Chapter 7
chapter seven
LEO
A knock on my door interrupts the social media deep dive I’ve somehow found myself in. I’ve got over thirteen tabs open on my laptop, and my phone in front of me with new gossip threads coming through every five minutes.
I went down a rabbit hole after seeing my face appear on my screen a couple of hours ago.
“Mystery Man Escorts Former Model from Sorrento Nightclub After Turbulent Night Out”
I scoffed at the headline. Marisol is still a model, even if her ex sabotaged her career. I have no doubt she will find her way back.
But the thing that’s had me stuck in this uncomfortable dining chair for the last hour is the comments. Social media is insane. I went from mystery man to my name being splashed across every platform.
“Security mogul Leonardo Romano rescues Marisol Deo, but how do they connect?”
Theories have exploded in online comments and threads. People speculating about who I am and how I know Marisol. Some people even think I was hired by Jack to look after her, as if that guy would do anything to protect her.
I slide out of the chair, groaning as pain digs a tunnel in my lower back. As I head for the door, I try to shake off the odd feeling cramping in my chest at the newfound attention I have gotten. I pause with my hand on the doorknob. What if someone found out where I live?
I put my eye up to the peephole in the door as my stomach churns with sudden anxiety, but when I see Marisol standing on the other side, fiddling with the rings that decorate her fingers, that anxiety slips away, and I open up.
Her mouth falls open, as if she wasn’t expecting to see me. “Hi,” she breathes before dropping her hands and sliding them behind her back. She’s nervous.
“Hey, what’s up?”
Her white teeth pull on her bottom lip as her eyes dart around my face. “Can we talk?” She gestures into my apartment.
My eyes narrow as I nod, standing back and letting the door fall completely open. “Of course we can.”
She looks down as she walks past me, and I almost reach out to tip her chin up.
I’ve never seen her so uncertain before, not even when she found Jack with May in that nightclub.
Something is bothering her. Is it what happened last night?
Has she remembered something, or someone?
I’ve thought multiple times about calling Emilio and getting him to request last night’s security footage from La Sirena, but I’ve stopped myself every time.
I’ve fought for months to stay out of that world, to distance myself from the firm, and what if Marisol doesn’t want to know what happened?
What if she would rather live without that knowledge?
The soft click of the door shutting resounds through the room, and the silence left in its wake is almost suffocating as I watch Marisol pull out a chair and sit at the table, her focus falling back to her jewelry.
“What’s wrong?”
She looks up, but instead of those brown eyes landing on me, they jump to my laptop, still open on the table.
“Shit, sorry,” I curse as I stride forward, shutting the computer before I sit across from her.
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s fine, that…” She gestures to the laptop. “It’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
My stomach drops. I’m not even sure why. Maybe she is embarrassed about being photographed together. Maybe she wants me to see if I can do something to get the articles taken down. My mind is spiraling as she simply stares at me.
“I tried to turn away from the cameras,” I say. “But good god, they have no concept of personal space.” The corner of Marisol’s lip ticks up as I shake my head. “I tried to shield you, but I—”
“Leo.” She reaches across the table for my hand. “Anything could’ve happened to me if you weren’t there. I’m not upset about the photos.”
I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding as I give her hand a small squeeze. Anything might’ve happened to her before I got there, too, but I don’t say that. “I’m glad it was me that you called.”
It might be saying too much, but it’s true. Out of everyone she could’ve called, she called me, and I could pretend that doesn’t make me feel a certain type of way, but I’ve never been good at pretending. Especially not with her.
She pulls her hand from mine and drops her gaze again. I’m kicking myself for opening my mouth, but then she rolls her shoulders back and flares her nostrils—the thing she always does when she’s nervous.
“Will you be my boyfriend?”
I blink. I think it’s the only movement in my entire body. I don’t even breathe. Did she say boyfriend? “What?”
She screws her eyes shut as she shakes her head. “Fuck. Sorry. That came out wrong.” My brows pull together as she stands, her legs pushing the chair across the wooden floor. “Okay, look”—she turns to face me, her hands on her hips—“this is probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.”
