Chapter 23
PIP
“Hey Pip, are you all right?” Kit says, turning to me as the Brooklyn Bridge beckons in the distance.
“After today's drone scare, you don’t have to go through with this. You heard both Snickers and Clare say they would understand.”
"I'm okay. But Kit, that Snickerdoodle fan, Sara, she seemed a little... odd. Do you think she could’ve been the one to operate the drone? I didn't see her at the lunch tables with the others."
Kit laughs. "She doesn't look like she could lift a drone, let alone operate one."
"But you heard her question during the QA period. She's obsessed with Snickers."
"Sure. Like every Snickerdoodle in the country. Or anyone who's been charmed by his charisma. But if you'd like, I'll ask Lila about her. Dig into her history.”
"No. You're right. It's wrong to focus on her like that. I'm just a little creeped out."
To my surprise, Kit laughs again. “Welcome to life in the big city. A woman’s first stalker is always the scariest.”
“What?”
“This is New York. I thought you said you’re a native.”
“I am.” I never considered myself sheltered. But obviously I must be.
“Have you had a stalker?”
“Many,” she says, laughing again. I look towards Clare in the seat opposite us, but she’s too involved in her phone call to notice.
“And you’ve lived to tell the tale?”
“It’s not a big deal, Pip. I’m thirty years old. You know how many bars I’ve been to in that time? How many random guys I’ve met? Some of them didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“In what way? Explain.”
She shrugs. “Like following me home. Or finding out where I live or other personal information. Consider it a rite of passage.”
Clare ends her phone call, which also puts an end to my interrogation of Kit.
Maybe Kit’s right. I am naive.
The driver parks near the bridge. We get out, and Clare and Kit head toward the production crew, who are setting up the lights.
Snickers steps out of his limousine and walks toward me, chucking Piglet under the chin before greeting me. “How are you two doing?”
“Piglet’s doing well.” I hold up my tiny but fierce French Bulldog. Then I turn him so I can gaze into his adorable squished little face. “He snarfed up all the doggy treats that pet adoption lady gave me.”
“And what about you?” he asks.
I shrug and force a smile. “Right as rain, whatever that bizarre expression means.”
I take another look at the bridge. “Funny. I don’t get to Brooklyn very often, but the scenery here looks familiar. My aunt loves that old movie with Cher, Moonstruck. Maybe that’s why. I think it was shot around here.”
Clare approaches a few minutes later. “We’re ready for you now. Follow me.”
“Okay, guys,” says Kit, camera in hand. “Sit on that bench facing the bridge. Pip, make that Frenchie of yours sit still on your lap. Snickers, look into Pip’s eyes.”
We do as she requests.
Behind Kit, the paparazzi she hired snap away, capturing candid pictures of us.
Could one of them be the person who concocted that twisted message?
“Put your arm around her, Snickers,” Kit calls.
Snickers complies.
“Closer!” Kit cajoles from behind the lens.
“Lean in, Pip. Look up at Snickers like he’s some fancy French dessert.”
Just when I think Kit’s finished with her picture-taking, she issues a new order. “Now, Snickers, kiss your fiancée.”
My heart stumbles.
Kiss? With all the cameras?
I blink at Kit, half-expecting her to laugh and say she’s joking. But she doesn’t.
Snickers grins. “You ready?”
I nod, though my pulse says otherwise.
Even though we’ve been intimate before, I still expected a greeting-card style peck—something sweet and safe, like his company’s brand.
Instead, Snickers claims my mouth, his lips lingering, tasting me with a slow intensity—like I’m the sugar-burnt crust of a perfect crème br?lée.
I’m breathless when we pull apart.
“That was… very dedicated of you,” I manage.
“I take my work very seriously. Besides, you taste good.”
“Cut, cut, cut, you guys,” says Kit, laughing as she comes up to us. She makes a show of fanning her face.
“That’s what I respect about you, Snickers. Always willing to go above and beyond the call of duty.”
Snickers nods and gives Kit a thumbs up. I just blush.
“Now, you two. Get up and stand by that old oak tree.”
I follow Snickers’ lead, trying not to think about how real the kiss felt, and stand by his side.
“Snickers, try looking less like a supercilious ‘Latin lothario’ and more like a ‘humble Henry’ in love. We need folks following this media campaign to find you simple and relatable.”
I laugh. “Now that’s a stretch.”
“Hold the pup,” Kit suggests. “Maybe that will help.”
Piglet yips as Snickers wrestles him from my arms to his. We shuffle awkwardly into position against the towering oak.
That’s when I see it—faint but unmistakable, carved into the bark. A dove, delicate and precise, with initials nestled underneath: V + P.
My breath catches.
“I’ll be damned,” I murmur, running my fingers over the rough edges of the engraving.
"Think that tree's got some earth-shattering secrets to spill?" Snickers taunts, swinging around to confront the towering oak, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
“My aunt and uncle carved that when they were young. The dove—it’s her signature as an artist. The goddess Aphrodite proclaimed the dove as her symbol of eternal love. Then the Romans adopted it as theirs. The dove predates the heart emoji.”
When I glance up at Snickers, I see him staring at the symbol too, lips quirked up in a semi-smirk. “Eternal love?”
His tone isn’t exactly sarcastic. But close. It fills me with irrational irritation.
Maybe it’s because I somehow expected him to know the context behind the engraving.
“Yes. Eternal love. Your family literally sells romance. Why is the concept so hard for you to understand?”
His firm jaw tightens. “Selling it doesn’t mean believing in it.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
For a moment, I catch something in his expression—something unguarded, almost fragile.
It vanishes just as quickly.
“Come on,” he says, his smirk returning as he gestures toward the carved initials.
“Let’s give the tabloids their money shot.”