With the extremely helpful information that “clothing” is what I should wear, I retreat to CiCi’s apartment to shower and rifle through her closet, thanking my lucky stars that she and I are both hobbits of roughly the same size. She’s got a full inch on me at five foot three, but that’s close enough to work. CiCi hops on People.com and tries to look up what famous people wear to dinner. Apparently, as long as I’m wearing something between ass cheek–baring shorts and a prom dress, I should be fine.
In the end, as I have no idea where we are going, we decide I’ll fare best in skinny jeans, flats, a low-cut white shirt, and a fitted blazer. CiCi tosses some of her dangly necklaces on me, and it all comes together. I look like I could be coming from work, or going out with friends.
She insists I wear the ring that Charlie gifted me earlier. “It looks expensive, but not over the top. It’ll be perfect,” she says.
As much as the occasion is a source of frustration, actually sculpting my normally frizzy hair into a shiny, smooth updo and slapping makeup on my face is a nice change of pace. CiCi is some kind of sorceress and really knows how to make my greenzel eyes pop. It’s been weeks since I felt the need to pretend to look human, and getting out of my unofficial E-Z Storage uniform is a real treat.
And on the one hand, I’m pissed that it’s Halloween and I’ll be missing my and CiCi’s annual tradition of wearing costume footie jammies—me in Wonder Woman and CiCi in Darth Vader—and watching horror movies with pizza and beer. On the other hand, I’m not unhappy at having an excuse to get off the storage lot early, because my gods do the wildlings come out in scary force on Halloween, even before the sun goes down, and I wasn’t looking forward to that.
Coiffed and pouting, I spend the interminably long train ride trying to focus on a fluffy rom-com audiobook so I don’t start panicking about what I’m about to do.
That effort is not panning out well.
I hit Midtown and try to find the address Tiddleswich sent. A few blocks later, I’m standing in front of the Four Seasons and working really hard not to turn tail and flee. The hotel is all windows and looming columns and classic NYC architecture and doormen. It’s gorgeous, but also intimidating, given my current circumstances. The people coming and going are impeccably dressed, and I’m pretty sure I just saw a famous Korean pop star—whose name I can’t remember—gliding inside with about twenty people tailing him.
I linger on the sidewalk, watching the masses matriculating by, and notice several photographers lounging around a car parked by the sidewalk. They have giant cameras on straps around their necks and enormous cardboard coffee cups perched on the hood of the car. They’re talking casually with each other, but their eyes reflexively wander toward each new person who passes by.
I’m starting to feel a little sick.
I send a quick text to Tiddleswich. I’m outside. How do I get in?
After an awkward moment of standing here, staring at my phone, he replies. Go to the lobby. I’ll come down.
I tuck my phone in my purse and try to look as though I know exactly what I’m doing as I head to the entrance. A friendly-looking guy wearing a full bellhop ensemble grandly opens the giant glass door to let me inside.
The lobby is absolutely massive. There are uniformed staff members everywhere, pushing luggage carts behind people who don’t even sort of notice their existence. Phones are ringing, the constant hum of hollow chatter echoes up to the high ceiling, and the babbling sound of the fountain to the left of the elevators resonates through the glitzy labyrinth.
A moment later, one of the elevator doors opens, and there stands Caspian Tiddleswich, wearing a dark gray suit with a wine-colored button-down shirt opened at the collar and no tie. Under normal circumstances, if I were to see a man like Caspian in this state, I’d be a few steps beyond tempted to stop and gawk at the view.
Alas, knowing what I know—and loathing how I loathe—all I can do is force my face not to register my disdain and disgust while hoping no one can see how clenched my hands are under the cuffs of my coat sleeves.
Without stepping foot into the lobby, he motions me toward him. I huff and roll my eyes before pulling my shoulders back slightly and heading into the elevator.
“Back up, please, Jacob,” he says to the uniformed attendant.
I don’t remember the last time I was in a place that had an actual dedicated elevator attendant. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been in one, or if I’m incepting my own memories with years of watching movies full of such clichéd extravagances.
Jacob pushes the button and turns to smile at me. “Ma’am.”
I smile back. “Hi, Jacob.”
Sir Tiddles turns to me. “Did you find it all right?”
I can tell he’s only making casual conversation in front of Jacob to keep up appearances, and my first instinct is to start shouting about what a tool he is. Instead, I attempt to take the slightly higher road. “No trouble at all,” I say, mustering an exaggerated toothy grin. The corner of his mouth twitches.
Fifty-two floors of silence later, the door opens, and Jacob grandly motions for us to pass. “Have a wonderful night, sir. Ma’am.”
I give him a friendly smile and follow Tiddles into what is quite obviously the penthouse. It’s just as audacious as I would have expected, and it has at least four times the square footage of my last apartment.
Okay, maybe five times.
“May I take your coat?” he asks, holding out a hand.
“Are we standing on ceremony now?”
He shakes his head. “My mother would be disappointed if I didn’t.”
I inadvertently glance sideways. “Is...is she here?”
He laughs genuinely, and the sound is disconcerting. “No, but it’s hard to break habit.”
