Fake It Till You Make It Page 6

  Did Sloane De Carlo still hopelessly love Marcus Robertson?

  Brady could have asked—maybe should have—but he didn’t. It didn’t matter. Their fake-dating arrangement was born of necessity, and that was it. She needed a cover; he needed press.

  That’s all it was.

  Brady shook out the tension that had crept into his shoulders. “How about, worst case, I’ll just flip a table. Give everyone something to talk about.”

  Sloane actually laughed. It surprised him.

  “I’d rather you just kiss me again before you flip any tables. More enjoyable, way less messy.”

  Brady knew she hadn’t meant to say what she had, at least based on how quickly she turned toward him and how red her face went, but he couldn’t help but answer with a laugh. Businesslike agreement or not, he wouldn’t turn that down.

  “I think that could be arranged.”

  Chapter Six

  Sloane was just going to have to accept the fact that her existence post–viral blog would be a hot one. Cheeks, neck, and ears always nearing lava-hot from embarrassment, self-consciousness, or lust.

  Yeah, she thought it.

  Lust.

  Because that was normal to feel around an attractive man, right? And that’s what Brady was. Sure, he wasn’t a Marcus Robertson–type of good-looking. No, he was a darker, cockier type of mmm-mmm good. A rough-and-tumble character you couldn’t help but think about having a rough tumble in bed with.

  Normally, Sloane wouldn’t blush so hard because of someone simply looking at her and making her imagine what it would feel like hugging him sans shirts, but add in the fact that they were going to have to sell a romantic relationship to others? Well, how-do-you-do crapsticks.

  Fire, meet Sloane’s face, body, and soul.

  Stepping out of Brady’s truck, she barely felt the heat and humidity trying to test her hairstyling mousse’s strength. It would have to get a lot hotter to compete with what her nerves were already cooking up.

  “You ever wonder why someone with this much money would stay in a place like Arbor Bay?” Brady appeared at her side, eyes straight ahead to the main house on the Robertson property. The family had been in Arbor Bay since its founding in eighteen-whatever, but the estate’s pride-and-glory manor had been built custom for Missy and Donavon, Marcus and Carol’s parents, and had been added on to throughout the years.

  The house’s exterior paid heavy tribute to the Robertson patriarch’s love of everything mountain cabin, while the family matriarch had won the country-modern war for the interior.

  “Think HGTV’s Chip and Joanna Gaines inside but cabin in the woods if you had a million dollars on the outside,” Emma had told her after a field trip to the garden had given her rare access to the main house a few years before. “Ship lap, statues, and exposed beams everywhere.”

  Now, standing at the crest of the circular drive, Sloane knew that it didn’t matter what anyone described the house as, because it was forever one thing first.

  Intimidating.

  “A throne is still a throne no matter where it sits,” Sloane replied after sweeping her gaze across the wide, three-story structure. Brady raised his eyebrow at her. She expanded on her theory. “Ruling over a small town is better than not ruling at all. That’s why I think the Robertsons stay. I mean, this is only the main house. Carol has a custom build a golf-cart ride away from here. Marcus lives in a house on the bay. Why would they give all of this up?”

  Brady didn’t argue her point. “If we’re the ones always calling the Robertsons royalty, then is it our fault when they act like it?”

  That got Sloane.

  It must have shown on her face. He snorted.

  “What? You’re not the only one who can sound like someone doing a voiceover for a movie trailer.”

  “I was actually going to say you sounded like a fortune cookie.”

  He did that wink again. The one he’d done in the car that had nearly made her panties burst into flames.

  “Bartenders have just as much room to surprise you as internet bloggers. I can be surprisingly insightful. You’ll see.”

  So far, Brady had proven to be a good listener, and as far as Sloane knew, he wasn’t telling her secrets because it benefitted him. Not that Sloane could say much about that. Their arrangement helped her out tremendously. Pride-saving and possible career-helping.

  At least after calling Rizzie back that morning.

  Sloane had had every intention of feeling out the situation to see if there was still a way to tell the literary agent that it was all a joke—that Brady wasn’t actually Guy—yet Rizzie had immediately exploded after answering the phone.

  “And it looks like our girl gets the guy in the end! What a wild ride!”

  After that, Sloane had all but leaned in to the lie.

  And swan dived off the cliff when Rizzie had officially offered to represent her. There was still paperwork to go over and sign, but, with one well-placed lie, Sloane was on the path to a life she’d never thought possible.

  All she had to do to keep on that path?

  Survive the next three weeks pretending to be in a public romantic relationship with one good-looking bartender.

  Audible gulp.

  “If we’re really going to do this, I think we need to take an official first picture together,” Sloane decided.

  Brady actually nodded.

  Then he got really close.

  “Let’s turn around, though, so the truck is behind us,” he said. “I don’t want to inflate the Robertson ego any more by having their mansion as our background.”

  He reached for her phone, opened the app, and had the front-facing camera going lickity split.

  “Do you take selfies often?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  Brady snorted. “No, but I’ve seen Santana do it enough that it’s almost like secondhand muscle memory for me.” He outstretched his arm, thumb already hovering over the button to capture their picture. Sloane saw on the display as she made a face.

