Page 12 of Fauxmance in the City

“Baby, you could’ve just asked,” Sam says.

“Fuck.” I chew my lip, hating the disappointed look on his face.

Sam falls to his knees, and before I can guess what he’s doing, he pops one knee up and takes my hand.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grumbles. Natalie jumps up and down next to me, giddy, and my heart is banging in my chest as if this is a real proposal. “Catelyn Bloom, will you fake marry me?”

A rush of adrenaline speeds through my veins. Sam loves a good game. Especially one that involves me, but something underneath feels too real.

“Wait.” I wiggle out of Sam’s grasp, suddenly worried. When the solution came to me earlier, it seemed perfect. Now I’m not so sure. “When it airs, your friends and family will know we’re not married.”

“The producers don’t care about Sam,” Natalie says. “All they want to see is Catelyn Bloom hosting that poor sap with no memory. They can shoot Sam from the back or something. Did you ever see Martha Stewart’s husband on TV? No. Besides, as long as Max Chase gets his memory back, that’s all they’ll care about.”

Patrick bangs back into the office, his face pinched in distress. “Avery’s at the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” I say, forgetting everything else. “Is the baby okay?”

“Yes.” He sinks onto the cushion Sam recently vacated. “She forgot to take one of her progesterone shots, and it caused some bleeding. But she and the baby are fine.”

“Thank God,” Natalie says, and then shoots me a look, silently urging me to do this, to save everyone.

“Sam’s gonna be my husband,” I say quickly before I change my mind.

Patrick’s wrinkled brow slowly unfurls, color returning to his face. “That’s not a bad idea. It’s not bad at all.”

My lips pull up into an uneasy smile because this may be the worst idea of my life. How am I gonna pretend to be Sam’s wife? It’ll be a miracle if we pull this off. It’ll be a double miracle if I get through this with my heart unscathed.

four

“I have Myra Hoefer’s assistant on the phone. She’s asking if we still want the Marques chair for the Good Day special.” My assistant, Kyle, crosses The Loft, my cell phone in hand, dodging the hundreds of red-and-white fuchsias carefully woven into white vines dangling from the ceiling. The Loft is a studio space in the office building we use for staging and major shoots. It’s still filled from wall to wall with items for the February cover we shot this morning. Everything has to be finished three months out.

“Yes. And the console. We need it by the twenty-eighth. Tell her someone from Good Day will be in touch with the details,” I say. Kyle lowers his chin and gives me an I-already-know-all-this look. “Sorry. Sorry. No more micromanaging.”

Unmuting the phone, Kyle presses it to his ear and hurries out of the room. I peer at the large iMac monitor on the makeshift desk in the studio. Jack Cavalli, the photographer who does the majority of the cover shoots, sent me the shots for the Valentine’s edition. With a keen eye, I study them, zooming in on the red-and-white cupcakes, the champagne glasses with raspberries floating on top, the red fabric draped over the backs of the white velvet dining chairs, the small black chalkboards with sugary-sweet phrases written on them at each seat, and the mason jars of red-and-white carnations scattered over the table.

It’s too busy. And mason jars are so last season.

I scan through until I get to the next shots where I removed the jars, took a bite out of one of the cupcakes, and angled one of the dining chairs so it appeared as if someone had just left the table.

The phone on the desk rings. I have my calls forwarded to this space while I’m working here. “‘Ello?”

“Catie, it’s Karen.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sending our set designer over to the townhouse tomorrow at noon. Can you be there?”

The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle. “Didn’t Gillian tell you I’m designing the rooms for the special? I don’t need help from your person.”

There’s a pause, then muffled noises in the background. “That’s fine. But Deidra will need to approve the designs.” Before I can protest, Karen rushes on. “Shooting for TV is different from shooting for a magazine. She needs to make sure everything will work on camera. It’s for your benefit.”

“Fine. Fine. But if—”

“Great. We’ll send a car to your office at ten thirty tomorrow to take you to Brooklyn.” Karen hangs up.

Before I can continue going over the photos, Kyle is back with my phone pressed to his ear.

“One moment.” Covering the bottom of the phone, he lowers his voice. “It’s Natalie.”

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