Page 111 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

She passes me a container of bobby pins to hold. “I only know the family, and they’ll be really busy. I’m petrified that this will be the time people come up to talk, and I’ll be all alone, and I know I’ll say something stupid or out myself as Hollywood.”

“You’re becoming less Hollywood by the day.”

She pulls a pin from the plastic case. “You think so?”

“Look at you. No more glamour makeup, no high heels. You wear nothing but pastels. I bet you’re itching to trade that hybrid for an SUV.”

She jerks her face toward me. “How did you know that?”

“Because there aren’t any charging ports for a hundred miles?”

“You checked?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to make your life easier.”

She secures another curl, then reaches out to squeeze my arm. “You have been the best friend, Zachery.”

Other than that time I plowed into her against the wall.

“I want the best for you, Kelsey.”

She turns back to the mirror. “What do you think? Do I look the part of the small-town girlfriend, pretty but not flashy, well dressed but not a show-off?”

“You’re perfect.”

She turns to me with a smile that washes over me like warm rain. “You always say that.”

I don’t push the point. “You have your proper small-town icebreakers prepared?”

She sits up straight, then tilts her head with an easy smile. “Don’t you love the look of those pies? I’m always looking for a good chocolate recipe.” She clears her throat. “Are we behind on rain this year? Sure seems dry.”

“Don’t mention global warming,” I warn.

She relaxes into normal Kelsey mode. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good girl.” Saying those two words, though, makes me think of her, the dress at her waist.I’m going to take this dress off you.

She is not for me.

I’m the one who farts in old ladies’ faces on-screen, who pisses in fountains for the cameras, who dates for visibility, for press, for nothing resembling this shining hope I see in Kelsey.

“I’m ready.” She looks me up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I glance at my Armani shirt and Luca Faloni trousers. “Too much?”

“It’s over a thousand dollars, each. Can you find anything under five hundred?”

“We could stop by Wally World.”

“Hush. How about jeans?”

“Mine are—”

“Right. Even more expensive than those pants.”

She really is nervous. “Nobody here is going to assess the value of my wardrobe,” I tell her.

“But you look different. You stand out.”

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