Page 20 of Love You Always

Okay, I do have stacks of sweatshirts and tees, thanks to a sponsorship deal with an athleisure company, but if not for Pippa, that’s all I’d wear.

“Originally, we did, but then the dresses came in for the Met Gala, so I figured we should do it all in one go. They’re absolutely stunning, by the way,” Pippa’s clipped English accent chirps from the speakerphone of my car as I speed back to San Francisco.

“Wait, I’m not going to the Met Gala.”

Pippa laughs. “Better check the Style section of the paper because Callum was in there crowing about walking the red carpet with you.”

I huff out a breath. Typical of him to make a decision and tell the media before he asks me about it. One more thing I’ll remindhim of when I see him in a half hour. “Great. And when is it, exactly?”

“In two weeks. And don’t kill me, but I went ahead and gave Christian the go-ahead to make your gown. Are we good with that?”

Whenever Pippa refers to me as “we,” she means “me.” And she’s telling me that I had better get on board with her idea.

“Okay, sure, you had me at ‘all in one go.’ I’ll be back in LA tomorrow. Can we do it then?”

“Of course, love. Tomorrow it is.”

I hang up the call and watch the scenery whiz by, all the beauty of Napa Valley fading in the distance as I barrel down the freeway to the city.

A short drive later, I’m in San Francisco, striding through the door of a coffee shop around the corner from Callum’s Pacific Heights house. “We might have a problem,” he says, standing up from a white leather couch where he’s been drinking a fancy coffee in a tall glass with a handle. His arm circles around my neck and he kisses the top of my head. My eyes immediately dart around to see if anyone has captured the moment on a cell phone.

It’s not like I’m surprised when people snap surreptitious photos and sell them toPeoplemagazine, but I like to at least have some awareness when it’s happening. The few people in the place seem to be watching us, but I don’t see any cell phones.

“You mentioned.” I keep my voice low and shuttle him to the couch farthest from the other people in the room. “When did you find out about the tour getting extended?”

He sits back down, leans back, and puts his arms behind his head, his longish brown hair falling into his eyes before he flips it away with a sexy toss of his head. The tattoos on the insides of his biceps stretch when his arms flex. I take a seat in a chair next to the couch and stare at the images of a python wrapped around one arm and a bleeding heart on the other, and then my eyes trailto his pecs visible through a skin-tight black tee. He’s every bit as hot as he was the day we were introduced, and my mind wanders to our first few dates at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, outside of public view.

I’m not in love with him, but I do like him well enough. He’s sexy and fun and sometimes sweet. We’re compatible because he understands my lifestyle, schedule, and time constraints. He knows how to play the media game. When we first started dating, I allowed the same hopes to flourish that I always feel with someone new. Maybe he could be my great love.

I kept looking for a spark, hanging on little touches and gestures that could be the beginning of something, but there was no real heat between us. That is, until our publicists stepped in and reminded us each that we could benefit from making our relationship into something more. Then, we created heat for the sake of good press.

Everything we do these days is fit for public consumption, another chapter in the tale of a Hollywood couple. All fancy dresses, photo ops, and magazine spreads. And the moments in my lawyer’s office, where my focus is on what we can have together—the family I’ve always wanted. Eyes on the prize.

“It was always a possibility, but since I’ve sold out the last sixteen shows, it’s basically a slam dunk. Here, come sit closer,” he says, patting the empty space on the couch next to him. Obediently, I move over, and he puts his arm around me, tugging me close.

Maybe it’s the effect of spending several hours with Archer Corbett, but I feel like I need somebody to touch me. I’m especially grateful for the muscular warmth of Callum’s body and his easy affection. I snuggle in and try to work through the news he just gave me.

“So…you’ll be gone for…how long?”

He bites his bottom lip, the only indication that he’s not quite as cocky as he seems. It’s the side of him I like, the man behindthe mega touring star. Unfortunately, I rarely see it. Heisa mega touring star, after all.

“It could be four months or so.” He holds up his hands. “I’d come back for the wedding, no question, but then I might have to leave again, depending on the tour dates.”

My heart sinks. “It’s not that. Four months is a long time, and we’re supposed to be acting like a couple.” My mind fights against the fear that he’s gone back to his old cheating ways. That he might want to be away from me for months at a time so he can be with other women. It’s not so much that I’m offended, so much as saddened. I feel like I can’t even hold on to a man enough for a fake relationship, let alone a real one. Our whole arrangement could unravel if he’s caught on camera by even one onlooker. It would make me look weak in the eyes of the public, and it would put the whole adoption in jeopardy.

He turns toward me, lighting up like a puppy spying a pillow to shred. “Come with me.”

It’s sweet, but I don’t want to be there because he feels guilty. And honestly, I don’t want to be there at all. Our relationship of convenience feels so much more complicated than it did when we both agreed to it.

“Oh gosh, I don’t know.” My brain spins with what that would look like, weeks on the road, late nights, hotels.

“Think about it, okay? I’d really like to have you there.” He taps my nose with his finger and leans in for a kiss. It’s sweet, discreet. He’s equally aware of potential cell phone cameras, and I appreciate that. “So why’d it take you so long to get here? Where were you?”

“Oh, that. I was at Buttercup Hill. Which reminds me, we have a walk-through there next week.” I feel a zing of excitement at the idea of going back there.

Because I love the location. Not because I like a certain grumpy lumberjack winemaker.

“Where?”

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