avignon making his way down the walkway. He holds my hand tightly as the first reporter, a woman for E! news, approaches us. “Justin! How are you feeling?”

  He squeezes my hand tighter. “Great. Excited to be here.”

  “You look great,” the woman says, looking over him. “You think all the rough patches you’ve been going through are behind you?”

  He nods. “Yeah, well. I hope not. The twists in the road are what make the journey more exciting than the destination.”

  I look over at him. That was remarkably smooth and . . . definitely not in the binder. But whatever it is, the reporter is lapping it up.

  “And who do we have here?”

  She thrusts a microphone under my nose, but Justin guides it to his mouth and says, “This is Mrs. Avignon, my beautiful wife.”

  I don’t have to say a word. I just flash the diamond ring, which sparkles in the spotlights.

  Before the reporter can ask another question, he says, “Enjoy the show,” and shuttles me along to the next reporter, effortlessly waving at fans and signing autographs along the way.

  I knew he’d been born into this world. But I didn’t quite realize what an expert he was when it came to fielding the reporters’ questions. It’s an art, for sure, one he’s mastered. I’d come to hear he could be blunt, brash, difficult with reporters. But maybe tonight, he’s on his best behavior. He’s charming, funny, and yet firm when a reporter wants to monopolize his time. I barely have to say a word. All I do is smile, hold his hand, and let him guide me along. He makes my job easy.