  “You may know how to work it, but you don’t know how to work it.” She swatted at his hand until he moved it and the phone upward. “It’s all about the angle.”

  Brady’s brow rose.

  “Surely you’ve seen Carol do it at the bar when she’s taking a picture of her and Ruby,” Sloane continued. She put her hand beneath her chin and smiled sweetly at the camera. “Selfies aren’t for looking cute. They’re a war against double chins.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure for an angle,” he said. “And it kind of sounds unnecessary.”

  It was Sloane’s turn to snort. “Next time you’re lounging on the couch, scrolling through your phone, I want you to turn your front-facing camera on without moving. It doesn’t matter what you look like; some angles make you just cringe. I mean, have you seen the meme of the laughing iguana? That’s how most pictures look when taken at a ninety-degree or lower perspective. One angle can be the difference between you looking as good as Idris Elba on the red carpet and looking like Swamp Thing.”

  “Or the Laughing Iguana,” he said, his reflection slipping into a nice little smile.

  Sloane nodded, solemn.

  “It’s a grisly battle that takes no enemies alive.”

  Brady shook his head and took the picture without another word. When he was done, Sloane pulled the image up for both of them to see.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  Then Sloane broke the silence with a sigh.

  “We look like two patients who just walked out of the dentist’s office and were asked to take a picture together. We need to try another one.”

  Brady didn’t disagree.

  He held the phone up, and this time Sloane tried her own new angle. She turned her body toward him. Her cheeks became two hot springs as she asked her question.


  “Do you mind if I put my arms around you?” She hurried over her words to explain her intent. “If my quasi–internet fame works, then just us being together might drum up more customers for Cassidy’s Place. But only if we look believable.”

  “And not like dental patients.” There was a slight mocking tone to his words, but he kept on. “Fine. I formally give you permission to mold me like you want for the internet. I am your clay, Miss De Carlo.”

  Thanks to the kiss they’d shared the night before, Sloane knew to expect a hardened body that could be felt through Brady’s shirt. Yet that didn’t stop the little trill of excitement as she slid one arm around his waist and the other across his chest and felt the promise of muscles and a well-oiled body. She fanned her fingers out across his chest and tilted her head so the back of it was against his left pec. She looked at the camera while mentally yelling at her cheeks to cool off before they burned her entire body down.

  Brady’s image on the display was all amusement. Sloane ignored it.

  “Now use your free hand to go around my waist, and then smile like you mean it.”

  Brady obliged, and their second picture came out light-years better than the first. Or, at least, they didn’t look like two strangers still coming off the novocaine.

  “Okay, let me post this really quick,” Sloane said, taking a little too much of a step back.

  “What’s the caption going to be? Something super lame or cheesy? ‘Guy? More like fly.’”

  Sloane laughed.

  “I was going to just put a heart emoji and tag you. That should get the people interested in me interested in you. And maybe those people will be interested enough to come back later to see if I give an update. Then we could post a pic at the bar and really reel them in.” A new influx of nerves tightened into a ball in the pit of her stomach. “That is, if I survive this lunch at all.”

  Audible gulp times two.

  The main house was in the middle of the largest acreage of land Arbor Bay had to offer. It was beautiful, expansive, and private. Since Sloane had never been besties with Carol in school, she’d never seen inside the mini-mansion and assumed she never would. The garden, however, was a different case altogether. Less of a place you and your grandmother tended to while wearing aprons and gloves from Lowes, it was its own spectacle directly to the left of the house, connected by a stone path straight out of Southern Living magazine.

  Brady led the way to the first hand-placed stone.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked. “The garden part?”

  “Way back in the day.” Sloane was careful with her footing. Naturally, she was shorter than most. By choice, too. She loved to wear flats, tennis shoes, and sandals. The wedges she currently had on? Not so much. She’d found them in the back of her childhood closet, one of several heels she’d abandoned when she moved out, finally coming to terms with her lack of proficiency in anything over a half inch. “My mom was a part of Missy’s book club when I was little. She hosted some kind of mommy-daughter event for one of the books in the greenhouse in the garden.” Sloane stepped to another stone while trying to side-step the familiar ache in her chest. “I don’t remember anything about the book they talked about, but I do remember how pretty everything was. You?”

  Brady shook his head. “I never had a reason to come here and definitely never got an invitation.” He gave her a quick, sly smile. It made Sloane double down on her focus of not falling flat on her face. “Same for my parents. Though, they didn’t really stick around town long enough to make an impression. When I graduated high school, they bolted to Colorado to be with my grandma. And, I also suspect, weed.”

  Sloane laughed out loud. Brady reached out to help steady her when the sudden move made her wobble. Once again, the heat that was her new normal swallowed her at the contact.

  “And you stuck around here?”

  “And I stuck around here,” he repeated. “Helping Dixon and my uncle with the bar. Doing the devil’s work, as Santana always loves to say.” Sloane couldn’t tell if he regretted that decision based on his tone, and she didn’t have time to pry.

  The stone path they were on led to a moss-covered archway. It was one of several ways to get into the maze-like space with all its fauna, flora, statues, and stone inside. There was even a fountain at the heart of the garden, right next to the greenhouse where the actual entertaining took place.

