Page 45 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

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!”

---