13. 13
Ican see the wheels turning. Miles can’t turn me down flat—not with the studio as a bargaining piece. Some super villain side of me is banking on the love he so clearly has for his students. But really, this is what makes Miles perfect. Because I wouldn’t only be serving myself but him too.
I don’t love Miles. And Miles doesn’t love me. No hearts will be broken when this farce of a marriage is over and done. Besides that, I like Miles. He’s a decent human and a standup guy. He isn’t selfish. He wants to do something good for others and I can help him get there.
Here’s the thing—even if the man says no, even if he refuses to help me—the building is his.
See, I’m not really a super villain.
But I don’t think he’ll say no. I think I’ll help him and he’ll help me. In the end, we will both find ourselves exactly where we want to be in our careers and in our service to mankind. Sometimes you take what you want. Sometimes you earn it. And other times you have to convince the people to see what you’re offering in creative ways.
That’s all I’m doing.
“Why—why—marriage?” Miles stammers. The lamp in this room is giving the man a funny glow. I think it’s foretelling. Miles is an angel sent here to help me. And why wouldn’t I want to help an angel?
I breathe in and buoy my confidence because this is where I get triggered too. “Because. Ash says when I abruptly left The Judys and Celebrity Wife, I gave myself a reputation.” I clench my jaw. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t deserve a terrible rep. I want to try something new. I’m following my heart. My heart was never in that TV show. Again—Ash’s idea.”
“Sounds like you should fire that guy.”
“Girl. And I’ve considered it.” I drop my gaze to the front of Miles’ shirt. “Only she’s trying to help me. She knows what I want. She’s trying to get me there. My heart is no longer in rock or The Judys. I needed change—for my peace of mind. I don’t know if that makes sense to you.” I nibble on my bottom lip and stare straight ahead into the chest of Miles Somebody.
“It does, actually.”
“I could jump into folk,” I say. “I could fail.” I bring my eyes up to his. I need him to understand this. “It’s not about failure. But singing—well, it’s for me what teaching is for you. If you have no one to teach, then what’s the point? I want to sing. But I need someone to listen.” I lift my shoulders in a small shrug.
“And because of that—which all makes sense, by the way—we need to get married?”
“Yes! You got it.” I beam, hoping my face screams major (fake) wife material.
“I still don’t—”
“Miles, I will be the best fake wife you ever had.” I snag a hold of the front of his T-shirt, tugging him two inches closer to me. “I promise. You want me at the Miles’ family reunion, I’ll be there. You want a home-cooked meal—” I wrinkle my nose. “Well, I can’t cook, but I know people who can.”
He smirks. “Why marriage, Delaney?”
He calls me by my given name, and it catches me off guard—even though I gave him the name. The only time I hear it is when I talk to my mom or Eryn. Heck, half the time even Eryn calls me Lane or Dee. Lane was always a nickname, even before The Judys topped the charts.
“I need some positive press. Something to write home about.”
“Why not an engagement—”
“No. It has to be a marriage.”
I can see his teeth grind. “Holy matrimony?”
“Yep.”
“You know, this kind of arrangement takes the holy right out of it.”
“It doesn’t.” I press my hands together as if in prayer. They bump between my chest and his. “I promise, it’ll be holy with a capital H.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh. “You’ve already bought the building?”
“It’s mine.” I blink up at him. “It’s yours, Miles—” I blow out a breath. “What is your last name? That might be important for me to know.”
“Bailey. Miles Bailey. And it’s one of a million things you might want to know about your future husband.”
I grin. I can’t help it. I like him and his name. And I think I’m wearing him down. “Miles Bailey.”
“So, we get married, and then what? We keep up the sham as long as I want to teach and you want to sing?”
I shake my head. I thought about all of this last night. “Give me a year. I am certain I can build up my image in a year. Then, we can go our separate ways—you with your building, me with my new fan base.”
Miles coughs, running his fingers through his curly head of hair. “A year? That’s—that’s a long time, Delaney. And I don’t see how I—a nobody—will be helpful to your career.”
“It’s the image—Lane Jonas, in love, happy, settled, wife—that’s helpful.”
He shakes his head.
I twist my lips to the side, thinking. There are things I didn’t consider as I jumped into this plan. While I’ve thought of so much. I didn’t think about Miles having any attachments. “Do you have a fiancé?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“A girlfriend?” I swallow, and that one drop of spittle plummets into my stomach like a boulder. A girlfriend would definitely put a snag in my plans.
“No. No girlfriend. But a house full of Baileys. I can’t lie to my family.”
No girlfriend. No problems. I hold a hand to my stomach. “Miles, you’d have to lie to your family. If you agree to this, no one can know it’s fake.”
His brows furrow. “You don’t think my in-tune mother and extremely observant sister won’t know that something is up?”
“They can’t! The paparazzi can fish a false story out of a bucket of trout. Your family has to believe it too.” I press my lips together. “As does mine.”
Another hand through his hair. This time, the right side stays up on end.
“I just don’t see how the people I see every day will believe this.”
“Listen, that dumb show that turned my life upside down finished filming months ago. Say we met online. Say I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone the outcome of the show, and so we kept our relationship a secret.” I tug on the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until his chest bumps mine. I peer up at him. As far as fake husbands go, I’m pretty sure I picked a winner. Still, he stares down at me, his brows knit. Behind his rectangular glasses, his hazel eyes bore into me with doubt after doubt. “Miles,” I say, taking the hand that’s balled up a fistful of his shirt and flattening it out onto his chest. “Unless you have another plan, I am offering you everything you’ve been wanting on a silver platter.”
“Not on a silver platter,” he says. “A golden band.”
I smirk. “Technicality. Listen, you won’t have to deal with me much. I work in California—”
“You can’t work from anywhere?” One of his brows lifts.
I lick my lips. “Well, The Judys were based in Cali.”
“But you aren’t with The Judys anymore, correct?”
“Yes, I’m just saying. I can have reasons to be gone. You won’t even have to see or deal with me.”
He studies me a second in this dim closet before saying, “That doesn’t exactly sound like newlywed bliss.”
He’s right. If this is going to work, that won’t do.
I swallow. “Are you saying you’ll do it?”
Miles’ heart thumps beneath my hand. I feel it. That rapid heart says he’s considering it. Another tha-thump, and then: “Yeah. I’ll do it.”
Just like that, I’ve got myself a husband. I hop on both feet, looping my arms up and around Miles’ neck, hugging him close—just as the closet door opens up. With my arms snug around Miles, I peer out at the bright light shining in—to more flashing lights. Lars stands at the front, but there are a handful of photographers just behind him. With the closet opened and my arms tangled around Miles, their flashes go off like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Miles?” Lars spits, his lip curled in loathing.
Miles has one arm around my back, and with the bout of flashes, he holds me a smidgen tighter. He holds up one hand, blocking the lights from his eyes, before reaching for the door and closing it back up.