  Because of course they had a fountain.

  It was all impressive, intimidating, and a little unnecessary.

  As was the woman who moved into view beneath the arch at the end of their path. “Well, aren’t you two just darling!”

  Carol had a sun hat on that was roughly the size of a small child and lipstick that could help planes land at night rimming her smile. Brady released his hold on Sloane’s hand and repositioned it to the small of her back. He gave her a little push to close the space between them and their host.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but I don’t think darling has ever been one of them.” Brady had switched his tone to smooth. Give me a good tip smooth. Sloane hoped to copy the confidence.

  “So if he’s not heard darling, what little nicknames do you like to call him?” Carol asked. “Or are you still going with Guy?”

  Sloane’s attempt at confidence stalled out before it ever got traction.

  What did she call Brady? What cutesy nickname would even fit? Honey? Sweetie?

  Pookie?

  What was it that he’d called her earlier?

  “Sweet cakes,” she blurted out.

  “Sweet cakes,” Carol repeated. She didn’t seem impressed.

  Sloane leaned in. “Yep, sweet cakes is what we call each other. You know, an equal-opportunity pet name.”

  Brady nodded. “We’re all about equality over here. She slaps my ass just as much as I slap hers.”

  “Yep,” Sloane kept on. “Sure do. Equality.”

  She should have known what was going to happen next—that someone’s ass was about to get slapped—but butter her butt and call her a biscuit if it wasn’t Sloane’s hand that landed against the seat of Brady’s jeans in a flash instead of the other way around.

  Carol’s eyes widened, as did Brady’s, but he didn’t say anything past a grin.

  “Well, I’m sure your audience will appreciate that progressive stance,” Carol said after a moment. She turned around and motioned to the now-paved path that led deeper into the garden. “Why don’t y’all go ahead and take a look around while we wait for the rest of the guests to show up. Not everyone has had your punctuality.”

  “Everyone?”

  Sloane realized a little too late that she’d been too wrapped up in their story to remember to ask who their audience was supposed to be.

  “Oh, you know, just the usual suspects.”

  Sloane didn’t know who the usual suspects were, but Brady took her hand and led her down the path and out of sight from the socialite before she could ask again.

  “I’m sorry I slapped your butt,” Sloane apologized when they were out of earshot. “I got swept up in the moment.”

  Brady snorted. “Never had anyone call me darling and never had someone apologize for smacking my ass. Been a wild morning so far.”

  He kept her hand as they made their way around a row of beautiful ceramic pots filled with flowers that looked like they belonged in a painting, a stone wall covered in vines, and then into the heart of the garden. The fountain was smaller than Sloane had remembered but still picturesque. She imagined its wide outer lip could fit a princess who was trying to catch a frog to kiss. Straight out of a fairy tale.

  Just like the greenhouse beyond it.

  Steel and aged glass, fauna and flora well kept and yet wild, antique gold and green café tables and chairs. The wall facing them was nothing but two large accordion doors, pushed open so the peo
ple seated inside still felt like they were dining in nature.

  Beautiful, romantic nature.

  Sloane glanced up at Brady.

  He looked good here. Holding her hand. A barely there smile as he took in his surroundings.

  It was nice.

  It was distracting.

  “Wow,” he breathed out. “I guess I can see why almost every woman in Arbor Bay gets their panties wet about this place.”

  Sloane shook her hand out of his. “Aaaaaaand just like that, you killed it for me.”

  Brady laughed, following her around the curve of the fountain. On the other side, the party already in attendance came into view. Sloane mentally highlighted the nearest exit.

  Carol’s best friend, Ruby, stood with a champagne flute in her hand, dressed like she was about to watch the Kentucky Derby. She was talking to the Robertson matriarch, Missy, who was a little less flamboyantly dressed than Ruby. A feat, considering Missy had donned a salmon-colored pantsuit and pearls. There was a woman sitting down between the two who made Sloane feel better about her lack of flair. She was in a polka-dot dress that Sloane knew came from Target.

  Because she’d almost worn the same thing.

  “I guess I should have grabbed my white linen suit, huh?” Brady’s breath tickled Sloane’s ear as he leaned down to whisper. It startled a gasp from her. All three women broke their conversation at the noise.

  Then it was Sloane-hunting season.

  “Well, it’s been a long time since we had anyone famous here!” Mrs. Robertson exclaimed, dancing out of her chair with arms spread wide. “How lovely for you to have come on such short notice.” Sloane was enveloped in a cloud of perfume before the older woman’s arms did the rest. “Bless your heart, how are you even coping with it all?” Missy broke the embrace but managed to grab Sloane’s hands. She held them with a look of extreme worry. “Because there certainly isn’t an off switch, is there?”

  “There certainly is not,” Sloane confirmed.

  Missy was the picture of southern sympathy. She shook her head and tsked. “Bless you,” she surmised. She dropped one hand but had the other fastened to Sloane’s like they were Velcroed. “Well, why don’t we get you settled in with a nice peach Bellini or just a mimosa? Maybe a sweet tea, if that’s more you?”