Page 32 of The Holiday Fakers
My heart sinks.Marv.
Brody’s gazing at me, looking torn, wanting me to make the decision. Our conversation is wordless, but when I nod, he knows exactly what I want him to do.
He takes a breath. “Excuse me, sir, ma’am?”
The couple twist to face him, instant recognition making them freeze as if touched by the Snow Queen.
Brody gives them a reassuring smile, then turns to the receptionist. “There should be two adjoining rooms booked under the name Marvin DeVille?”
She taps on the screen, then nods like a bobblehead toy.
“Please give these rooms to this couple, but still charge Mr DeVille for them, plus any other charges that are incurred. You have his card on file?”
The woman nods again, her eyes bulging as she stares at him.
Brody gives the couple a heart-stopping smile. “My girlfriend and I were just coming in to say we didn’t need our rooms anymore, so this is perfect timing.”
“But the cost?” the woman whispers. “We couldn’t possibly?—”
“I insist. It’s a Christmas gift.” He hands the receptionist a credit card. “Please keep a copy of this in case there’s any issue with Mr DeVille’s card.”
The woman stares intently at her husband, as if trying to communicate telepathically, her eyes darting to Brody every tenth of a second.
“Er … Mr King?”
Brody gifts the man another megawatt smile. “Yes, sir?”
The man slowly brings up his phone. “Would you … I mean?—”
“A photo? I’d be delighted,” Brody replies, seeming genuinely happy.
The man fumbles to unlock his phone, and I reach forward. “I can take it.”
“Thank you,” he replies, looking relieved.
The couple flank Brody, shyly moving closer as if not wanting to invade his personal space. He throws his arms around them, and the two kids stand in front, looking up at him in awe.
“Kids!” the dad whispers. “Look at the pretty lady!”
I make a big show of looking behind me, which makes everyone laugh, then snap away.
The toddler seems just as enamored with Brody as the rest of his family, stretching his pudgy arms toward him. Brody looks at his mom as if for permission, and she lifts her son into his arms.
Brody pulls a face, the toddler giggles, and my ovaries promptly explode.
Everyone’s laughing now, and the sound makes the little boy laugh even more.
“You need to be in the photo, too!” the mom says, beckoning me forward, then glancing over her shoulder at the receptionist. “Can you take the picture for us?”
The receptionist rushes up, takes the phone from me, and gestures for me to step forward.
I move to the end of the line next to the mom, but she guides me into the middle, next to Brody.
“Say cheese!” the girl says, and I smile, hyperaware of Brody’s hand on my back.
Still holding the toddler, who is now tugging on his hair, Brody takes his phone from his back pocket, unlocks it, then hands it to the receptionist. “Can you get one for me, too?”
Is this the start of our public fake-relationship? Why else would Brody ask for a photo of a family we’re probably not going to see again?