I slowly peel off my coat and hand it to him. As he hangs it up by the door, I take the opportunity to look around more. The place looks tidy, but lived in. I’m guessing he’s been here for a few weeks at least. There are small stacks of books lying on various surfaces, and tiny bits of evidence that a real person exists within the confines of a hotel room that, despite its grand efforts to appear homey, is really just a sterile floor model of what homey is supposed to look like. Things like an empty teacup and saucer on a table by the massive picture window. A blue sweater hung over the arm of an antiquey-looking chair beside some prefilled bookshelves.
Those personal touches would be almost sweet if they didn’t belong to a man I know to be an absolute cock.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward a fancy dining room table.
I carefully ease myself into a cushiony chair that definitely costs more than my first car back in Buffalo did. “What exactly am I doing here?” I ask, sitting back and crossing my arms. “I thought we were supposed to be lying to the world at dinner.”
He leans back in his chair as well, but keeps one hand on the table. “Well, as we are about to venture forth as a couple, I thought it might behoove us both to discuss parameters.”
“Such as?”
“What you are and aren’t comfortable with, for starters.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “I thought my comfort wasn’t your concern.”
He smiles. “Emotional comfort will be in short supply. But despite your notion that I’m the villain in this tale, I assure you I’m not actually evil.”
“Evidence to the contrary, sir.”
“A hint of civility might make this go easier.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “In public, the goal is to appear as though we are dating. Currently, our demeanors suggest a less than romantic attachment.”
“Well spotted.”
“Ahh, yes. There’s the civility I long for.” He grins. “In all seriousness, I’d like to make this as believable as possible, but I don’t want to cross any lines. What kind of public physical contact are you comfortable with?”
I choke on my tongue. “Wh-what?”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“Says the actor.” I try to clear my throat of tongue. “What are you talking about?”
“Hand-holding, hugging, a kiss on the cheek. I’m in no way suggesting we snog on the street, but since there are always photographers everywhere, our body language will be very important. However, if those things are outside your comfort level, we can work around that.”
My face squinches up. “Oh.”
He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. He rubs one very long-fingered hand over his face and through his hair. “Look, this is unpleasant, and I understand that. I just... I’d really prefer to be left alone, honestly.”
“Are you gay?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I slap my palm over my lips, unsuccessfully trying to cram the question back inside.
His arm flops down on the table unceremoniously. “No. No, I’m not gay.”
I can feel my cheeks blazing red. “I am so sorry. I had no right to ask that. Seriously, I apologize. That was beyond disgusting of me. I swear that wasn’t me doing the thing where people think they’re entitled to personal details from celebrities or something. I just wondered why you’re going to all this effort to appear to have a girlfriend.”
He sits back in his chair again. “If I were gay, I’d have no issue whatsoever acknowledging it, publicly or otherwise. I just...prefer to keep my private life private. That’s the whole of it. I tend to avoid dating inside the showbiz pool, and this lifestyle is a lot to inflict on someone who isn’t used to it. It’s not quite as apoplectic in London, but here, the pressure is immense.”
Then, as if he suddenly realizes he was being conversational, he adds, “Not that any of this is any of your business, nor do I owe you any sort of explanation.”
My eyes narrow. “I already sincerely apologized for the question. Calm down.” Then a thought pops into my head and I frown. “Wait. We’re supposed to look like a couple, but we can’t stand each other. If you’re worried about body language, this seems like a bad equation.”
“Yes, well, this will require some performance on your part.” He waves a dismissive hand in my direction. “Only in public. Behind closed doors you can flood our space with apathy as you see fit.”
I’m fighting the urge to whine. “Look, I get you’re an actor and this is your whole thing, but I’m not in the habit of faking my way through life. This feels gross.”
“Then I’d hope you’ll think twice the next time an idea of extortion enters your mind, yes?”
“All right,” I snap. “That’s about enough of that. You say you aren’t the villain? Well, neither am I. I made a mistake, but I never intended to do anything wrong. You can believe me or not, but you’re the one who’s now trying to hurt me on purpose. And if you want me to go along with all of this nonsense, that is the last time you get to say a single word about extortion, or blackmailing, or any of it, do you understand me? One more word, and you can find yourself another damn fake girlfriend.”
“Fair enough,” he says lightly. “Any other caveats?”
Now that I’ve got the floor, I don’t quite know what to do with it. “Uh, yes. I’ll be civil to you, if you can at least be polite to me back. I’m not an actor. I can’t throw on happy faces and adoring looks when someone is openly picking on me and taking digs.”
“I can agree to that. What else?”
I shift restlessly in my chair. “Um. The...touching...stuff. All the things you mentioned are fine, I think. But if you try to kiss me on the mouth, I will punch you in the face. Like, actually, literally punch you. Right in your stupid cheekbones.”
“So I take it the being mutually nice to each other hasn’t started yet?”
“Sorry. That was rude.”
“It was.”
I fidget. “Sorry. Again.”
He glances at the watch on his wrist. “We’ll have to leave soon. Shall we move on?”
“To?”
“Backstory. It will come up eventually, so let’s discuss how we met.”
“Because you crashing into my brother’s living room all angry and terrifying isn’t what you’re going for? I don’t know. I think it’s got a truthy ring to it.”
He smiles. “Not as such.”