Page 24 of Fauxmance in the City

Smiling, Max plonks a piece of sweet-and-sour pork rind on his plate. “Thanks. I’m starving.”

Throughout the meal, Charles and Gillian nip at each other. Max’s shoulders become steadily stiffer, and he doesn’t talk to anyone unless specifically spoken to. Sam glares at the poor cameraman in the corner who’s filming the meal.

I try to engage Max, but he gives one-word answers and rubs his temples a lot. This may be too much for him. He’s just returned, and it sounds like he was only discharged from the hospital a couple of days ago.

Finally, the dinner is over, and I clear away the last of the paper plates, dumping them in the trash bin. Natalie should be landing in Panama soon, and we can strategize the game plan for tomorrow. Until then, we retire to the living area for nightcaps and to discuss tomorrow’s schedule.

Sliding into my role as the hostess, I take the drink orders, make them, and pass them around. Charles and Sam have another glass of the Cabernet, but when I reach Max, he shakes his head.

“I used to love red wine, but I can barely stand the smell after the accident.”

I put the decanter on the buffet, little prickles running down my spine.

“How do you know you loved red wine?” I ask. It’s not the first comment he’s made referring to the time before the accident.

All heads snap toward him, overhearing us, and the lone cameraman perks to attention.

“Oh. I…” Max fumbles over his words. “Someone mentioned it to me. My editor, I think.”

Everyone relaxes, but I keep my gaze trained on him. His jaw ticks, his breath shallow as if his heart rate is up. And I wonder if I’m the only one with secrets.

seven

The house is quiet, the crew’s gone home, Charles, Gillian, and Max are asleep upstairs, and Sam’s doing whatever Sam’s doing. I go to the kitchen to double-check all the ingredients are in place and ready for tomorrow.

Natalie measured everything out, then placed them in separate containers. All I have to do is follow the directions I have on my notecards. I’ve practiced the recipes a half dozen times, and I have the video Natalie created for me to review, which I find on my phone and listen to on my earbuds as I go through the ingredient checklist.

The premade cheesecakes are stacked on top of each other in the fridge, and I quickly separate them and lift the lid of their containers. I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re perfect.

A sound from the living room draws me to the swinging door. I press my ear against it, yelping when it flings open. Max’s face on the other side of the door reflects my surprise.

“I thought everyone was asleep.” I stand in the doorway, blocking his entry.

“One more nightcap.” Max holds up a bottle of Macallan 18. “But I can’t find a glass on the wet bar.”

“Go sit on the sofa, and I’ll bring one out.” I want to be alone as I prepare for tomorrow.

“Grab a glass and join me.” Max smiles, and it brings out the charming lines around his eyes, but his speech is a little slurred.

“I can’t,” I say. “Too much to do.”

“Those look amazing.” He pushes into the kitchen, and I fling my body across the island and swipe the video of Natalie off my phone. Max hovers over the cheesecakes on the counter as I go through the items in the refrigerator.

“Aren’t you doing the cooking on camera?” Max sits at the butcher block island, then places the whiskey bottle firmly on the counter in front of him and fills a cup to the brim, drinks it, and fills it again.

“You good?” I ask with a shaky laugh.

“Yep,” he says overly bright, and then waits for me to answer his question.

“They’ll film me making the soup, sides, and turkey,” I explain, continuing to mark off items from my list as I locate them. “The cakes are premade, so they’ll take sweeping hero shots of them, and Good Day and the magazine will post the recipes online.”

“What are the side dishes?”

“Lemon parmesan green beans, garlic truffle mashed potatoes, and cheddar pan rolls, which will all complement the rosemary roasted turkey with gravy.” Natalie created Max’s favorites with a modern culinary twist.

“It sounds like a Thanksgiving meal.”

“Your aunt said you loved all the food she made for you every Thanksgiving, so Na…er…I mean, I thought it would be nice to make a similar meal for you.”

---