Page 41 of Fauxmance in the City

A knock on the door of the mudroom draws Sam away. There’s rustling as a woman in a white smock follows Sam to the laundry room, then places two large boxes filled with various sizes of brown bags and foil containers on the washer and dryer. She hands Sam a piece of paper, he signs it, and the woman exits.

“Grab the serving platters and start unpacking the food.”

Peering into one of the boxes, I see a steaming hot, fully cooked turkey. Each container I open or bag I unpack brings another surprise: mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and soup.

Overjoyed, I scream. My insides spring to life as adrenaline fills my body. I jump on Sam, hugging him and laughing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

His arms tighten around me. All the worry and fear I’ve been wrapped in fade away.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his ear.

“You’re welcome.” He pulls me back, gazing at me with such intensity my chest tightens to the point it hurts.

“Quick. Let’s get this stuff into the serving dishes before anyone sees.” Escaping Sam’s embrace, I keep my head buried in the boxes, hiding the tears that blur my vision.

Despite everything, Sam came through for me today, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and another feeling that’s pressing in…something I won’t name.

After this is all over, I’m getting down on my knees and begging Sam to accept my apology for my atrocious behavior. I’ll never tell him this, but he means more to me than the special. More than my job. More than anything in my life.

I’m not ready to give him all of me, but I don’t think I can survive without him in my life.

eleven

A week has passed since the meal that almost wasn’t, and I barely made it out by the skin of my teeth. My days have been filled with preparations for the final weekend of shooting, which starts today.

In the end, the dinner went smoothly, and no one suspected the meal was ordered in with a few added touches to make it look like the original recipes. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

The next and final part of this ridiculous special is filming Max ice-skating with his family, followed by a game night with his favorite childhood games, and finishing up tomorrow with brunch.

And hopefully his memory.

Max has been a doll. After the dinner shoot wrapped, he took Natalie to the emergency room, unsettled that she’d refused the ambulance after a head injury. Her wrist was badly sprained and she had a mild concussion but Natalie’s a workhorse, and against doctor’s orders, she’s trudged across town to my office today—Saturday—to accompany me to the shoot at the rink.

It comes as no surprise that the “amazing” Catelyn Bloom treatment did not bring back Max’s memories, so yes, we are marching forward with this crazy charade. Not that I give a Kardashian’s ass about any of that right now. Not when every part of me is singularly focused on Sam, or the lack thereof him.

He hasn’t talked to me all week, and his disappearing act is an emotional abscess on my heart. When I allow my mind to wander to him, the grief I feel from his absence is so great I have to push any thoughts of him from my mind.

He said he loved me (past tense), touched himself in front of me (which I think about way too much), –and now he’s ghosting me. The only communication I’ve had was this text last night:

I’ll be at the shoot tomorrow.

Until I received that, I feared Sam truly hated me. Not the cute I-hate-you-but-I-really-love-you kind. No, the I’ve-lost-all-respect-for-you-and-your-presence-disgusts me kind. He can’t hate me to the depths of his soul if he’s helping me continue this farce. Right?

“Why aren’t you taking your gloves off?” I ask Natalie. She took off her coat, but her leather gloves are still on, despite my boiling office.

“No reason.”

I lift her wrist, and she winces. I slide off her glove to reveal her hand—nearly twice the size and an unnatural purple color.

“Natalie!” I draw back, wide-eyed. “What have you done?”

“I’m sorry. Jacques needed help prepping for a party.”

“It looks pulverized.” I open my minifridge and pull out a lavender-scented cooling eye mask and wrap it around her wrist.

The sofa is inches from Natalie’s backside, but she sways, misses the cushion, and lands on the floor.

“What’s the matter?”

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