19. Hurricane in Louboutin’s #3
“Build faster.” Sam stood, then stopped abruptly, spinning back to face us.
“I'm updating your social status to married within the next three hours, along with a social media post. By tonight, everyone will know Dallas Dodger is off the market.
By tomorrow, you'll be America's most unexpected love story.”
She headed for the door, then paused. “Wait. Most important thing I haven't covered yet.” She set her bag back down, and my stomach dropped. Sam's most important things were never good news.
“You need a story,” she said, her tone shifting to deadly serious. “A believable, consistent story that you both know by heart. Every detail memorized. No contradictions, no hesitations.”
“A story?” Davina frowned. “We got drunk in Vegas and…”
“No.” Sam cut her off with a hand gesture sharp enough to slice bread. “That's what happened. That's not your story. Your story is what you tell your families, friends, and colleagues. The version that makes this believable, not a drunken mistake.”
She pulled out her tablet again, fingers flying across the screen.
“How long have you been dating? Where was your first date?
Who said ‘I love you' first? When did you know they were the one? These are questions people will ask, and if you stammer or contradict each other, even once, this whole house of cards collapses.”
“But we just tell them we've been keeping it quiet…” I started.
“Dallas.” Sam's look could have frozen hell. “Your mother is going to want to know everything. Her friends are going to interrogate you both at that party she's definitely throwing. One slip and suddenly it's all over social media that this is fake.”
“So what do we say?” Davina asked.
“That is for you two to figure out,” Sam said decisively. “Just make it believable.”
We exchanged glances.
“Love swept us away,” we said in unison.
Sam sighed so deeply I thought she might pass out.
“Work on it and remember no one can know the truth.
Not your best friend, not your sister, not your doorman, not your barista.
Nobody. It only takes one person who thinks they're helping by telling the real story to the wrong person, and boom.” She made an explosion gesture. “Career suicide for both of you.”
“Not even Brooke?” Davina asked, and the hurt in her voice was obvious.
“Especially not Brooke,” Sam said firmly.
“This is insane,” Davina muttered.
“This is damage control,” Sam corrected. “Now, both of you, tell me your story. How did you fall in love?”
I looked at Davina, then back at Sam. “We met through Brooke and Matt. Started talking at one of their dinner parties. She challenged everything I said, didn't fall for any of my usual charm…”
“That part's believable,” Davina interjected.
“And I realized I'd never met anyone like her,” I continued, surprised to find the words coming easily. “Smart, funny, called me on my bullshit. We started meeting for coffee, secretly. Then dinners. Then…”
“Then Dallas showed up at my podcast studio one night with takeout when I was working late,” Davina picked up the thread, and I tried not to look surprised at how smoothly she improvised. “Said he was just in the neighborhood, even though nothing is in that neighborhood.”
“And Vegas?” Sam prompted.
“Watching Brooke and Matt get married,” I said, looking at Davina instead of Sam. “Seeing how happy they were. I just... knew. Didn't want to wait anymore.”
“The chapel was my idea,” Davina added softly. “Because why wait for someday when you have today?”
The words felt too real for comfort.
Sam slow-clapped. “Better, but still needs work. Practice it until you can tell it in your sleep. Add details. What kind of takeout? What was she wearing on your first date? Make it real in your minds, and it'll be real to everyone else.”
She headed for the door, then paused, looking back with sympathy flickering across her face. “For what it's worth, you two look good together like a couple who'd either kill each other or die for each other, but never anything in between.”
“That's... sweet.” Davina forced a smile.
“That's marketable,” Sam corrected. “Remember, six months minimum, confidentiality forever, and for God's sake, look like you at least like each other. I've seen prisoners of war with more chemistry.” Her smile widened. “Oh, and get ready for red carpets and premiers. Dallas’s new movie releases soon.”
She swept out, leaving us in silence.
“So,” I said finally, “that went well.”
She picked up the postnup, weighing it in her hands. “Six months.”
“Minimum.”
“We're going to have to live together for six months.”
“Minimum.”
“Pretend to be in love for six months.”
“Minimum.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “We're so screwed.”
“Minimum,” I agreed, and we both started laughing.
We’d basically spent all morning planning for nothing. Sam had swept in like a hurricane and destroyed all of it in her path.
“We should head over to your place,” I said. “Get what you’ll need for the next few months.”
This was going to be an interesting six months… Minimum.