Page 21 of Fauxmance in the City

“TV magic,” I say sardonically.

“Yeah, reality and TV don’t mix,” Max agrees. “That’s why I got into journalism instead of TV.”

“You remember that?”

“Oh, uh, no. That’s what my aunt told me, and it feels right.”

Wind rattles the window, and I involuntarily shiver. I glance toward the kitchen and wonder where Sam got off to.

“Are you cold? I can start a fire. I saw some wood piled up next to the front steps, near the garden entrance.” Max is already halfway to the front door. “I’d like to make myself useful. People have been waiting on me hand and foot since I woke up.”

A few minutes later, Max comes back in, toes off his boots, and dumps several logs into the fireplace, arranging them expertly, then thrusts crumpled newspaper and kindling from a nearby bin underneath the logs. He scrapes a match on the hearth, and the logs ignite into flames. Max pulls off his heavy sweater and jabs at the fire with a poker, his back muscles flexing under his navy T-shirt.

“I can’t find the dog.” Sam’s voice startles me. His mouth is pulled into a frown as he watches me checking out Max. So what if Sam caught me ogling him? We’re not married. And he more than ogles other women. All. The. Time.

“Keep looking,” I mutter, batting him away. “I have to entertain our guest.”

A shadow crosses over Sam’s face, and he leans close to me. “Don’t forget you’re a happily married woman.”

“I won’t,” I sing-song, pushing his legs to get him to leave. He’s acting all possessive, and I don’t want him to scare Max.

After he leaves, I join Max on the sofa. His ankle is over his knee, bouncing rapidly. “Everything all right?”

“Yep,” I say. “Sam is trying to locate Bailey.”

As if beckoned, the dog comes barreling out of the kitchen. He runs around the couch and knocks into the coffee table, sending several small vases crashing to the floor, which shatter into pieces. Bailey leaps onto the pristine white sofa, his claws ripping one of the seat cushions.

“No,” I yell, my skin prickling at the disaster surrounding me. “Off, Bailey. Off!”

Ignoring me, he licks my face, trying to wiggle his dense body into my narrow lap. Gently grasping his collar, Max pulls him off me and into a big embrace. The dog laps eagerly at Max’s face. “Hey, boy.”

As I survey the ruined sofa cushion and shattered vases, my ears grow hot. All the items are on loan from the designers. The show has insurance, but the designers won’t be happy. With the brush and shovel from the fireplace accouterments, I sweep up the broken porcelain pieces and dump them into an empty box in the corner that needs to be trashed.

I find a glass pitcher in one of the cupboards in the kitchen and take white hydrangeas from several vases around the living room to make a new arrangement. Max rolls around on the floor with Bailey, laughing like a schoolboy.

“Wanna go for a walk, boy?” Max croons to the now-calm dog sitting at his side.

At the word walk, Bailey races to the front door and sits expectantly. We find the leash and Max snaps it on, then opens the front door.

“A white van is pulling up out front.”

“That must be the crew,” I say, approaching Max. The van has the station’s logo on it, and a slick Lincoln Town Car follows close behind. “Walk Bailey, and I’ll handle them.”

I scurry to the rear of the house, my heart pumping so hard I feel faint. At the kitchen door, I crash into Sam. I grip his shoulders, suddenly panicked.

“They're here,” I say, my voice high and tight. “Oh God, Sam. I’ve never cooked without Natalie. And what if they find out we’re not married? What will—”

Sam’s mouth on mine cuts me off. His lips are soft and warm, and a jolt of pleasure erupts below my waist. My panic subsides as a flush spreads over my body. Sam pops his lips off mine and releases me.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, breathless, my fingers tracing my lips, which tingled where he kissed me.

“Stop second-guessing yourself. You’re quick on your feet, talented, and smart as hell.” He waits until he has my full attention. “I’m here. You won’t fail.”

“Thank you,” I say, his words warming me, and I fall a little deeper. Into what, I’m not sure.

“Now don’t fuck it up,” he says.

My mouth drops open, but the lines around Sam’s eyes crinkle with amusement. The jerk is teasing me. But it works. The joke. The kiss. The pep talk.

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