Page 58 of The Pucking Grump

“Things are going so well,” he says to no one in particular. “Well, the show is going to go on a little later than we planned, but we started a few minutes late, so . . .”

Brit shoots me an amused look. I turn to Kevin, suddenly feeling contrite. “Sorry about the delay,” I mutter. I made his work difficult because I was dead set on appeasing my ego.

“No worries.” He waves a hand. “You needed to talk to your girlfriend.” His undue emphasis on the last word reminds me that he’s also aware that our relationship is fake.

Like he needed me to remember that, too.

“What are the flowers for?” Brit interrupts.

“Oh.” He looks down at his arms as if he just became aware of their existence. “Faye arranged to have them delivered after this last song. It’s supposed to be symbolic, you know, representative of her blooming after all she’s gone through. I wish I knew how to get them on stage, though. We thought we’d dim the lights for a second and she’d reappear holding them, but it kind of seems whack now, doesn’t it? And?—”

“I’ll deliver them.”

Brit’s eyes pop out of their sockets. Surely my proposal isn’t that shocking?

“You?” Brit asks.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ll give her the flowers and kiss her. Her fans will definitely go crazy over that.”

Brit swallows. “Yeah, I can see that. The media and everyone else will too. But you are . . . Aren’t you . . .?”

“Aren’t you too underdressed?” Kevin sputters, obviously thinking in another direction already. “I’ve got a tux that might be your size back there. Come with me.”

He turns and walks further backstage, Brit and me following him.

“Blake,” Brit says. “Are you . . . um . . . sure? I don’t know if you’re ready for that kind of public attention. This is going to be your coming out, and . . .”

I turn to her. “You told me to do what feels right. This is it.” It’s literally the opposite sentiment to what I had when I walked into the building, but now it makes the most sense.

Brit swallows again. “Yeah . . . well . . . I suppose.” She pulls out her phone. “I better text Alex and let him know. I don’t want him to have a heart attack over this.”

But as I slip out of my sweatpants and into the stiffly starched suit Kevin provided with a moment’s notice, I feel uncertainty prick me like a million needles.

What the hell am I doing? Why on Earth did I offer to do this?

And why can’t I seem to stop myself from following through?

The answer is obvious: because it feels like the right move. The same reason I’ve done anything since I met Faye. Helping her out of the wedding, taking her to my cabin, making love to her for days on end. Hell, even coming here and banging her just before her show.

With Faye, illogical things always feel right. And I’m kind of done fighting it.

A ground-shattering applause comes floating up to me as I step out of the tiny dressing room. Kevin and Brit are waiting, along with two stylists. One of them runs a comb quickly through my hair, and the other takes a powder brush to my face.

“Right,” Kevin says, handing over the bouquet. “Just go down that hall,” he points at a dark corridor, “and you’ll appear on stage.”

“Have you told her he’ll be coming?” Brit says, glancing at the earpiece Kevin’s wearing.

“Well, no,” he says. “She might be a little startled, but that’s good. I want the cameras to get her natural reaction.”

This seems like even more of a bad idea than it already is.

I accept the bouquet and start toward the dark corridor, but not before I catch a glimpse of the anxiety on Brit’s face.

Brit being worried about this should make me reconsider.

But it doesn’t. Because I actually want this.

Two burly security guards are right in front of another velvety curtain. They step aside to let me pass. I push past them, and a thousand bright lights instantly blind me.

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