HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM
WE POP MY high society cherry a few weeks after we strike our deal. Liam has some gala dinner for a science education foundation and he invites me to accompany him in the spirit of making progress in the “good guy” and social-image-polishing direction. I’m beginning to think I might prefer to focus on my bad-girl lessons because the orgasms are spectacular, but I can’t deny him this. Plus, he makes the valid point that dinner out in nice clothes is really a date, which ought to thoroughly reform his bad-boy self.
I get in the spirit of things and make my own online donation, although Liam assures me he’s got us covered. I’m sure his contribution would make my eyes water.
He also goes all out to help me look fancy. A stylist magically appears in the living room with a rack of designer dresses. There are shoes and bags, wraps and underpinnings. All I have to do is point. I sort of feel like I should refuse on principle and go find something at Ross, but the dresses are pretty, I’m weak, and so I let myself be zipped into a sparkly gold floor-length gown that leaves one arm and shoulder bare and demands four-inch heels. A hairdresser transforms my hair into a mane of soft waves and I resist the urge to ask if my new look comes with a tiara.
Knowing Liam, he either has a spare one somewhere in his McMansion or he has a jeweler on speed dial.
When I come downstairs, Liam is leaning against the wall, staring out at the city lights. He turns before I can say anything, and I stare shamelessly at him. He looks exactly like the billionaire he is. The laughing, sandy lover from my beach has been replaced by a powerful man wearing a tuxedo that showcases the raw beauty of his body.
I groan. “I’m going to have to fight them off with a stick.”
“Them?”
“The Liam Masterson fan club. I’ve heard it’s really popular.” I faux-waltz toward him, twirling in loopy circles like I’m Cinderella. The ridiculous heels make it hard, but I manage. Barely. “Wait. Will there be dancing?”
“Yes.” He strides to meet me, catching my hands in his. His gaze focuses on me, hot and intense. “Will that be a problem?”
“I have basic ballet and sexy club moves.” I shrug. “Will that be enough?”
“Follow my lead,” he suggests.
“That should probably be our theme song for when we’re getting grilled tonight. Maybe I should write it on my inner thigh with a Sharpie so I’m reminded every time I pee.” When the corner of his mouth quirks up, I nudge him. “I know you like to put everything in spreadsheets, but this will work way better for me. I don’t want to screw up your big night.”
Liam has mentioned several times that tonight is a big deal for him and that he was specifically asked/told to bring his wife with him. Given his original pitch to me about us keeping up temporary appearances in the interest of image management and his strong dislike of being told what to do, I can only assume that we’ll have a very important audience tonight and that it will be awkward.
Liam brushes a careful kiss over my mouth. “They’ll love you.”
I mock-glare at him. “That’s like your mom saying you’re smart and talented. It’s highly suspicious.”
Liam actually gives it serious thought for a moment. “What specifically do you think anyone at the event would dislike about you?”
I don’t particularly want to point out my shortcomings in the social mingling department, but he waits me out and eventually I cave.
“I haven’t done big, fancy social stuff before. The last party I went to where the guys wore tuxes was my high school prom. I don’t do social chitchat, I blurt stuff out, and if someone asks about our wedding, I may overshare. Plus, they’re all going to be super successful businesspeople, so while I’m proud of the farm and what I’ve accomplished there, I know how it looks to other people.”
“You run a business and you’re smart. If you ask them about themselves, they’ll adore you. If they don’t, fuck them.” He reaches into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulls out a long blue box. “This is for you.”
“The dress and the shoes were more than enough, but thank you.” I pop the box open. Thank God I already said something polite because Liam turns out to be a master present giver. There’s a bracelet cuff made of tiny diamond bees and a pair of super sparkly diamond earrings. They’re part me, part him. I love them.
He fixes the bracelet onto my wrist, but it turns out the earrings are made for pierced ears and I never bothered to do that.
“I can get my ears pierced?” I offer.
He frowns. “Only if you want to.”
It takes twenty minutes for our car service to cover the last block to the hotel where the gala is being held. A long line of limousines and town cars wraps around the block. I fight the urge to roll the window down and stick my head out. Liam just laughs when I suggest we get out and walk the last hundred yards.
