Pretending He's Mine (5 page)

“Okay. Let’s try this green one.” He started to reach for a shirt. She stopped him.

“You have a tattoo.” She pointed to the swirling calligraphy that lined one side of Reeve, from his hip bone up to his arm.

“You’ve seen my tattoo. If memory serves, you required shirts off for It’s Raining Men.”

“I know,” she started, but her voice was shaky. “I just haven’t seen it this close.”

“Want to touch?”

She nodded, and reached out a hand, as if she were mesmerized, as if she were lured in by some uncontrollable force toward his skin, his muscles, his body. She started at the hip bone, one fingertip making contact. She glanced up, and Reeve drew in a breath. In this moment, he wasn’t acting; he wasn’t playing as she trailed a finger up his taut, lean body. Everything about her touch made him buzz. He wanted to grab her and do everything, but he let himself give into the moment, to the way she seemed so drawn to the marks he’d made on his body.

“They look like very fancy Hs. Three Hs.”

“They are. For the three most important things in the world.”

“And those are?”

“Health. Happiness. And hope.”

She gave him a quick smile. “Yes. I agree.” Then she traced her fingertip from his chest down to his waist as if she were painting his skin. Her touch was as soft as a butterfly, but it was full of fire, and he liked it. He needed to make sure she liked being touched too, so their relationship was believable.

“You’re doing better now. More natural.”

She tilted her head as if to ask what he meant.

“You were all weird and awkward when I kissed you at your office,” he added.

“I’m sorry. I was just surprised.”

“I know. But we need to make sure you don’t jump the next time I kiss you.”

“We do?”

“Well that would give it away, wouldn’t it? You need to get used to being kissed by me.”

“Okay,” she said with a business-like nod.

“That means we need to practice.”

“Practice kiss,” she said slowly, then nodded quickly. “Right. Of course. Like actors. Like a stage kiss.”

She sounded chipper and cheery, as if she were trying to convince herself. She seemed to need the convincing, so he went along with it. “Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We’re prepping for the big kiss scene that makes the audience swoon and totally believe we’re in love. Got it?”

She nodded.

“Ready?”

“Right here in the dressing room?”

“What better place to rehearse a kiss than a dressing room?”

“Totally. Absolutely. Definitely.”

Reeve wondered how many more adverbs she’d need to utter before he kissed her. Perhaps they were a sort of liquid courage. Either way, he knew he had to lead. He suspected he had more experience with stage kisses.

So he looked at her, as if she were the woman he’d been dying to kiss for years. She was his leading lady, she was the only woman he wanted. She returned his gaze, and then it was as if a flame burst. Reeve pictured her ravenous and greedy, wanting to be consumed with kisses. Her lips were parted slightly, and her breathing had become…lustful. Maybe she was acting too. In that moment, he didn’t care. He wanted to taste her lips, he wanted to feel more of her beautiful body. There was something about her, maybe it was the age difference, her twenty-eight to his twenty-four, maybe it was the power play. But there was no time for analysis because his head was turning cloudy with a need he hadn’t had before. He wanted to do things to this woman. He wanted to make her feel the way a good boyfriend would—desired, wanted, craved. She deserved all that. He could give it to her now. He could give it to her for a week.

“You look like you want something,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. She just licked her lips once. That was enough of an answer. That was all he needed. He moved behind her, brushed a strand of hair away from her neck, and pressed his naked chest against her back. He watched her in the mirror as she closed her eyes and sighed into him.

He started with her neck, pressing his lips gently against her skin. She smelled like some kind of shampoo, jasmine maybe, and she moaned the moment he touched her. It was like a chemical reaction, the two of them. They had that kind of physical attraction that smacks you hard, and turns you inside out in a second. Instant and electric, and you feel like you can set the world on fire. They could have known each other for years or been two strangers who met on a train—- their bodies were magnets for each other. With the softest of flutters, he kissed her neck, barely touching her, but touching her enough to make her move, to make her shift her hips against him. He ran his hands down her back, resting his strong palms on her waist, and she gasped. He worked his way to her ear, nibbling the earlobe, then kissing her jawline as she said his name in a low voice that gave all her desires away. “Reeve.”

