Page 13 of Fauxmance in the City

I hesitate, then take the phone and say, “I’m running a little late.”

“No shit, Sherlock. How late?” Natalie’s breath comes out in short puffs, the sounds of traffic whooshing in the background muffling her voice.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Two blocks away.” A horn honks in the background.

“Set everything up in the test kitchen, and I’ll be there soon,” I say. We shoot the video blogs there, so Natalie’s familiar with it.

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Right. See you in forty-five.” Natalie hangs up, and I smile. She knows me too well. I hand Kyle the phone. “Did Patrick get back to me on the cooking tips I drafted for the special?”

“Yes.” Kyle reads from an e-mail on his phone. “He approved ‘Ten Cooking Hacks That Elevate Your Game Night From B-List to A-List,’ ‘Seven Easy Ways to Make a Dinner Table Go from Drab to Fab,’ and ‘The Perfect Food for Family Night.’” With a sly smile, he adds, “And ‘The Six Perfect Foods to Divine Your Memory.’”

My eyes go wide. But when I realize he’s joking, I lean over, laughing.

“I know this is all a bit ridiculous,” I say. “If Gillian cared about helping her nephew recover his memory, she’d send him to the best specialists, not sell him out on national television for ratings on a glib morning show.”

Kyle shrugs. He’s always Switzerland in all matters pertaining to office politics. “Karen said she’s mailing the contracts for you and your husband. She needs them signed and returned to her by the end of the week.”

“Why?” My heart picks up speed. Kyle doesn’t know about my lies. He’s never questioned why my husband is suspiciously absent. If he suspects anything, he’s never said. Honestly, I don’t think he cares about my personal life. He’s paid well, respected, I seldom keep him late or on weekends, and I often slip him the freebie products we receive. It’s a cushy job. I make sure of it. The last thing I need is a new assistant sniffing around and asking a lot of questions.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can call and ask her.”

“No. No.” I usher him to the door. “I’ll take care of it. Make sure Natalie gets through security and has everything we need in the kitchen.”

After Kyle leaves, I thumb through the photos until I get to the series I made Jack snap right before he left. I sliced the cupcakes apart until they crumbled into a pile, falling in sad clumps beside the tiered tray they rested on. I’d pitched an anti-Valentine’s Day piece to Jacquelyn for the digital edition, and she’d loved it.

The vines that hung from the rafters were hacked, half hanging in shreds while the rest were spread across the wood floor. I’d added bitter in front of the word sweet on one of the mini chalkboards, then crossed out you and added me to make another board read “I love me.” Then, I’d shattered two plates on the floor and yanked at the tablecloth until everything on the dining table was askew.

“Is that a Valentine’s Day shoot or a bloodbath?” Sam saunters into The Loft, mirrored Ray-Bans and a panty-dropping smile on his face.

“Valentine’s Day is always a bloodbath.” Rising, I slide the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

“I should have words with your husband. He’s failing at his job.” Sam slips his arm around my waist, squeezing my ribs, and I squeal.

“Come on.” I wiggle out of his hold and tug him toward the elevator. “I’m late meeting Natalie in the kitchen.”

I haven’t seen him since the night his hand came scarily close to my lady bits. That particular part of me pulses thinking about it, and I bite the inside of my cheek. When the elevator doors slide shut, Sam takes my hand to his lips and kisses the tips of my fingers.

“What are you doing?” I ask, a deep blush warming my cheeks.

“Practicing being your man, baby.” He steps close, tugging my hand to his chest, his other hand wrapping around my waist.

“We don’t need practice,” I say breathlessly. I should push him off, tell him to save it for the cameras, but I don’t. “I’m good at faking it.”

“I’m aware,” he growls into my hair, his thumb caressing my hip. A little whimper escapes my lips and I shove my fist in my mouth.

“It’s no use, Catie. I can hear the shortness of your breath, your increased heart rate,” Sam whispers into my ear. I pin my jaw shut because a low sigh of yearning is crying to escape. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but now that I’ve opened this gate, I don’t know how to close it.

“I can still feel your foot teasing me, my hand on your thigh.” Sam’s voice is low in his chest.

“You couldn’t handle this,” I say, but there’s no fight in my words.

Sam lowers his sunglasses and eyes me over the rim. “No, baby. You can’t handle this.”

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