When we finally pull up in front of the hotel, Liam gets out first. It’s his job to make sure I don’t flash anyone or step on my hem. He achieves this by reaching into the car and scooping me up off the seat as cameras go off like fireworks. When he sets me down on my feet, he brushes his mouth over my ear.
“Beautiful.”
His hand presses against the small of my back, steering me toward the red carpet. He’s coached me on what to expect, but I flinch when the cameras explode. As we step onto the carpet, the photographers yell for us to look left, right, our other right, over the shoulder. I stop when Liam stops, which seems to get me through the worst of it. People call for Mr. Masterson, over here. Mrs. Masterson.
The energy is high and although it’s not my kind of scene, it’s hard not to get excited as the photographers snap photos of me as if I’m some kind of A-list celebrity. Other couples stand and pose on the red carpet behind us, but the paparazzi are all over Liam. Flashes go off as reporters unleash a volley of questions at him.
“Did you elope...”
“Any comment on Leda Swan...”
“Is it true you bought a controlling interest in Leda’s company...”
“Have you apologized...”
“Raunchy pictures leaked...”
My smile feels more and more forced and the gala’s minder moves purposefully toward us. I turn instinctively toward her, needing to get out of the spotlight. Somehow, I expected people to be nicer at a charity gala.
“This beautiful woman is my wife.” Liam pulls me into his side. His grip is gentle and protective but I still move stiffly, my heels catching in the fabric of my dress, and I bump into his side with an audible oops. Shutters click, immortalizing my awkwardness.
He feels tense. There’s a brief pause as the reporters digest his bombshell and then there’s a roar of sound as the reporters spring back into action, barking out follow-up questions.
Liam holds up a hand. “I have no comment on Leda.”
One of the reporters launches a new question despite Liam’s embargo. “Do you feel like you have something to apologize for?”
Liam pauses. For a moment, I think he’ll ignore this question like he has the others. “I don’t apologize.”
The minder tugs urgently on my arm, motioning for me to move along. We can all tell this interview has headed south. The reporters continue to pepper Liam with questions.
One of them waves a tablet at us. “Have you seen the photos?”
There’s a good ten feet between us, but that’s not enough distance to blur all of the details. Naked Liam, for instance, is perfectly clear. As is his very flexible, extremely creative partner. She’s wearing just a pair of thigh-high leather boots with dizzyingly high heels. I blink because I really don’t want to know what they’re doing in that picture. That’s Liam’s past, not his present. I think.
Because the next pictures that flash across the screen of the tablet are familiar. That’s me and Liam kissing—and more—on the Ferris wheel. I stare at my bare ass and wonder if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.
And then the reporters turn on me. It’s clear they knew who I was before I stepped foot on the red carpet. It’s even clearer that they’ve dug into my past and have drawn their own conclusions.
“...true that you met your husband at a sex party...”
“Financially troubled farm that Mr. Masterson bailed out...”
“Prenup...”
“Public sex kink...exhibitionist...”
Liam ignores the reporters, steering us single-mindedly toward the entrance. As soon as we’re inside, I let my smile drop.
I don’t know what to think. My ears still ring from the roar outside and light spots dance before my eyes. I want to go home. I want to yell at Liam. This isn’t a fairy-tale evening out and he hasn’t been honest with me. Has everyone here seen me riding Liam’s fingers in public?
I don’t have to do this. “I’m leaving.”
Liam tugs me over to an alcove, waving off the guests drifting toward him. They look like sharks scenting chum. “Stay.”
He stands in front of me, blocking me from sight. I want to tell him to move, but I need to catch my breath. I’m pissed, too. “They have pictures of my ass.”
“Not for long.” Liam whips out his phone, firing off a series of texts. Or maybe he’s inputting missile launch codes. Nothing about his world makes any sense. How can normal people live this way?
“Why are they bringing up my farm?”
He rests his forehead against mine, his hands cupping the side of my face.
“I need you to stay.” He hesitates. “Let’s talk about the farm later.”
“What did you do?” I’m so pissed.
