12. Avery
Fake date or not,the photos splashed online will be real, so I take my time getting ready that evening – slumber-party style, with Brooke and I indulging in face-masks, and a bouncy pop playlist while she dresses me for dinner in a deceptively-simple-looking navy sundress. It skims my curves, and flares out around my knees, and looks like it could cost $30… or $1000.
“You really do look like the girl next door,” Brooke says approvingly, as I add some flat sandals and a delicate charm bracelet. “But on a Nicholas Sparks movie with a great wardrobe department, where you die at the end of some photogenic disease.”
“Celebrities,” I joke. “They’re almost just like us!”
Brooke laughs, and then insists on fixing my hair in a messy French braid. It’s so nice just hanging out that by the time seven o’clock rolls around and the doorbell sounds, I’m tempted to cancel and stay in with her instead.
“No way.” Brooke shoves me down the hallway. “You’re going on your hot date with your hot man.”
“But we’re having so much fun!” I protest. And I have butterflies in my stomach now.
Energetic, clog-dancing butterflies.
“The tabloids are still reacting to the kiss photos from the other night,” I add. “Maybe they don’t need anything else right now?”
“You haven’t been the one filtering the comments on your Instagram,” Brooke tells me matter-of-factly. “Your reputation isn’t even close to being turned around. That’s what you wanted, right?”
It is.
Pull it together, I order myself, checking my makeup one more time in the ornate mirror. This is a job, not some giggling flirtation, and I’m a professional. I can keep my hormones in check for a couple of hours, when it’s my career on the line.
My resolve lasts all of three seconds, until I open the door to Duke.
My jaw drops.
He’s standing there on the step in a pressed button-down and good black jeans, his hair combed back– still damp from the shower– and his jaw so sharp it’s like Michelangelo himself just carved him out of a hunk of the finest European marble.
“You… shaved?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
Duke rubs his jaw, looking sheepish. Sheepish, and dapper, and handsome as hell.
“Yeah, well… my buddies were giving me grief about looking like a hobo in all those photos.” He shrugs, as his eyes drift over me. “You ready to go?”
I feel a stab of disappointment that he doesn’t say a word about my appearance. Then I remind myself to get a grip. Again. He’s not a real date, not lavishing me with compliments and fresh-cut flowers.
This is all for show.
“Be good,” Brooke trills, handing me my purse. “And have her back by curfew.” She gives me a private wink. “Do everything I wouldn’t do,” she adds in a whisper. “Please!”
I hush her, and follow Duke outside to his truck. Again, he gets my door for me, and politely waits for me to buckle up before he starts the engine and hits the road.
“Do I need to worry about another paparazzi escort?” he asks, eyeing the coastal highway ahead.
“No. Quinn will have sent them the name of the restaurant, so they’ll probably just be waiting out front. They’ll get their photos, and then leave us in peace,” I reply. “At least, that’s the plan.”
“Got it.”
Duke falls silent, and I wrack my brain for appropriate fake-date conversation. The weather? His family? Work? I’m used to spending long hours on set and finding something in common with just about anything, but the problem is, I still don’t entirely buy this helpful, chivalrous Duke Hendricks.
Why is he helping me, really? And is this still all going to wind up being an elaborate form of revenge?
Luckily, the restaurant is only a few miles away, nestled in an old carriage building overlooking the bay. And, just as expected, there’s already a cluster of paparazzi stationed outside the front door, annoying the other guests as they try to enter or leave.
“Showtime,” I say brightly, as Duke opens the passenger door for me. He doesn’t exactly look excited, but there’s no time to worry about that, not with photographers already crowding closer; yelling out questions as the lenses flash brightly in our faces.
“Avery! Over here!”
“Duke, give her a kiss.”
I flash them all a big smile, and flutter a wave with my free hand. The other is holding on tightly to Duke’s, as he plows determinedly through the scrum, leading me safely to the front door.
“Avery!” One of them lunges closer. “Are you really quitting Hollywood?”
He’s got his cameraphone right in my face, and I automatically step back, almost losing my balance. But Duke holds me steady, moving to block the guy with his broad frame.