Her voice was needy, full of want, and he grabbed hold of those hips and pulled them against him, so she could feel how hard he was through his jeans. She slid around, taking hold of his waist and bringing him close. He zeroed in on her red lips, first tasting the waxy flavor of red lipstick, then her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers, crushing her lips in a way he was sure the audience would love, even though this kiss was only for her. She was amped up. He could tell by how she wriggled against him and pulled him closer. He was all about obliging this woman, so he responded, with a deeper and harder kiss. She was such an alpha woman in the workplace—all take-charge and full-speed-ahead. But here, in his arms, she was different. She seemed vulnerable, but maybe that was just because she was damn near quivering under his touch. As if she were letting down her guard. She was the sexy librarian unpinning her hair and taking off her glasses for him.

He longed to slide a hand between her legs, feel her panties, and see if she was as wet for him as he hoped she would be. But somehow that would be going too far. So he let himself exist in the heat of the kiss in the dressing room.

“Reeve,” she said, her voice thick with lust, and topped with a dollop of nerves.

“What is it, Sutton?”

“I—”

But she was cut off by a voice outside the dressing room. “How is it going in there? Are you finding anything to your liking?”

Reeve cleared his throat. “Yes. Everything is to my liking.”

The attendant walked away, and Reeve and Sutton stood, stupid and awkward, as if they’d been caught red-handed.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out as she brushed her hands against her skirt, looking everywhere but at him. “I guess that might seem a bit more believable now in case we have to kiss in front of anyone.”

“Yes. I think that might fit the bill.”

He reached for her chin, softly raising her face so she had to meet his eyes. “See. Rehearsals are fun.”

“Indeed,” she said, and shot him a smile that he recognized as the one she gave every actor after every audition. Fine, they needed to get back to business.

“I suppose I should figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow,” Reeve said. Maybe the attendant’s visit was the reminder he needed too—this was a job, and he shouldn’t fuck it up by feeling too much.

Sutton shifted gears, back to that sassy, in-control businesswoman. She swatted Reeve on the butt. “Okay, darling. Let’s get you in some clothes. Any pretend boyfriend of mine better look totally fetching for the theater.”

Reeve nodded, and slid his strong arms into a crisp button-down, modeling the shirt for Sutton. She curled up her lips, narrowed her eyes and nodded approvingly. He tried on a few more and she ticked each one off as a yes too.

“Lucky me. Who knew I was going to get a whole new wardrobe as a dashing, debonair man as part of this gig?”

“Isn’t that one of the great benefits of being an actor? You often get to take home the costumes.”

Sutton applied mascara, the finishing touch for tonight. She’d always believed that it was the vitamin of make-up, the most essential one, and one should never leave the house without it.

“Right, my lovely Artful Dodger. You agree, don’t you?”

Sutton stroked her chihuahua-mini-pin between the ears and he looked up at her lovingly with those big wet eyes that always melted her. “Oh, you are my sweet, aren’t you?”

The Artful Dodger was sitting on the vanity in her bathroom, as he often did. He had bathroom counter privileges, but only when Sutton was applying makeup. She put the mascara wand away, brushed one hand against the other, and declared, “That’s that.”

Then she scooped up her nine-pound fur baby, brought him to her bedroom and deposited him gently on the burnished gold comforter.

She was ready for her first pretend date with Reeve at the theater. She was wearing a slinky gray dress that hugged her hips, knee-high black boots, and a silky red wrap thrown over her shoulders. She had the tickets in a small clutch purse, and as she grabbed the purse from the bed, she found her mind wandering back to the dressing room yesterday. Reeve kissed like he was made for kissing her, as if he’d been custom-designed by the gods of kissing to touch her lips, and taste her mouth, and drown her in kisses as she’d always wanted.

He’d seemed to want it too. He seemed to radiate hunger for her, like it was coming off him in waves. But yet, that was the point. That’s what she’d hired him for. She’d enlisted him to play a part, and he was playing it so well, she’d very nearly believed in the performance—that the kiss was legit.

She shook her head and bent down to kiss her dog on his soft brown fur. “I know you’ll always be here for me, my love.”

She had her dog; she needn’t worry about messy things like a bloom of feelings for a pretend boyfriend. The Artful Dodger licked her hand once, and curled into a tighter dogball.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sutton was surprised to see Janelle and her husband at the theater. She’d thought Janelle had some sort of charity event to attend instead. But here she was, her hair slicked back in that tight-as-a-ballerina-bun and a stern look on her face as she kept her eyes on Frederick. Janelle rose and extended a hand to Sutton, while Frederick followed suit. Perhaps he had his puppet strings attached to her hand.

