Page 22 of Fauxmance in the City

Sam’s conviction in me gives me strength, and I’m surprised and delighted to realize I need him here for more than the charade. He’s my teammate in this, picking me up when I falter.

I breathe out, grip his hand, and all my residual anxiety fades away.

six

There’s a slew of commotion when we enter the foyer. I stop and smooth my outfit, then turn to Sam. For the first time, I notice he’s changed clothes.

“What the hell are you wearing? You look like Mr. Rogers.” I swipe pieces of lint from his orange cardigan.

“I thought I’d get into the part of a married man and adoring husband,” he says. I frown, and his shoulders tense. “What’s wrong with it? This was approved by wardrobe.”

“You look ridiculous.” I unbutton the scratchy sweater.

“I’ll do it.” He brushes me off, then discards the ugly garment on a nearby chair. The charcoal button-down shirt he wears underneath brings out the specks of gray in his steely blue eyes. I smooth Sam’s hair, then kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, Sam. You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

His gaze lingers, and something like longing passes over his face. My breath catches, my insides vibrating like they were struck with a guitar chord. There’s meaning in his look, and for a moment, it’s only him and me.

The double doors from the foyer open, and I snap back into the reality around me. But I’m unsettled and the gnawing feeling in my gut won’t go away.

Gillian’s slim frame pushes into the room, her intimidating presence taking up the large space.

“What a horrible trip. The driver took us down every crowded street in Queens.” She dumps her weekender bag at my feet. “I’m calling a helicopter for the trip home.”

Charles, Karen, David—the director—and a small crew follow Gillian inside, including a man with a steadicam.

“Don’t mind him, he’s filming B-roll.” Gillian spins around the living room, taking in all the decor. “Oh, Charlie, it’s like when we lived here together. Er, I mean, when we were younger. With just enough Simply Chic touches. Well done.”

Sam shoves his hand at Gillian. “Ms. Kennedy, I’m Samuel Harding. The managing editor for Edge.”

“Uh-huh.” Gillian dismisses him, and I’m stung by her rejection. Kennedy Media is a massive corporation, but I expected Gillian to treat one of her managing editors with some deference. “Now, where is the star of the show?” I step forward. “My darling nephew Maxie?”

“He’s outside walking Bailey. Didn’t you see him?” I make myself busy fixing drinks at the stocked wet bar in the corner. “Scotch? Beer?” Sam and Gillian each take a Scotch. Charles passes on a drink.

“I want to stay sharp,” Charles explains. “I’ll go make sure everything is in order for tomorrow.”

“Charlie, relax,” Gillian retorts, very much not relaxed. “Remember what the psychologist said. The more we make this a fun and peaceful time for Max, the more likely he’ll recover his memories.”

“And the better the ratings.” Charles smiles ruefully.

“Oh, don’t act all holier-than-thou. This was your idea too. Besides, it’ll be great for Max’s career. Every publication’s going to want him to report for them after this.”

There’s a clamoring across the room. Bailey rushes past me, almost bumping the tray out of my hands. He hits a side table in the sitting area, knocking over a stack of decorative books, then disappears into the kitchen. I hear Karen, the executive assistant, yelp, then a door slam.

“Get that dog under control. We can’t have him—” Gillian stops when Max enters the room, his cheeks flushed from the cold. As Gillian moves toward him, her lips press together as if she’s holding back emotion that wants to burst out of her. “Maxie. I’m so glad you’re home.” She wraps her arms around him, and Max rests his chin on her shoulder.

I’ve never seen Gillian express any softness. I’d think it was for the cameras, except there aren’t any.

“I’m sorry,” Max says, his voice thick.

“What are you talking about? Sorry about what? I’m so glad you decided to do this. You were in such a horrible state in that hospital in Greece. But you look a million times better now.” Gillian clears her throat, regaining her composure. “You’ve been through so much. It’s time for you to relax and let someone else take care of you.” She eyes me pointedly.

Taking the cue, I offer Max a Stella Artois—his favorite—and escort him to one of the overstuffed regency armchairs in the formal sitting area across from the settee where Sam lounges.

“Give your uncle a hug.” Gillian indicates Charles, who has been standing back, watching us.

“It’s good to see you again, son. Gilli’s right. You’re looking much healthier.”

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