“Wow, that’s an awfully big question,” I give a breezy laugh, recovering. “Right now, I’m just planning on enjoying a delicious dinner. Maybe I’ll save you all a lobster roll!”
There’s laughter. I flutter another wave, and then follow Duke inside.
The door slams shut behind us, but I don’t even have time to catch my breath before the ma?tre-d’ rushes to greet us. “Welcome, welcome,” he gushes.
“I’m so sorry about the commotion,” I’m sure to tell him. “I hope it’s not causing too much trouble.”
“No, ma’am,” he says, looking thrilled. “Your team told us to expect the attention.”
I realize that I’m still holding tight to Duke’s hand. I reluctantly release it, as the manager leads us across the room to our table.
“Enjoy your evening,” he beams, and then we’re left alone.
I finally exhale. Looking around the restaurant for the first time, I can see it’s a fancy, formal kind of vibe: stiff linen tablecloths, glittering chandeliers, and expensively-dressed diners picking at elaborate seafood towers. At the table next to us, an old man in a seersucker suit is droning on, spraying droplets of spit across the floral arrangement at his bored-looking daughter.
At least, I hope it’s his daughter.
“This place looks nice,” I say brightly, turning back to Duke. He’s also looking around the elegant room, but he doesn’t seem thrilled to be here. “If there’s one thing the French know how to do, it’s bake some bread,” I add, pulling the basket of dinner rolls closer.
He nods, and then there’s a long silence as I butter a roll, eating one piece, and then another.
“So—” Duke finally starts, at the same time as I pipe up:
“Well—”
We both stop.
“You first,” Duke says quickly.
“No, you.”
“It’s fine, really,” he insists, looking even more uncomfortable. “You go.”
The absurdity of the situation is too much for me. I burst out with a snort of laughter.
“I’m sorry,” I say through giggles, as Duke stares at me, looking baffled. “It’s just…”
Forty-eight hours ago you had your tongue in my mouth and your hands on my ass.
“It’s just we’re not even doing this for real,” I manage. “But it already feels like the most awkward first date in the world!”
Duke finally cracks a grin. “It is… weird,” he admits, sitting back in his chair. “I don’t know why I feel so self-conscious. I never usually care on dates.”
“Gee, maybe that’s why you’re still single,” I crack, taking a sip of water.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m single because I can do without all the drama. What’s your excuse?”
“Excuse…” I repeat, shaking my head. “You sound like the tabloids. ‘Why can’t Avery find love?’” I mimic dramatically. “’What’s wrong with her? She’ll wind up wretched and alone! I’m only twenty-six,” I add.
Duke cocks an eyebrow at me. I blush.
“OK, maybe twenty-nine,” I admit. “But they don’t know that! I had the internet scrubbed for anything that even mentions my age.”
“Seriously?” Duke laughs. “That’s crazy.”
“That’s Hollywood,” I correct him. “You don’t understand, some casting directors won’t even look at you once you turn thirty. You get a few years to make it big enough to last the long-haul, and that’s it. Hence me and you and this ridiculous scheme. Yes, hence,” I add. “I read, remember?”
“Vividly.”
Duke’s eyes catch mine across the table, crinkled with amusement, and I feel those damn clog-stomping butterflies start up again.
Focus.
“You know, I’ve never actually seen your movies,” Duke says, after the waitress comes to take our orders. “Where should I start?”
I pause. “For real?”
Duke shrugs. “I mean, it seems like the kind of thing a boyfriend should do.”
“You’d be surprised,” I give a laugh. “But… the movie I shot in Blackberry Cove last year, that’s one I’m pretty proud of. Reeve was a great director, and I got to do some real acting, not just prance around in a minidress. I want to do more of that,” I add. He cocks an eyebrow, and I laugh. “Acting, silly. There’s actually another director I love, I’d kill to work with her.”
I tell him about the Amelia Earhart project, and my research into the role. “I’d love a shot at auditioning, but she’s probably only testing serious actresses,” I finish with a sigh.
“Can’t you audition anyway?” Duke asks, demolishing the rest of the bread basket.