“It turned out we were able to make it tonight after all,” Janelle said, then flashed a smile that seemed fake, before giving Sutton air kisses on each cheek. “The charity event is tomorrow. I had the wrong date. And what a pleasure to see Mr. Larkin again. Reeve, please meet my husband.”

Reeve shook hands with Frederick and they exchanged hellos. Sutton wondered if Reeve was nervous meeting a producer who possessed the power to make or break an actor’s career, but he didn’t seem to exhibit an ounce of nerves because Reeve segued quickly into discussing golf, and Sutton couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d had no idea that Reeve too had researched the producers, but he was conversing now with Frederick on the best type of golf swing.

“Looks like they’re old chums,” Sutton said to Janelle with a smile. But the dark-haired woman barely cracked a grin. She seemed distracted, so Sutton followed Janelle’s gaze to a pretty usher seating other nearby theatergoers. Then to Frederick, who was checking out the usher’s trim little body. Ah, perhaps Janelle was worried that Frederick’s wandering eye might lead him astray during the play? Sutton’s question was answered when Janelle moved her hand to Frederick’s cheek, forcing him to look at her.

Frederick lowered his gaze, as if he were caught nicking food off the stove before it was served. He stopped chatting about golf, and Janelle said nothing as she stared harshly at her husband. Thrown off by the awkward maw in the conversation, Sutton wasn’t quite sure how to pick up the thread of casual banter again. Her mind raced through other details of the Pinkertons—they had a Siamese cat named Archibald. Perhaps, she should chat about pets?

But before she could toss out a line about cats and dogs, Reeve spoke. “Did you guys get a chance to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the Eugene O’Neill theater last week? He was as amazing as the critics say.”

Janelle relinquished her sharp-eyed stare and turned to Reeve. “Frankly, I don’t often care for big movie stars in Broadway plays. But he is the exception. A rare breed who can handle theater and film.”

Reeve nodded thoughtfully. “I hear ya. It can be a little distracting with movie stars, but then, he’s one of of a kind. What about you, Mr. Pinkerton? What else have you been to?”

They all chatted for a few minutes about the theater, and Sutton was relieved that Frederick’s wayward glance hadn’t unraveled the night for any of them.

“And what do you do, Reeve? Forgive me for not asking when we first met yesterday,” Janelle said.

“I’m an actor,” he said, with a touch of pride in his voice, Sutton noted.

“How marvelous,” Mr. Pinkerton chimed in. “And how did you two meet?”

Even though they’d prepped for this line of questioning, Sutton suddenly felt a jangly mess of nerves course through her. Was Janelle onto her? Was that why she was here? To check up on the engagement?

“On the job,” Reeve answered. “Sut cast me in It’s Raining Men, and the day we wrapped my bit part, I asked her out. I couldn’t resist. She was smart and she was beautiful and that was all it took. I’ve only had eyes for her since then.”

Reeve looked at Sutton, his brown eyes were so warm and true—they seemed to project all the things he was saying, as if he really were feeling them.

“And now the wedding is when?”

Sutton’s boardroom confidence fell away as Janelle glared at her. It was as if Janelle knew Sutton had proffered a lie and was trying to catch her. Sutton’s mouth went dry as she tried to open her lips to speak. She couldn’t read Janelle—one minute the woman was generous and warm, the next she was the ice queen.

Reeve jumped in, clasping Sutton’s hand tightly with his.

“May. One year after we met. I was ready to elope, but she insisted we have a real wedding, and we were lucky enough to get the sculpture garden at MoMA reserved. A late Sunday afternoon was all they had, but heck, I’ll take it, right?”

Reeve flashed a what-can-you-do kind of smile, and Janelle’s features seemed to soften. Reeve was good. He knew how to play this woman. He knew how to spin fables on the spot, especially because he now had Janelle eating out of his palm. Soon, the tightly-wound hawk of a producer’s wife was chattering about MoMA and her favorite artists and Reeve was saying something about an Edward Hopper painting, and Frederick was looking only at his wife, and Janelle was beaming, and Sutton felt like she could breathe again.