Chapter 20 #2
I shift my attention to Kaz. “Have you decided on how you’re going to handle the press?”
“We’re going to go with your suggestion. It makes sense, and I won’t come across like I’m a totally different person.”
I nod.
He takes my hand into his. “Let’s get this circus over with.”
Before we step onto the red carpet, an army of photographers shout Kaz’s name.
It’s past twilight, but it’s not dark yet. With the sun setting, the bright lights of a million flashes is blinding.
Kaz wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. This close, his masculine scent tickles my nostrils. I suspect there’s a high concentration of testosterone in his Eau de Pheromone.
I catalogue all the places my body touches his wall of muscles—the fabric of his linen suit scratching the skin of my bare shoulders, my side pressed against his, the heat from his hand burning through my skin.
Between my legs, a foreign sensation tingles that hasn’t made an appearance in longer than I can remember, awakening my lady parts.
He positions us this way and that way. A Hollywood smile stretches my lips, but my fake boyfriend remains true to form. I suggested he makes an effort, but the only thing I got from him was a dubious stare.
What would it take for this grumpy giant to smile?
We move from one group of photographers to the other and even though a number of them have questions about Devlyn’s comments in front of the vegan restaurant, Kaz remains committed to the plan.
If he doesn’t comment, no one can spin his words.
Since he’s been labeled brooding, might as well run with it.
He doesn’t have to be forthcoming, accommodating, or eager to over share.
“Kaz,” a reporter says. “Who’s your date?”
We turn his way so he can take photos.
“What’s your name?”
I turn up my smile by several notches in lieu of an answer.
“Which designer are you wearing, mystery woman?” another reporter says.
Kaz and I turn in her direction.
I blurt out the name of the designer.
“He designed that dress with you in mind.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Your date is stunning, Kaz,” a reporter wearing a ball cap backwards says. “Easily the most attractive woman here tonight.”
I try to school my expression, but fail.
My eyes widen at the man’s words.
“Without seeing any of the other women here tonight, I’m willing to bet, you’re right.”
My eyes fly up to Kaz.
No, no, no.
You’re going off script.
Don’t take the bait.
Don’t answer the reporters’ questions. The easy-going questions are a trap for hard hitting ones.
“Kaz, are your date’s necklace and earrings borrowed?” That question came from a female reporter wearing a gray pantsuit, accompanied by a light blue shirt. “Or maybe a potential sponsorship deal?”
A woman wearing a short black dress with puffy sleeves lifts a hand up. “Did your date leave the matching bracelet to the necklace and earrings at home or is it hiding in her Manolo Blahnik clutch?”
The price tag on the jewelry I’m wearing is outrageous. Adding a bracelet would’ve been bordering on insanity.
“Hollywood celebrities get the privilege of borrowing jewelry from high-end jewelers,” Kaz says. “I don’t.”
Crap. He answered the question.
“I’m a retired hockey player who likes to pretend he knows what he’s doing as a craft beer brewery and restaurant owner. I don’t have that kind of pull or influence.”
A few reporters chuckle at that.
“So, you bought your lovely date Bvlgari?” the female gray pants suit reporter says. “That’s quite the statement.”
Dammit, she’s laying down a trap.
I bet her next question will be something along the lines of ‘Does your ex-wife know you’re dating?’ or ‘Did you buy your ex-wife Bvlgari?’ or ‘Shouldn’t you wait more than a minute before dropping that kind of cash on a woman who was born on the wrong side of the track?’
Kaz pulls my body closer into his, so we’re now fused together.
Every inch of me is vibrating, but I’m willing to take one for the team as long as he doesn’t give that reporter a response.
I turn up the wattage to my smile.
“On and off the ice, everything I do is with purpose.”
My body stiffens at Kaz’s response.
He had to take the bait.
“To answer your question, damn right I’m making a statement. My girl deserves Bvlgari.”
If I wasn’t this stunned, this would be a mic drop moment, but… my girl? What the hell?
The plan was for us to be seen together, not take over the red carpet walk with that kind of front-page making statement.
I glance up at my fake boyfriend with the intention of batting my eyelashes at him until he’s able to read the Morse code, ‘Stop talking to the press.’
When I meet his mischievous blue eyes, I stop breathing.
He traces the necklace with a finger.
Although he doesn’t touch my skin, it doesn’t prevent my body from shivering.
Without looking around, I know every pair of eyes on the red carpet is on us.
I’ve never captured a man’s attention like I am right now.
It’s all fake.
None of this is real.
It’s for the camera, all part of a ruse.
Smoke and mirrors.
Keep it together, girl.
A tornado ripping through New York wouldn’t be enough for me to tear my gaze away from the man staring down at me as if I was the most precious thing on the planet.
Man, this guy knows how to play the part of fake boyfriend. Kaz should’ve warned me he intended on putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.
My cheeks burn hotter than they have in my whole life.
“I’m a lucky motherfucker.” On the heel of those words, Kaz’s beautiful mouth stretches into a… smile.
He’s smiling.
He’s actually smiling.
No, not a smile.
The sexiest smile in the history of sexy smiles, spread on his kissable lips.
My fake boyfriend, who’s too-damn-gorgeous-for-his-own-good, steals my next breath with the unexpected gesture.