I shake my head. “You have to be invited, or have your team pull strings to get you in the room and, well, nobody’s exactly calling in favors for me right now,” I tell him regretfully.
“And there’s really no way around that?” Duke frowns. “Why not just go to this Madeline directly?”
I pause. “I mean, I could self-tape,” I say slowly. “Just film my own audition, and send it to her uninvited,” I explain. “But, it’s kind of tacky. And what if she thinks I’m too arrogant, assuming I’ll get the role?”
“But at least you’ll be the one calling the shots,” Duke argues, “instead of waiting around for someone to give you permission.”
“Maybe…” Our appetizers arrive, two plates of tiny scallops drizzled with an elaborate sauce. I take the chance to pivot the conversation to something less fraught with my fears of personal failure. “So, is that what you do with your work, call the shots?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.
“On the construction site, yeah,” Duke agrees with a smile.
“So you build houses, like the Property Brothers?” I ask.
Duke recoils so hard, he almost knocks his silverware off the table. “Nothing like them,” he scowls.
“Easy there,” I tease. “You look like you’re about to go storm the offices at HGTV.”
Duke takes a breath. “Sorry. I’ve been told I have a lot of… strong opinions about these things.”
“You? Opinionated?” I grin. “Never.”
He gives a chuckle. “The work I do is more about historic restoration. The job I’m working now, this guy inherited his grandparents’ old house. The place was falling apart, but instead of tearing it down and building something brand new, we’re using the original blueprints and plans to restore it properly.”
“With some modern plumbing, I hope,” I tease, and he laughs.
“A few mod-cons, yeah.”
I can see how passionate he is about his work. Duke relaxes, looking animated as he describes his current projects, and all the research that goes into using the right materials, and historic building techniques they were using a hundred years ago.
“The historic look is really big right now,” I agree, digging into my entrée. “A designer friend of mine back in LA just did a big spread for Architectural Digest, her client has this big Spanish mansion. Of course, the client is a celebrity makeup artist, and did the whole thing with blood-red walls and a kinky sex dungeon,” I smirk. “But everyone wants original details like that now. You’re right on-trend,” I tell him with a smile.
“Trend’s aren’t the point,” Duke answers curtly. “It’s about building something right, not posing for some glossy magazine, or chasing bullshit status.”
“Right, but all the publicity is a bonus, too.” I suggest. “It’s great your work and skills are getting the credit they deserve.”
“Credit from who?” Duke shoots back. “If the only reason someone cares about anything is because it’s the new hot trend, or all their friends are saying so, then that’s credit I can do without.”
Duke slices away at his steak, stone-faced.
Crap.
I’ve clearly said the wrong thing, but I can’t think how. I try to ask more questions, about favorite past projects, and how he learned his trade, but Duke just answers in monosyllables. His relaxed smiles and easy banter is a distant memory, no matter how hard I work to lighten the conversation again.
The grumpy Duke Hendricks is back– to stay.
Finally, I give up on conversation, and just finish my food. It’s rich, and heavy, and I can only manage a few bites before pushing my plate away.
“Ready to go?” Duke asks.
Asking for the dessert menu at this point would just prolong the awkwardness. “Sure,” I agree. “And since this is technically a business expense, I can get the check.”
Duke gives me a glare.
“Or not…” I add quickly, “whatever you want.”
What Duke wants is clearlyto be done with this whole fake date evening. He settles our bill, and practically power walks back to the truck without a backwards glance. Luckily, the paparazzi are long gone, and nobody’s there to see me open my own passenger door, and haul myself up into the cab.
We drive in silence back to Blackberry Cove.
I stifle a sigh. If this is what it’s going to be like for the rest of summer, I should just take my chances on the tabloids alone. All the tension has my stomach churning, and any minute now, I’m expecting Duke to announce he’s through with our whole fake relationship, and breaking it off with me for real. No more forced, awkward dates, and curt bickering.
No more heart-stopping, fevered kisses…
My stomach flips over at the memory– but not in a good way.
I gulp, feeling a sudden wave of nausea rising in my gut. Crap. I realize to my horror that it hasn’t been the tension making me sick to my stomach; it was the damn seafood!
