Page 38 of Fauxmance in the City

“Why? Because you stroked your cock for me last night?”

“Fuck, Catie.” He kicks the door shut with his heel, closing us into a small box.

His nearness wraps around me like a heated blanket, raising my blood temperature in a matter of seconds.

“Forget about that.” Sam shoves his hands in his pockets. “I went momentarily insane.”

“You regret it?”

“Of course I regret it. You’ve been a complete bitch since it happened.”

My hands slam into his chest, but I sway backward since his body’s rock hard. “I wish I’d never met you, Sam Harding.”

“Then you’d have never gotten the job at Simply Chic,” he states matter-of-factly.

“I’m beginning to think that would’ve been a blessing.”

I slide off the dryer, but my ass hits the edge and I pop forward, landing against him. I expect us to have another hot and heavy moment, but he puts his arms up, avoiding any further contact. Annoyed, and a little hurt, I shove him harder, and this time he moves aside.

“Why are you here? Aren’t you going to reveal everything to Gillian anyway?”

“How did you—”

“Natalie told me,” I quickly say, so he doesn’t know I was eavesdropping on their conversation.

He frowns, but doesn’t question me.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

I falter. “Why?”

“Gillian might fire me too.”

My chin quivers, and I bite my bottom lip to stop it. I’ve lost Sam, and the realization is all-consuming. My shoulders fall, and I begin to sniffle loudly. In an instant, Sam’s arms are around me, smashing my face into his chest. Ooh, he’s so warm and cozy, like coming home to one of Natalie’s soufflés.

“I have to start filming soon, and I can’t even scramble eggs,” I say with a sob.

“You’ll be fine,” he grumbles. “I promise. And if you’re struggling, I’ll be your Natalie.”

“Oh, Sam.” I beam up at him.

Taking in my rosy cheeks and bright eyes, he recoils. “What the hell?”

“What?”

“Were you really crying?”

“Of course I was.” I sniffle for good measure.

“Don’t.” A spark of anger flashes in his eyes. “You’re a good actress, Catie. You may have missed your calling.”

“But you’ll help?” I ask.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he growls. “I’m doing it for Patrick. And Natalie. And myself. Someone has to keep this runaway train on track.”

An hour later, dressed in a royal-blue Derek Lam minidress and blue suede ankle boots, my hair and makeup camera ready, I’m staring at the hot pan, the ingredients lined neatly on the counter beside me. David, the director, is hovering over my shoulder, inspecting everything on the counter, then going back to the camera to go over the shot. He gives the cameramen some instructions before nodding to Karen, indicating he’s ready.

I swivel my head around to survey the kitchen. Max isn’t here, and I’m wondering why. I thought the entire point of this was for him to be involved in the making of the home-cooked meal in case the smells triggered a memory. But when I mention it to Karen, she brushes me off.

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