I’m frozen in place, my hand wrapped around his until he gently pries my fingers off of his with his free hand. “I have to get my phone,” he mutters, cursing as he stands and looks around.
His phone is on the table, but in his panic, he doesn’t even see it. I pick it up and hold it out to him. He gives me an appreciative glance and takes it. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, stares at me for a long, considering moment, closes it and sighs. Hands on hips, he stares up at the ceiling, then finally looks back at me. “Would you … I mean, you can say no, and I get it, but would you, uh, would you be willing to talk to them? My parents, I mean? They’ll want to see you and talk to you and if I know my mom, she’ll insist on scheduling a dinner sometime soon. Like tomorrow, but I can probably put her off for at least a week.”
His stammering and hesitation makes him look even more like the little boy he sometimes resembles, and it makes me want to say yes to whatever he asks just to reassure him that everything will be okay. I offer him what I hope is an encouraging smile. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
Relief fills his face, but it quickly morphs to something more like concern. “Uh, just a warning. My mom can be … protective. So if she’s less than welcoming, it’s not really about you, okay? That’s just how she is.”
That has me reconsidering a little bit. But at the same time, what mom wouldn’t be anxious about her son tying himself to me? My reputation is in tatters, after all. Hence the whole point of this charade. And telling her it’s all fake isn’t exactly reassuring either—not that that’s even an option, because this only works if no one else knows.
All I’ve thought about is the immediate effects this could have on my career. And on Colt’s career. That’s been the driving force behind our entire relationship after all. I haven’t given any thought to the extended consequences and how this will affect our relationships with our families.
Because once we’re off the phone with Colt’s parents, I need to call my own.
Chapter Seventeen
Colt
I wipe my hands on my slacks, sucking in gulps of air in an attempt to calm down before calling my mom. It’s not helping, though.
She’s gonna kill me.
I heard all about what happened when Brendan and Lauren got married in Vegas. Mom fucking freaked. And now I’ve gone and basically done the same thing.
The big difference being that Brendan was actually in love with Lauren. And I’m … well, lust is definitely in the mix, even if I can’t act on it. But at its heart, this is a business deal. A contract. Not a normal marriage.
But I can’t tell Mom that. And even if I did, I don’t think that would make her feel much better.
Although … now that I think about it, I seem to remember her encouraging Jonathan to date someone who’d boost his star status instead of Gabby. So maybe telling her the truth would actually be easiest.
I glance at Alexis and quickly nix that idea.
If word gets out that this isn’t real, the media will have a field day. We’ll both look like desperate wannabes, no matter how far we’ve come by then.
No, the only way this works is if no one else knows. Even Delores won’t directly acknowledge what’s happening in order to maintain plausible deniability.
It’s that old saying—three people can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead.
And since I’m not planning on killing anyone, I’ll have to find a way to convince my mom that this is real and that she needs to be nice to Alexis.
Feeling strangely calmer from that little internal debate and pep talk, I unlock my phone and call my mom.
She picks up on the third ring, her voice surprised. “Colt! Are you planning on being home for dinner? Or are you spending the evening with your girlfriend again?”
I have to suppress a flinch at the word girlfriend. “Uh, no. I won’t be home for dinner. I’ll be spending the night with Alexis, actually.”
That provokes a brief stunned silence, then she takes an audible breath. “I see. Well, thanks for letting us know you won’t be coming home. I appreciate not worrying that you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. So things are getting serious between you two?”
I’m trying to decide if she’s just generally curious or if there’s some level of judgment or censure in her tone. It honestly could be any of those things, or all of the above.
“Well, actually, that’s, uh, that’s part of why I’m calling. Things have gotten very serious with Alexis.”
“Oh, Colt. No. Tell me you didn’t.” Now her tone is very clear—denial and fear. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. This isn’t going how I’d hoped. Not that it could possibly go well. No matter how delusional I am, I know that much. But how does she know?
Sucking in another breath, I plow forward. “I just wanted to tell you and Dad before you found out another way.”
“No, Colt,” she interrupts. “Not you, too. Not after what Brendan did. I know you were with Jonathan when that happened, but surely you heard all about it from everyone.”
I ignore her and close my eyes to get the words out. “Alexis and I got married this evening. On the beach at The Cerulean. I know this isn’t what you were hoping for. But we wanted to keep it small and intimate given the negative press she’s been receiving.”
“Then why would you be worried about me finding out another way?” she asks, her tone sharp. “If no one is supposed to know.” I open my mouth, casting about for an answer, but before I can respond, she answers her own question. “Unless you’re leaking the photos on purpose to try to fix her reputation. Is that what you’re doing? Are you sacrificing yourself, your goals, for hers?”
I let out my breath in a gust. “No, Mom,” I reassure her, telling the complete truth about this at least. “I’m not sacrificing myself for her.” We’re helping each other, actually. “She’s important to me.” Also true. “And this is what she needed. I’m sorry that this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but it had to be this way.” Also one hundred percent true. Though I’ll be honest that it makes me nervous that she’s close to guessing the truth.
She doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Would you … would you like to talk to her? I can put us on speaker. Or video chat.”
More silence. And finally, “No.” It’s little more than a whisper. “No, not right now. I’m too upset. I can’t believe you would do this. To me. To us. To yourself. And what about her? Why are you getting married so quickly? You’ve only known each other a few weeks!”
“We were dating in secret before those first pictures leaked,” I tell her, hating the lie, hating the necessity of it, hating how easily it slips off my tongue. How if I say it often enough it almost feels like it’s true.
She makes a derisive noise. “I know that’s what you’ve said, but I feel like I would’ve known if you were seeing someone.”
“How?” I strike back. “I was gone. If I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell Jonathan—which, I didn’t—how would you have known? No one knew. That’s kinda the point of secret relationships.”