Big Rock(39)

I’m only manly and rugged.

“Great,” I say, coolly drumming my knuckles against the bar, like my new casual attitude will resurrect my street cred. “So we’ll go tomorrow. Only ’cause you want to.”

My phone buzzes once more. I grab it, and my shoulders sag as I read, The Offermans will be there too :)

I turn to Charlotte. “It was an ambush,” I say, then share the details.

Her smile never falters. “It’s okay. I don’t mind going with them.” She leans in closer and whispers, “In fact, it’s been even easier to play your fiancée the last few days.”

“Why’s that?”

Her voice drops even lower. “Because of the way you f*ck me all night long.”

A bolt of lust slams into me, and I’m ready to drag her to the office, slam the door, and screw her here at work.

But Jenny calls her over, and I return to the computer with my new wood.

As I answer emails from suppliers, it occurs to me that Charlotte’s comment about being adorable should make me feel weird. But it doesn’t bug me, and I ask myself why.

Maybe because Charlotte seemed so happy to see the show. Hell, taking her to Broadway is the least I can do for her, since she’s pulling off a fantastic performance this week to help seal the deal on my dad’s sale.

Mystery solved. I like making Charlotte happy because she’s my friend, and friends help each other.

There. I teetered, but avoided breaking another ground rule.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


The reporter joins us at Sardi’s. His name is Abe, his face bears a passing resemblance to a horse, and his clothes might belong to an older brother, given that they appear two sizes too large. I’m also not sure if he has a driver’s license yet, or if he’s even started shaving.

He snaps photos of the two families toasting and nibbling on appetizers, and I’m truly amazed at what a puff piece this feature article is going to be. Must be why the magazine assigned a cub reporter to it. But then, Metropolis Life and Times is known for giving the best blow jobs in the journalism business. Open up and take it all in.

The photos are technically candid, but we’re all keenly aware of the lens as we order, chat, and raise our glasses as black-and-white caricatures of theater and movie stars preside from the walls of this Broadway institution. Only couples are in attendance this time—Mr. Offerman and his wife, my dad and my mom, and Charlotte and me. Ordinarily I’d tease Harper that she was banished tonight, but she’s probably thrilled to sit out this required event and skip the phony “we have no clue the reporter is here” conversation.

But I get why Mr. Offerman set up the story. Pieces like this aid in the transition of a business, and showing the friendly handoff of a jewelry powerhouse as well-known as Katharine’s will reassure customers. We sure look polished and spit-shined for the magazine. I’m wearing a light green button-down shirt and a pale yellow tie with cartoon pandas on it, while Charlotte looks stunning in a black short-sleeved dress with a pink ribbon cinched through slim belt loops.

“You didn’t bring your daughters along tonight,” I remark to Mr. Offerman as I finish an olive. “They’re busy with end-of-year school stuff, I presume? Or not fans of theater?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “We only had six tickets, and it seemed more important to bring the men.”

I nearly choke on the olive pit. “Excuse me?”

“My girls don’t get involved in business affairs,” he says, knocking back some of his scotch before signaling to the waiter for another.

“I’m not involved in my father’s business, though, and you invited me,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his logic.

“True, but I’m sure your opinion is more vital than, say, your—”

His remark is cut off when the reporter taps me on the shoulder. “Picture of you and Charlotte by the bar? Our society page would love one of the happy couple.”

My gut twists as I stand, knowing this photo is a sham. It’ll either run online tomorrow and then be out of date when we split up in a few more days as planned. Or it will never run because…well, because we won’t be the “happy couple” much longer.

As we step away from the table, Charlotte shoots me a look that says she’s thinking the same thing. That we’re skirting the line. Our charade seemed fine at first—a plausible enough way to ensure my romantic entanglements didn’t derail Dad’s business deal—even though I was lying to my family. Now, it borders on bald-faced manipulation as I lie to, well, everyone, leaving a pit in my stomach.

But the end justifies the means, I remind myself as we head to the bar. When I talked to my dad this morning, he said he expected to sign the deal by the weekend, once the final bank paperwork is completed. I hate the thought that Mr. Offerman might have walked had I not fit the mold he wanted. Still, I’m starting to see myself as more of a snake oil salesman, and I don’t care for this side of me.

The good part is I’ll only have to lie for another few days.

The bad part is I only get a few more days of pretending.

“Smile for the camera,” Abe says as we reach the bar, the sketches of Tom Hanks and Ed Asner in the background.

I wrap my arm around Charlotte and flash a grin, then steal a quick sniff of her neck. She smells like peaches. I dust a quick kiss on her cheek, and her breath catches. She inches closer, and yup, what was fake is real again, and that nagging feeling drifts away. There’s heat between us. Sizzle even. The camera’s got to be picking up on the sparks.