Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“You want me to take it for you?”
I spin around, and Ben is standing there, one hand in his pocket. He looks like the film-poster version of Daniel for this movie. He just needs a Santa hat.
“Let’s take one together,” I say. I’d never pass as Rachel Joshi—who starred in and produced The 14 Days of Christmas—but it would be fun to take a shot and send it to Melanie.
“I don’t do pictures,” he says.
“Not without your stylist and makeup artist?” I tease.
He rolls his eyes and whips my cell from my hand, then takes a couple of steps back before pointing my phone at me. I tilt my head to one side and give him my most natural smile.
“Did you get it?” I ask with gritted teeth. Is he messing with me? How long does it take?
He doesn’t say anything but nods as he stares at the screen with an intensity that tells me there’re a thousand things going on in his brain. But what? What’s he looking at? Me and my rigor mortis smile?
“Ben?”
He snaps his head up as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “What?”
Never mind.
“Now for one together,” I say and take the phone from him. I link my arm through his, enjoying the heat of him so close. For a split second, it feels like we’re a real couple. I hold up the phone, and you’d think someone just told him his cat died. “Smile,” I say, giving an exaggerated grin to the camera.
“Like that?” he asks. Our image on the screen reveals him looking at my smile like it’s curdled cream.
“I’m trying to be encouraging.”
“Selfies and I aren’t a thing,” he replies.
“Maybe they should be.” I take a couple of shots. “These next few days, you think you’re getting a fiancée for hire, but what you’re actually going to experience is a wild ride. First on the list is selfies. Next we’ll be driving with the windows down, and by next Sunday night, you might have even loosened your tie.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I manage to capture it. It feels like a victory. Until he takes a step back and I feel a chill at my side in place of his warmth.
“Let us take one of you two.” A short, light-brown-haired American woman who sounds like she’s from Virginia sidles up to Ben. The look on his face is priceless—like she’s just told him he’ll be milking cows for the rest of the afternoon. Before he has the chance to turn her down, she gives him a gentle shove toward me and takes my phone.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask. We might as well get couple practice in now. And there’s one final picture I’d really like to have.
“You’re American!” she says. “We’re here from Virginia. I’m Pat and this is Bobby, my husband.” She nods at the guy next to her with the sandy-blond bowl cut. “Where are you from?”
“Originally from upstate New York.” Say you’re a New Yorker to another American and they make their mind up about you right away—they’ll either love you or loathe you. Upstate New York is perfectly acceptable to most people. “But now my fiancé, Ben, and I live in London.”
I slide my arm around Ben’s waist. It’s probably just an excuse to touch him again, but I’m supposed to be playing a part, right? It’s not like he’s going to think I’m into him. And he smells so good, not getting close to him when I have the chance would be like passing up a winning lottery ticket. He’s taller than Jed. And bigger. There are muscles under the suit you’d never know about just by looking at him. Okay, so maybe I had an inkling from dinner the other night.
I look up as he puts his arm awkwardly around my shoulder. Is he not smooth with women in general, or just women he’s fake-engaged to?
“Relax,” I whisper, then let out a small laugh. I thought it was going to be me who was going to have a problem faking things between us.
“You’re engaged?” Pat asks, beaming. “That’s so nice. We’ve been married thirty-five years. It’s gone so fast, hasn’t it, Bobby? And now that the kids have flown the nest, we’re finally taking all those trips we said we would when we first got engaged. Have you got any plans to travel when you’re married?” she asks. “Smile,” she adds, and points the phone at us.
“I hope so,” I say. “I’d love to go to Italy.” All the advice I’ve ever heard about lying is that it’s best to stick as closely to the truth as possible. Who doesn’t want to travel to Italy?
The woman narrows her eyes. “You know you look awfully like that actor. The British one. Daniel De Luca.”