I panic. “Umm, Duke?” I try to swallow the acrid sting in the back of my throat. “How far is the cottage?”
“Only a couple more miles.”
I stifle a whimper. There’s no “only” about it.
“I can’t last that long!” I manage to blurt. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Seriously?” Duke looks over, frowning.
“No, I just like to joke about vomiting in front of complete strangers!” I wail. “Yes, I’m serious. You have to pull over!”
“Shit.” Duke curses. “Look, my place is closer. Think you can make it that far?”
I whimper. “I’ll try.”
He hits the gas, and soon we’re pulling up outside a converted barn-type building on the outskirts of Blackberry Cove. To be honest, the details are a blur as I wrench open the truck door, tumble out, and follow Duke blindly to the door.
“There’s a bathroom that way—” he says, but I’m already racing down the hall.
I make it just in time.
Ugh.
I yank the flush and sink back, recovering. I’m sweaty, miserable– and humiliated, but still, it gets worse when I hear Duke clear his throat behind me.
“Avery?”
“No,” I whimper, “Don’t come in!”
But the door is already open. Duke looks down at me with concern. “You OK?”
I shake my head.
“Aww, princess.” It’s the first time he’s called me that and not sounded like an insult. Duke crouches down, handing me a bottle of water, and a damp facecloth.
“Thanks,” I mutter pitifully.
“You know, I figured the date wasn’t going well,” Duke comments, sitting back against the wall opposite me. “But I’ve never made a woman sick to her stomach before.”
“Don’t joke,” I wail. “If I laugh, I’m going to vomit again.”
Duke chuckles. “Sorry. If it helps, you were very neat about it,” he offers. “And you get bonus points for making out of the truck in time.”
“That’s me,” I groan. “Beauty, grace, and high scores in the bodily function department.”
I wish the earth would just open and swallow me right up, but nope– I’m still crumpled on the bathroom floor.
It’s a good floor, I notice: black-and-white checkerboard tile, and a whole vintage feel. I lift my head. “You know, this is a cute bathroom,” I tell him. “For a guy.”
“Gee, thanks,” Duke smirks. “What were you expecting: watermarks around the tub, and a threadbare towel in the corner?”
“You’d be surprised.” I give a dark laugh. “I dated this guy once, a big-deal agent, million-dollar deals, right? I go back to his place, and there’s nothing in any of the bathrooms: no towels, no toilet paper, nothing… except an industrial pack of gross brown paper towels. I mean, Costco size, there must have been a thousand of them, just teetering in a stack in the corner!”
Duke chuckles. “What did you do?”
“What any self-respecting woman would do,” I reply archly. “I marched right out and insisted we check into the Beverly Hills Hotel for the night. A girl has to have standards. And yes,” I add with a wince. “I get the irony of that particular statement right now.”
Duke looks at me. “So, was that why you didn’t marry your ex?” he asks, his expression unreadable. “He didn’t meet your high standards?”
“Robert? Ha!” I snort. “His mansion had ten bathrooms, all beautifully designed, and stocked with the finest French spa products by the amazing housekeeping staff. They were great bathrooms,” I sigh wistfully. “Deep tubs, a view of the city…”
“So why’d you break it off?”
I shrug. “Why does anyone make an irrational decision? Love,” I reply, “or, in my case, the absence of it. I wanted to hold out for something real. Which seems real stupid right about now,” I add, gloomy.
“Nope,” Duke says, shooting me a quiet smile. “It sounds real brave to me.”
I blink. Our eyes lock across the bathroom floor, and I feel my stomach flip.
The good kind, this time.
Then Duke’s smile fades. “We, uh, didn’t eat the same thing back at the restaurant, did we?”
“Nope,” I tell him, sipping water. “At least, nothing except…”
We both look at each other.
“The scallops!”
Duke looks queasy. “Excuse me,” he says, surprisingly polite, and then lunges from the room. I hear him race down the hall, and then there’s a slamming door, and a miserable-sounding groan.
Yup, I think, sinking back with a sigh. We really did it.
The worst fake date of all time.