“I have to give the keynote,” he says, which is not the answer to my question. In fact, it’s not an answer at all. “And if you leave now, people will believe that everything that was said out there is true.”
“Of course they will! You didn’t deny it!”
I turn, trying to slip under his arm, and he groans. His mouth finds mine in a brief, sweet kiss.
“Stay for my keynote. Then we can go. My PR firm will handle this. No one will bother you again.”
He doesn’t remind me that I agreed to do this. That attending tonight’s gala was a promise I made to him. That he never actually said helping him with his image problem would be easy or pleasant. I hate that I’ve been so focused on what I want from our relationship that I haven’t considered what he needs. And right now that’s someone to stand by his side—and airbrush him with respectability.
“We do your keynote. Then we leave. I’m expecting an explanation, in case that’s not clear.” I may not sound happy—I’m not a freaking saint.
He nods.
“Okay.” I brush my mouth over his. “Then let’s do this.”
People are still circulating as if there’s nothing wrong. There’s a long line at the bar, a string quartet plays something classical, and no one’s screaming at me. Although I guess the night is young.
I don’t recognize anyone, which is hardly surprising. Farmers’ market circles are very different. I do meet several state politicians, two mayors, most of the city council and a large number of executives. A number of B-list celebrities mingle with the other guests, taking more photos. I explain repeatedly that I’m a small-business owner with a bee farm; other than the guy who owns a restaurant, no one seems to be able to grasp the concept of a business model that doesn’t involve either widgets or bytes and preferably both.
We’re seated at a table in the front. Liam will be giving the keynote, so more men in tuxedos and women in fancy ball gowns make a point of stopping by to introduce themselves. Although the waiters start bringing out the salad course, not many people seem to eat. I try my salad and it’s excellent.
When Liam gets up to speak, there’s an electric energy in the room. People watch him and hang on his words. He’s good. He talks about the power of science education and how every child deserves the chance to believe in spaceships and exploring new frontiers. New worlds, new journeys, new opportunities to learn. He shares how he was convinced that he’d move to Mars someday, and then he talks about Galaxtix’s work on a Mars rover and its plans to launch a private space mission in the next five years. He’s getting people to think about who might benefit from the foundation’s work, and I wonder how many extra checks will be written tonight because of him.
It’s surprising, then, when the older man seated on the other side of Liam’s empty chair murmurs something to his dinner date. It takes me a moment to process what I’ve just heard.
It’s a pity Masterson is such a wild card—unpredictable, and those parties, such a liability.
Liam strides back to our table to thunderous applause. I’m tempted to elbow the complainer and point out that Liam totally rocked his speech. It’s also clear that he loves space exploration and Galaxtix’s mission, even if he self-sabotages.
The old guy promptly gets into it with him, too. I try to pretend that the two of them are sitting in their own little bubble, but it’s hard not to hear what’s said.
“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Malcolm. No scandals, just nice, wholesome romance.” Liam’s voice is tight with impatience. I suspect Malcolm has brought up Liam’s unpredictability again. “I’ve been a fucking saint.”
Malcolm says something I don’t quite catch, but it sounds bitchy, unhappy or both. He’s not a cup-half-full kind of guy, that’s for sure.
Liam sets his glass down with an audible click. “I won’t go any further. That’s nonnegotiable. She’s my wife and she’s exactly what you asked for, so show some appreciation. She’s settled, she’s the antithesis of Leda, and that’s what matters. She loves me. The press will love her.”
It makes me uncomfortable to hear my relationship with Liam being discussed like this, especially since it seems entirely impersonal. Liam was perfectly clear when he approached me at the farmers’ market that he had a business agenda and that staying married would help, but I haven’t really paid too much attention to that since. That was a mistake. I’m the pretty wallpaper in Liam’s little redecorating project and not the love of his life.
I can’t decide if I’m overreacting or not. Liam’s amazing in bed and he can be super thoughtful. Sure, he was aware of the monster crush my younger self had on him, but he’d pretended to be unaware because that’s what a nice guy does when his best friend’s little sister cranks up the idolatry to level ten. We’ve never talked about love. He’s never said that he loves me and I don’t think I missed that part of his conversation. Why would he mention that now?