I look around the room, as if there is a particle of dust that might be able to explain to me what is going on here. “What is?”
She lets out a sigh as she sits back down, running a hand through her silken hair.
“This is the only form of publicity I’ve had in the last six months that isn’t about what a failure I am.
Or about my cheating scandal that didn’t exist, or about Jack and his success compared to my severely depressing state of existence right now. ”
“Okay.” I nod.
“Like…I got approached by Nutella, Leo. Nutella.” She tips her head.
“What’s wrong with Nutella?” My mind is like a plate of overly scrambled eggs as I try to follow what the fuck has been happening ever since she walked through my front door.
“Nothing!” She throws her hands up. “But I don’t want to pose with spreads!”
I try to stop the confusion from showing on my face. What do chocolate spreads have to do with me being her boyfriend? “Okay, then don’t.”
“That’s the problem.” And she’s standing again. “I don’t have another choice. No brands have approached me, my agent has been getting ghosted. No one wants to work with me, Leo.” Her arms drop to her sides, and I have to fight the urge to comfort her as defeat falls on her shoulders.
“What can I do?”
Her quick breath sends her chest up and down as she looks at me, those nostrils flaring once more. “I need you to help me sell it.”
“Sell what?”
Her eyes widen. “Us.” She sits down again, reaching for my hand like she did earlier.
This time, I can’t hide the way my face contorts in confusion. “What do you mean, us?”
Marisol uses her other hand to rub her forehead before meeting my gaze once more. “Eva, my agent…she thinks this could be good for me. If people thought we were…together.”
I raise my brows before looking to my laptop, still closed on the table beside us. “People already think that, Marisol.”
“Exactly!” Her eyes widen as if I’ve cracked some magical code. “You know how rumors spread; we would only have to be seen together a couple of times to really sell it.”
I can feel my heart beating in my stomach as I digest everything she just laid on the table between us. “Just so I’m clear,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend for the media, hoping that the good publicity will somehow help revive your career?”
“Yes.” Her eyes plead with me. “Remember how I said it was selfish?” She watches me as I fold my arms across my chest, my mind running a thousand miles an hour.
I try to think about what this would mean for me.
More time in Sorrento, more paparazzi, and spending time in the public eye.
I can’t help the way my mind turns it over again and again.
This is the complete opposite of the life I’m trying to build for myself—quiet, stable.
Every bit of logic says I should say no.
“It is obviously completely up to you,” she adds. “You say the word, and I’ll squash the entire idea.”
But the gleam in her eyes says another thing.
It says she is desperate for me to say yes.
She needs this. She needs something, anything, to get her back in the game.
It tells me enough that she was willing to come here and ask me, knowing there was a chance I could say no and she’d be walking out of here with embarrassment coloring those perfect cheeks of hers.
“You can think about it,” she says. “Take as much time as you need.” She picks up her purse from where she dropped it on the floor as she moves to leave, but I catch her wrist.
The one thing I forgot to mention is that I have never been able to say no to Marisol Deo.
Not back when we were teenagers, and she asked me to buy her alcohol, not when I had my hand balled in a fist out the back of that club, ready to send it into Jack’s face when she told me to stop, not when she asked me to hold him so she could throw a punch instead, and certainly not now.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll pretend.” The words taste sour on my tongue, because even if this is all for the sake of a few photos and articles, I’ll never have to pretend to be interested in Marisol.
“Really?” Her eyes glisten as she looks down at me.
A chuckle slips between my lips. “Yes, really.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She squeals as she leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.
It lasts less than a second, yet it still leaves me breathless.
“Once this is over,” she says, adjusting her bag on her shoulder, “I’ll find a way to pay you back, I promise.
” I don’t get a chance to tell her it’s not necessary before she is out the door.
It might be the worst idea I’ve ever had. Fake dating the woman I’ve wanted to take on a real date ever since I was sixteen. But if this is all I can get for now, then I’ll take it. Even if it is temporary.