Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
BIANCA
We arrive late at the warehouse where the commercial is being shot. So we scramble from the car, giving me less emotional space to feel guilty about not answering Jett’s phone call. I know it was him without looking, but I’m too chicken to hear any bad news.
Biting my lip because a gulp of guilt hits me when I realize he could be calling to tell me about the birth of his new baby.
“Let’s get going.” A useless thing to say since I’m doing a terrible job of getting Brody to the shoot on time.
With quick, short strides, I take the lead, toying with the wedding band and hiding it behind my handbag.
A self-conscious haze settles over me like I’m in an alternate universe, making this whole scene seem surreal.
In an attempt to get myself back to earth, I take the deepest breath I can, given the tension tightening my core.
A young woman meets us at the door, shaking Brody’s non-ring hand.
“I’m Carlotta with the Speck Ad Agency. We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Holden.
” With only a cursory nod at me and Sabien, she ushers us through a short hallway straight to the studio where cameras are ready and the space is chaotic, with production assistants running around arranging set pieces made up of all kinds of obstacles: a living room with the biggest sectional I’ve ever seen and several green screens, projectors, and cameras.
“Come with me,” she says to Brody and leads him into the belly of the chaotic floor.
Sabien and I stop on the perimeter where several others stand, observing.
I watch Carlotta sit Brody in one of the high director’s chairs in a grouping.
The woman waves someone over from the sidelines who drags a rolling cart over and proceeds to apply make-up to Brody’s face, paying extra attention to his recent stitches.
Brody takes it all in stride, maintaining his careless smile as if this is an everyday thing.
Maybe it is becoming that way. It’s not his first commercial shoot, but the other ones were nothing like this.
That fact is underscored as I recognize an NFL all-star walk over to Brody and shake his hand. The set is littered with high-profile athletes, all established in their sports and seasoned in the promotions game.
Sabien lets out a low whistle. “Is that….?”
I nod and glance at the other spectators to find Mr. Martino.
I need to introduce myself and make sure he doesn’t have any buyer's remorse about signing Brody after his injury yesterday.
I recognize him from the Cavalaro Motors website photos, standing at the edge of the group of spectators with another executive type.
Martino stands out with his unmistakably slick and stylish Italian suit.
“Wait here,” I whisper to Sabien and head over to Martino, putting out my hand—the ringless one—to shake his when he sees me approach.
“It’s nice to meet you in person, Mr. Martino. I’m Bianca Brooks with—”
He clasps my hand in both of his, smiling pleasantly, and introduces me to the man who turns out to be the producer-director of the commercial.
“Likewise.”
His phone makes a beeping sound like an alert, and he puts up a finger. “If you don’t mind, I…” he says as he slips his phone from his expensive suit jacket and glances at the screen.
Then his eyes pop.
At the same time, Carlotta comes running toward us, holding her phone and waving it.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise because I recognize this is the exact moment when everything changes. Before either Carlotta from Speck or Frank Martino, our crucial money man, says a word, I know.
They’ve found out about the newlywed secret. They’re thumbing through the inevitable barrage of social media while I ignore the vibrating of my phone.
Holding my breath as they stare at their phones, mouths slack, I wait for their reaction. So far, all I see is shock while my body temperature drops to frozen.
Carlotta looks up from her phone to stare at me first.
“You… married Brody Holden?”
I nod, and she grabs my left hand to confirm that I have a wedding band. My gut twists, and I can’t think of what to say.
Sabien rescues me, approaching us with a nod and smile.
He pulls me aside. “Excuse us.” Then he whispers to me, “What the hell?” He holds his phone, staring at it with his brow furrowed like he’s turned into an old man who doesn’t understand modern electronics.
“Did you see this, Brooks?” He hands me his phone unnecessarily.
“No.” I’m too busy watching for Martino’s reaction, the one person who could make or break this deal for Brody and the Jett Agency. And not to mention sink my career.
“It’s crazy. The Vegas wedding story is blowing up like you and Brody are the Queen and King of some country.”
I listen as Carlotta stares at me, her gaze sliding to my ring for a moment before she goes back to scrolling her phone.
“Yeah. The newlywed king and queen of Fairytale Land,” I whisper to Sabien while I keep an eye on the object of my anxiety.
Martino continues to scroll madly, frowns deepening from puzzled to astonished to—I don’t want to get ahead of myself.
He shakes his head. “This is wild.”
“What did you expect when you told all the sports media at NHL All-Star weekend that Brody and I got married in a quickie Vegas wedding?”
“Not this.” His frown softens. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it would be this big a deal.”
“I know. It shouldn’t be, should it? But Brody is…
special.” I leave it at that because I doubt Sabien will get that Brody Holden is the equivalent of a teenage heartthrob movie star on ice with the kind of universal appeal that’s quickly making him a household name the likes of which the hockey world hasn’t seen since Wayne Gretzky or Bobby Orr.
Except he’s a million times hotter than either of them.
Martino joins us before Sabien finishes sputtering for a response.
“What the hell is all this about?” Martino waves his phone, and I still can’t read his reaction. He could be a world-class poker player if he quit the Italian sports car business.
I smile and try to figure out how a newlywed should act when her secret is out. Shit. I got nothing. All of my energy is going into keeping me from throwing up.
“Surprise,” I say with the enthusiasm and grimace of an undertaker.
“It’s all my fault,” Sabien jumps in. “They wanted to keep it secret, and I blew it. I had no idea the interest would be so…” He shakes his head.
“Amazing?” Martino says.
Losing control of my eyebrows, they fly up my forehead while I try to maintain some semblance of professionalism and still keep my guts from hurling whatever is in there—butterflies?—all over the handsome VP of Cavalaro Motors.
“In a way—” I start, but Carlotta joins us with a big smile.
