Page 25 of Second Down Fake

“Are you serious, Cassandra?”

No one called me Cassandra. Not even my mom. But the way he said it felt like swallowing warm honey. His voice caressing each syllable, resting on it like it deserved all the time in the world.

If I’d had any sense, I’d take that aching in the pit of my stomach as a surefire sign that this wasn’t a good idea. That the best idea I could have would be to tell Diego thanks for all the fish and see you never. Good luck with the reporters and the gossip columnists and a life in the spotlight.

“I’m serious.”

Seriously out of my mind.

“It would be an enormous help,” he said tentatively. “I’m not sure I should ask you that, though.”

I shifted in my seat, fingers reaching for the keys in the ignition and then dropping them again. “You didn’t ask me. I offered.”

He sighed, and I could envision him in his living room. An industrial gray couch, a spacious floor plan, and sumptuous furnishings designed by someone famous. Someone who bought furniture for a living and had been hired without knowing Diego or anything about him. I saw his head thrown back on an expensive couch, eyes on the ceiling as he weighed my offer. He didn’t want to piss off Becca. But he also wanted the bad press to die down.

“You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.”

I laughed. “Probably not. The closest I’ve ever gotten to celebrity was making out with some guy in a treehouse in college.”

“I hope you’re talking about me.”

“No,” I lied. “An actor. He’s in a superhero movie. Calls me once a month but I would never get with a guy like that.”

“But you’d pretend to date me?”

“Like I have anything better to do.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. The bartending job was barely part time. A fill-in position. Sure, the tips were better on the weekend, but I didn’t need the tips that bad. And the walking tours were sporadic and could fit around my schedule.

“Cassandra,” Diego’s voice dropped low.

I prepared myself for a laugh followed by “Absolutely not.”

“Can we talk about this in person?”

NINE

DIEGO

I pulled into the parking lot and scanned for Cassandra’s car. Of course, she was already there. She hadn’t even left work when I called her, overeager for an excuse to call her even though I’d just seen her a few days ago.

Finding the pictures hadn’t been a surprise. Sure, Cassandra thought the kids just wanted an autograph, but I’d been in the spotlight long enough to differentiate a fan from a gawker. Those kids weren’t fans.

Within an hour of the pictures posting, James called. He congratulated me on working so fast to find a low-key girlfriend for the season. He hadn’t even made the connection between the girl in the picture and Becca. Sure, he hadn’t met Cassandra, but the similarities between the sisters were there.

Then again, I’d never thought of Becca as anything more than a friend. Or drill sergeant. And there was nothing friendly about how I felt about her sister. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t have been sitting in the darkened parking lot of a dive bar, checking the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. I should have been watching a movie or playing video games or hell, even been asleep. Instead, I pushed open the car door and walked into the bar.

Only a block past the bustling downtown Main Street, Lonny’s was a rundown bar with tacky floors, peeling seats, and bartenders who got aggravated if a customer asked for anything more complex than a beer. I’d fallen in love with the bar immediately. Unlike the Crown & Copper, where I’d have gotten mobbed the second I walked in the door, no one so much as raised an eyebrow when I waltzed into Lonny’s.

No one except Cassandra.

She sat perched on a bar stool. Our eyes met, and her lips bloomed into a smile that hit me straight in the gut. I took a deep breath, fingers searching for the phone in my pocket and gripping it tight.

“Hey, I ordered a beer and a martini. Which do you want?”

“Beer,” I said, and she pushed the frosty glass in my direction before taking a sip of her drink. “How the hell did you convince someone to make you a martini?”

I searched the bar for some unknown bartender who would actually mix a drink. The owner stood at the end of the bar with a scowl.

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