Page 47 of Fake It 'til You Make It

‘You want all that stuff?’ Mike asks, his gaze intense, as if I’m being interviewed for a job.

‘I did. I do. I don’t know anymore. Andrew cheating on me has sent me into unknown territory.’ I take a drink of beer, thinking. ‘He’s forced me to change and I want change, I think. I’m starting to see things differently. I just don’t know how yet. Some might say I’m a hot mess.’

I try to smile but the truth in my words means it’s tight and forced.

Mike holds up his bottle. ‘To being a work in progress.’

We tap bottle heads. ‘Not you, you’ve clearly got it all together.’

He gives me one of those expressions I’m getting used to, as if he’s holding back, saying,if only you knew.

When he’s not being obnoxious, maybe I would like to know.

‘Not nearly but that’s a story for another day,’ he says, putting a fence around that potential thread of conversation. ‘I’ll tell you something, though: your ex is very jealous of this.’ He gestures between us. ‘You and me. Us. Our fake relationship.’ He pushes off the island, standing up to his full height. ‘I’m going to take a shower before the food arrives. Help yourself to whatever.’

‘Thank the heavens for that. I could hardly breathe over here from the stench of you.’

He shakes his head but he’s taking my joke as it was intended. One side of his mouth curves up, a lopsided grin, a lazy smile. ‘The shoe does fit, Cinderella. I can see how you’d be good at your job. You certainly have a bent for theatrics.’

‘Theatrics?’Oh.‘My job as an actress, you mean.’

I think his skin flushes. ‘Ah, yeah. That’s what you are, isn’t it?’

Well, not really, no. Which means… ‘You’ve read my Tinder profile.’ I point to him, my finger near touching his nose.

‘My brother sent it to me; it’s not like I went searching for it. I’m showering.’

He can’t leave quickly enough. He’s walking away from melike Road Runner from dynamite.Now who’s funny?

I could tell him it isn’t true. I probably should. But I didn’t write the profile, nor did I invite him and his brother to nit-pick over it and, frankly, if I told him I’m actually a numbers nerd, he might start banging balls again.

I’m not lying; I’m just failing to correct his assumption. He’s pretending, too. He’s pretending to be my boyfriend in front of Andrew.

I watch him walk upstairs, appreciating two things. One, I am bizarrely pleased that Andrew is jealous. It’s his turn. Two, my stomach is still leaping at the sound ofUs. At the idea of us faking it together.

If only he was serious when he joked about being my superfly date to my parents’ vow renewal. Ha, imagine people’s faces if I turned up with a pro-baseball player.

ImagineAndrew’sface.

And I’d be able to stop searching for someone else. An added bonus!

But there’s noactualchance Mike would agree to something like that. So dating apps it is.

Sighing, I slip down from the chair and visit the baseballs on the shelves in the lounge area, looking at the names of the players who’ve signed them. I don’t know the game but even I recognize some of these names. They bring with them the reality that Mike is famous. Of course he’s arrogant; he’s adored by thousands of fans. Crazy.

From this new vantage point, I look around the open space and wonder who dressed the home. An interior designer? A woman? I wonder if Mike has ever lived with a woman?

Then I notice the laptop that was on the table this morning. The pages of print out that had been in a neat pile hours ago are now scattered around the table. Remembering the name of thecompany, and after a cursory glance to the mezzanine level to make sure Mike isn’t watching me – I don’t know why I feel guilty, it’s not like I’m plotting his murder here, I’m just searching a company name – I type Vanguard RED Technologies into a search engine.

Just as my thumb moves toward ‘go’, there’s a knock on the door.Food!

The concierge has, as instructed, allowed the delivery guy up to the eighth floor. I set my phone down on the sofa and I’m about to make for the door when Mike appears on the mezzanine level, behind the glass balcony wall.

Andboydoes he appear.

Wet from the shower, his hair just washed and messed, wearing a white towel around his waist. Wearingonlya white towel. He’s leaner than I’d have expected, water shines on toned muscles of his torso, but his firmness is not unapproachable; it’s welcoming. Inviting.

‘Could you get that?’ he asks. ‘It’ll be the delivery guy.’

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