“You sly pussycat,” she says. “Congratulations on coming up with the biggest surprise of NHL All-Star weekend and capturing the trendiest story honors on social media and the current sports media news cycle.
“Wait a second—does Jett know about this?” Martini asks.
A buzz rises in the room as people on the sidelines of the current shoot start picking up their phones.
“What the hell is going on?” the director yells, turning and frowning in our direction.
Carlotta grins. “It’s all good. Brody is making a big splash is all. Carry on.”
The director zeroes in on Brody, and he doesn’t look nearly as happy as Carlotta. I bolt in his direction, feeling lightheaded as I finally glance at my phone and the video clip playing on Instagram.
“I need to have a word with Brody.”
The director nods and calls for a five-minute break.
I pull Brody aside, ignoring his impossibly sparkly appearance because the makeup has made him look like a live version of an airbrushed poster. His stitches and bruising are invisible. “I can explain everything.”
However, once again, I’m telling a big fat lie.
In fact, in the span of one short All-Star Weekend with Brody Holden, I’ve managed to tell more lies than I have in the previous twenty-eight years of my life.
“What’s going on?” he asks, holding onto my arms, rubbing them like he’s soothing me.
“We went viral and—”
Carlotta swoops in and takes me by the arm. “Let them get back to the shoot. We’re already behind schedule.”
Brody’s expression is unreadable, but he nods and lets go of me.
With some force, she drags me away from the set. “Nothing to explain.” She waves a hand in a circle. “Keep shooting.”
The director nods and calls for Brody to prep for his camera time.
Carlotta whispers as she leads me back to sit with Martino, who is still absorbed by his phone. “Congrats, by the way. Quite a whale you’ve landed there. A winner in every sense.” She grabs my left hand again and nods. “Keeping it simple. I like that.”
“We… were in a hurry.” Great. Now I’ll probably need to explain why we were in a hurry, and I have no explanation ready.
Her eyes go wide. “Wait—are you pregnant?” Her voice squeaks, straining the whisper, and I clap a hand over her mouth.
“Shhh.” Panic shreds whatever professional poise I have left, and when I should be doing damage control, I’m mute and flushed with embarrassment as if guilty as charged.
“That’s amazing. Just when I didn’t think this story could get any better—”
Heat burns my face, but I manage to keep the horror out of my voice and hold onto my whisper. “No. No. Of course I’m not pregnant. And what do you mean by story? You’re not a reporter—”
“The ad business is all about telling stories.” She smiles and leans in, lowering her voice further. “Though I’m not sure your story is exactly right for the seductive and sexy image we’re selling for these cars.”
“Shhh. Don’t even say that.” My panic keeps rising, and I feel my feet wobbling in my sky-high heels.
“Is that why you’re trying to keep your marriage a secret? To preserve Brody’s image as the up-and-coming most eligible bachelor?”
I’m shaking my head as she goes on. “Because, I have to tell you, in my experience, when you have a secret like a celebrity marriage and it comes out unplanned, you end up getting extra attention.”
“I can see that.” My chest constricts, and I hope I’m not having a heart attack. I force myself to take a deep breath and remind myself I can handle this. I always handle problems, don’t I?
But the problem with this problem is that we didn’t have a secret marriage. The big secret now is that we’re NOT married.
Shit. I wonder what kind of attention that big reveal would get? I shudder.
She puts an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry. All the fuss will die down.”
“When?” I really want to know. “In your expert opinion?”
“A week or so. Maybe. It depends.”
“On what?”
She shrugs. “Beats me. Sometimes a story gets sticky.” She pauses and gives me a sympathetic look, squeezing my shoulder.
“I hate to say it, but I see the potential for this story sticking around. I mean, Brody plays hockey in the NHL, so he’s out there, and you—” she leans back and gives me a once-over. “You’re adorable.”
I laugh, not a happy laugh, but one of those self-derisive acknowledgments of who I am. The pudgy smart girl. Sure, maybe she really does think I’m adorable—probably because I’m short—or maybe it’s code for pathetic. Or it’s adorable that I’ve managed to snag someone way out of my league.
“You don’t have to spell it out,” I say. “Everyone loves a story about the long shot, the ugly duckling catching the hot guy—”
“You’re not—”
I put up a hand. “Okay, not an ugly duckling. The mediocre girl scoring the hot big shot is a compelling story. I get it. There are a lot of us mediocre people in the world fantasizing about landing the biggest dreamboat fish in the sea.” I turn to her. “The whale.”
“What are you ladies talking about? Fishing?” Martino stashes his phone as he meets us at the edge of the set, outside the quiet zone.
“Forget about fish. Brody’s getting an enormous amount of attention on social media, and I bet that will make our ad campaign even more of a hit, more effective, am I correct?
” He grins at Carlotta, finally showing his hand because he thinks he’s won.
“It will definitely get us a lot more attention,” she sounds hesitant, and I know she’s worried about the demise of Brody’s bachelorhood affecting viewer response. “People may replay clips of the commercial in social media posts ideally and—”
He claps his hands together. “Perfect.” He shifts his attention to me. “I apologize for my business-centric reaction to your recent nuptials. This should be a romantic time for you. I’ll send an appropriate gift to your room—”
“That’s so kind, but there’s no need. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“I’ll send it to your home, then. Unless you’re both moving…”
“Moving?” My mind spins with the unplanned logistical nightmare of the aftermath of this fake marriage. “Honestly, we haven’t discussed it yet.” The idea of moving gives me new empathy for Alice of Wonderland fame. Fresh panic rises, literally in my throat.
If we don’t do something about this charade soon, I’ll end up moving in with Brody hot-hockey-poster-boy Holden.
To prevent my heart from seizing up, I don’t let myself think of what happens after that.