Page 15 of The Wild Card
Who my boyfriend is?
Whoishe? Andwhatconnection?
Leaning away from my fake boyfriend, I study his bearded face a little more intently. I knew he looked familiar. Is he famous?
The hard thing about fame in the age of the internet now is how many levels of celebrity there can be. Someone could be hugely YouTube famous with millions of followers but not a household name. And if they’re big on one platform, they might be virtually unknown on another if they haven’t focused on creating content in multiple places.
My parents, for example, have no idea that I’m social-media famous. Even when I arrived in the relatively small Austin airport, I had teenage girls and a handful of guys ask to take pictures or film a quick video with me. Chase and Harper, who spend almost no time on social media, know I have a big following, but they don’t really get it.
Whatever the case, if Kelvin recognized my fake boyfriend on sight, I probably should have too. Now is when knowing his identity or at least his name would really come in handy.
“Great to meet you, man. Big fan of your dad’s. And yours,” Kelvin adds hastily, extending a hand.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t also extend the guy’s name, so I'm still in the dark as my fake boyfriend maneuvers me to his side with one hand so he can shake Kelvin’s with the other.
“You too,” he says. He’s still smiling but it’s a little more forced. “I’ve heard great things about Brightmark. My dad was really excited you decided to make Sheet Cake an anchor location.”
Hisdad… hm. I’m trying to put context clues together but so far, they’re not computing. Kelvin, who works in the entertainment industry, knows his dad too. Is my fake boyfriend a nepo baby of some kind?
Anchor location … maybe his dad works at Brightmark? His expression shifted at the mention of his dad. His easiness disappeared and became more of a mask.
Sore subject, maybe?
Fake boyfriend’s arm stays wrapped around my waist. Affectionately, or maybe like he thinks I might run. Also, I can’t keep calling him fake boyfriend in my head. He needs a name, even if temporary.
Mr. Biceps will have to do.
“Vespa will be thrilled,” Kelvin says. “She doesn’t look like she would be, but that’s just her face. She’s a big fan. Vespa!”
Kelvin waves the exec over as I consider what Vespa might be a fan of, still trying to puzzle out who the man beside me is. With her intense vibe, I can’t see Vespa being a fan of anything really. Maybe ultra-modern architecture? Futuristic novels? Spreadsheets?
But something crosses her face as she approaches, which must be her version of excitement. Looks like mild constipation.
Who the heck is my new fake boyfriend? My best guess is a toss-up between a movie star and a Texas politician.
“Figured it out yet, darlin’?”
I’m startled when Mr. Biceps speaks, practically nuzzling my ear. A very appropriate boyfriend action, but one I like a little too much considering thefakequalifier in front of his title.
His words sink in, and I realize what they mean. He’s implying that he thinks I should know who he is.
Maybe he’s not an actor or politician but an influencer of some kind. Fitness, by the looks of those arms. This is entirely possible, though the dad comment is throwing me.
He and I might have connected online but certainly not in person. I would remember.
The blue eyes with the hint of amusement. The gentle twang when he calls me darlin’. His biceps.
Why can’t I stop staring at his arms?
I’m going to blame the athletic shirt he has on. It would be a generic T-shirt, but the material has the thin, clingy quality revealing more than a hint about what he’s got going on underneath. And what’s going on are some really nice arms. Mr. Biceps really is the perfect placeholder name.
“Not even a guess?” he asks. Did he get even closer?
I try to shove the stuffed unicorn between us, but it’s hard when he’s got one hand clamped on my hip.
I narrow my eyes. Where do I know him from? And why don’t I remember? This manscreamsmemorable.
But Vespa appears and we’re thrown into a steady stream of boring introductions and conversations with people at Brightmark whose names I should remember aside from Case, an executive, and Jilly, who was recently promoted to director. Everyone else is a blur. I can’t possibly commit to remembering when my brain is stuck on puzzling through the man who never stops touching me.
