Chapter 6
A Hard Truth
Dash
Back to the present
Does my mouth linger a fraction of a second too long on Ivy’s ear? Maybe. Does her skin smell like vanilla and roses? Definitely. Did she just save my million-dollar ass with her quick thinking? Clearly.
I should have been prepared for the question of how we met.
It was an obvious one, and not having a ready answer was sloppy.
I know this, but the point’s driven home by the way Luna’s shaking her head from her perch in the back of the room.
Brody’s probably paying her to report back, and she’s going to tell him I nearly blew this thing before it got off the ground.
The thing about me, the thing nobody believes until they see it for themselves, is that I cannot tell a lie. If I ever chop down a cherry tree, I’ll confess faster than our first president did. People don’t believe it. How can you be an actor if you can’t lie? That’s the question they always ask.
The answer’s simple. Acting isn’t lying. In fact, acting is the most authentic, genuine expression of our humanity. Acting is all about channeling emotions—the actor’s real, felt emotions—into a performance.
Lying, however, is outside my skill set.
I was raised by a single mom. Lacking the support of family or any nearby friends, she had one hard and fast, set in stone rule: never lie to her.
That was it. As long as I didn’t lie, she had (and still has) my back.
No matter how stupid, dangerous, or ill-advised my behavior was, she supported me so long as I was honest with her.
There were consequences, sure. But she values honesty more than anything else.
And it must be hard-wired in my genetic makeup.
Because I’m the worst liar you’ll ever meet.
I ruined the surprise party we tried to throw for Brody, and I told Luna’s last lover that her real name is Ann.
Every crew member who’s ever worked with me has invited me to a poker game.
I’m that bad of a liar.
My radical honesty was a known problem for this fake dating plan.
I was relying on America’s sweetheart to do the heavy lifting.
Lia Campbell is decidedly fake. Her commitment to disingenuousness was one of the selling points for me and Brody.
We figured she could lie well enough to make up for my inability to sell a falsehood.
But now … I slide Ivy a sidelong glance. Even though she’s fast on her feet, she doesn’t strike me as a practiced liar.
“Give us a kiss!” the guy from Entertainment Bytes shouts, which sets off a chant of kiss, kiss, kiss.
Ivy shrinks back.
I pull her close and wrap my arm around her.
Thankfully, we’d anticipated this part. While Luna did Ivy’s hair and makeup, I’d explained to her that there are ways to pull off a stage kiss without actually making out.
Although I’d offered to show her how, she was worried she’d mess it up when the time came.
For this out-of-the blue relationship to be remotely believable, we have to sell the kiss. We both know it.
I turn her to face me and tug her toward me until her hip bones hit my thighs. Then I wrap one arm around her waist and cup her cheek with my free hand.
She stretches on to her toes and then snakes her hands around my neck, tips her chin up, and parts her lips. She’s giving me a flashing neon sign that she’s good with this.
Still, I double-check. “Sure this is okay?” I whisper, dipping my head.
My mouth so close to hers that her breath is a feather on my lips when she exhales her answer.
“I’m sure.”
I move my hand from her hip to her hair and crush my mouth against hers. She leans into me and rakes her fingers through my hair. The flashbulbs are popping off like fireworks. Brody’s gonna love it.
Despite the outward appearances of passion, it’s a gentle, almost chaste kiss inside our cocoon so I’m surprised when I feel the rapid thrum of her pulse in her throat.
Then I feel something much, much worse. And the way her hip bones are pressing into me, I’m afraid she’ll feel it through my jeans.
I break contact and pull back, horrified. I have never, not once, gotten aroused on a set. Of course, it has to happen now.
Ivy goes stiff in my arms. I don’t blame her. She must think I’m a complete pervert. Time to wrap this up before she freaks out in front of the media.
I clear my throat and play my role. “Thanks for coming out. And while Ivy wants me to invite you all to stick around for tonight’s Christmas tree lighting in the town square, I’m going to ask you to respect our privacy.
I don’t get much time off, and I’m looking forward to using it to make memories with my girl. ”
I take her hand and lead her to the side door. As arranged, Quinn pulls it open as we approach.
Once we’re alone, I turn to her. “I’m sorry.”
She bites her lip and drops her gaze from mine. “Forget about it.” Her tone is flat.
She turns and crosses the field to the red pickup with the antlers decorating the grille.
I want to run after her, make her stop so I can explain, convince her that I’m not an oversexed monster.
But the temperature’s dropped and neither one of us is wearing a coat.
She’s shivering, and the wind cuts through my cashmere sweater.
I trudge behind her, wishing I could kick my own butt.
By the time I get to the truck, she’s in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, and staring straight ahead out the window. I slide onto the bench seat next to her as she turns the key that she left dangling from the ignition.
“The heat’ll kick on in a few minutes,” she says in that same lifeless voice.
I open my mouth, then snap my jaw closed. Anything I say now is unlikely to make things better and almost certain to make an awkward situation even worse.
She punches the radio button and Christmas music fills the silence between us as she puts the truck into gear and we bump down the gravel hill to the road.