Page 58 of Fauxmance in the City

“I’m married,” I hasten to say. “But not to Sam. You’re right. I’m estranged from my real husband. Sam’s a friend helping me out.”

Max raises his eyebrows. “Is Sam more than a friend?”

I chew my lip, then tell Max the truth.

“No.” My heart cramps painfully, hating the word.

“Don’t worry.” Max places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Your secret’s safe with me. I’ve witnessed life and death on the front lines. That incident on the rink when I was dragging you around… It was like I was out of my body. That’s the kind of shit I have to deal with. PTSD or whatever. Who gives a damn if you lied about your cooking skills? And so what if you have a complicated past? Don’t we all?”

“Okay,” I manage, but I’m weary. He’s right. It is stupid, but that doesn’t mean my career won’t go up in flames if I’m ever found out by the wrong person.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He puts out his hand.

I shake it, but I’m skeptical. What if he sells my story? It would be a huge scoop for any journalist.

Reluctantly, I say, “Deal.”

Hours later, we’re back at the townhouse, wrapping up game night. It featured games from Max’s childhood, along with Catelyn Bloom canapés served throughout the evening. Luckily, the production didn’t want me to bake on camera again. All they wanted was hero shots of the final products—goat cheese and fig tarts, lox and creme fraiche on herb crackers, and gourmet pigs in a blanket with honey mustard dipping sauce. The recipes will be featured on the website and their IG account after the special airs.

Content, content, content.

The crew is clearing the dining room table of the remnants of Scrabble, and someone has put an album of American Standards on the sound system in the living room. Max is still pretending he has amnesia, and he hasn’t uttered a word to anyone about my lies. But I’m jittery, worried that he’ll tell Gillian. She’s his family, and he barely knows me.

At the moment, Gillian and Max are dancing in the living room. For the cameras, of course. Gillian was telling tales of the dance lessons she’d made Max endure during his teenage years, and she wanted him to show off the steps he finally mastered—in hopes it might jog his memory.

“What?” I ask. Sam is glaring at me across the table in the dining room.

“I should never have agreed to do this.” He drums his fingers against his whiskey glass. He’s been quiet all night.

“Everything’s fine. It’s almost over.”

“It’s not fine.” Sam slams his hands on the table. No one’s left in the dining room but us. “Gillian’s hell-bent on doing a cover story on us.”

“We’ll refuse,” I say, but sweat prickles at the base of my spine. Sam’s right. We’re a ticking time bomb. Max knows. Who’s next?

“Like you refused to do this special?” Sam throws at me.

“Gillian can’t make us do the cover story. Besides, she already knows you’re camera shy. We’ll play that up. Tell her you don’t want to be in the spotlight.” I take a calming breath, pull lipstick from my clutch, and slowly spread crimson over my lips.

“Do you like Max?” Sam blurts out. For a moment, I’m stunned. I thought we’d already covered this last weekend.

“You have no damn business asking me about my love life, Sam,” I hiss, losing it for a moment. Hair hangs loose from my messy bun, and I stuff the pieces back in.

“I saw you by the bandstand huddled cozily together.”

I throw my hands in the air. “I’m going to be on national TV playing the perfect wife and hostess to Max Chase, the nation’s latest media hero. What am I going to do? Run away with him next week?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” The windows rattle from a blast of wind, but the chill from Sam is colder than the freezing temperatures outside.

He scrapes his hand through his hair. “What am I even doing here?”

“You don’t want to be here? Then leave.” Anger skewers my thoughts as I march toward the door to the living room. “I’m sick of dealing with your fucking whining.”

My hand is on the door, ready to push it open, when Sam snatches my elbow and yanks me back. Fire rages behind his eyes, an inferno that will burn me to the ground.

“What do you want, Sam?” I ask, my voice breaking.

His fingers dig into my arms, and I pull with a force so mighty he stumbles backward, his back slamming against the table.

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