Page 110 of Sinful Desires
“No,” I answered, still smiling for the cameras. “But I’m good at pretending.”
She gave my arm a squeeze. I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. My chest was too tight.
Arms slid around my waist, followed by the brush of lips against my neck. “You enjoying your party, sunshine?”
Before I could answer, cameras clicked. Three quick bursts.Flash. Flash. Flash.The light stung my eyes, turning the night into fragments.
I turned, caught his hand, and pulled him with me, weaving through the dancing bodies without looking back at Victoria.
“Shit,” he laughed. “If you wanted me all to yourself, you only had to ask.”
I pulled him past the crowd, through the noise, down toward the edge of the beach where the lights thinned. We ducked behind one of the food stations handing out overpriced sliders to drunk influencers.
I stopped beside the table, let go of his hand, and turned to face him. “Don’teverdo that again.”
His smile faded. “Do what?”
“Touch me when it’s not planned. Seriously, Nicholas, this whole setup is already a pain in the ass. I don’t need surprise affection on top of it.”
He blinked, confused and annoyed. “Jesus, Scar. It was one photo op.”
“Exactly.” I stepped closer, staring him down. “You don’t get to make a moment out of me. I’m playing the broken pop star fresh out of rehab. You’re the fake boyfriend trying to look supportive. That’s the deal.”
He raised his hands like I was being dramatic.
Maybe I was. I didn’t care.
“Next time you wanna act like you give a shit, run it by my publicist first.”
He sighed and dragged a hand roughly over his beard. “How do you expect people to buy that we’re hooking up when you treat me like I’ve got the plague?” He glanced away for half a second before his voice dropped. “This isn’t just for your image, Scarlett. Mine’s on the line too. You think it’s fun for me to grope someone on camera while my actual boyfriend’s stuck at home, watching the whole thing play out on gossip blogs? He’s tired. I’m tired. Weallare.”
To get out of rehab, I had to make my father a promise—to doexactlywhat he said. No questions, no conditions. Just follow the plan and rebuild the Scarlett Harper brand.
His brilliant idea of recovery wasn’t therapy or rest. It was a PR stunt. A fake boyfriend.
Someone famous, good-looking, and polished enough to convince the world I was healing through love. That rehab was behind me, and I was stable, supported, and smiling. The fans would eat it up. So would the press.
He called it a comeback. I called it a lie I’d have to live in.
On one of his rare visits, a few days before I was released, he’d given me a shortlist. Three men—a hockey player, an NFL star, or an actor.
Anyone but the man I wanted.
I fucking want you, Scarlett.
Only me?
Only you.
So, I’d picked the actor. Not because I liked him, but because I knew how actors worked. Long shoots. Press tours. Endless days on set. With a one-year contract in place, the more time he spent away, the easier this would be to survive.
What no one had told me was that he was gay.
Nicholas Preston was everything the headlines had promised. Tall, beautiful, smooth. Dark eyes, perfect teeth, a beard he spent hours grooming. Millions of girls dreamed about him. Every magazine called him Hollywood’s next obsession. He’d been nominated for Best Supporting Actor. He was everywhere.
And now, he was mine. On paper.
When he and his team had barged into my condo two days after I’d gotten out, I’d expected attitude. Arrogance. The usual smugness that came with that much fame.
