Page 78 of The Holiday Fakers
He raises an eyebrow in question.
“The practicing,” I continue. “They seemed to buy it.”
His expression stills.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I panic. “Good job!” I blurt, like a deranged Little League coach, then give him two thumbs up.
Oh my god, just stop!
Mom bustles forward and takes my arm. “Come on now. Plenty of time for snuggles when you get home. You’ve got such lovely voices; you need to join in with the carols.”
She draws us back into the crowd.
I’m on autopilot now, singing the tunes I’ve known since childhood while most of my brain relives and dissects the kiss that just turned me inside out and upside down.
Someone nearby is singing loudly and off-key. I turn to see the agent Marv dislikes, Jack Lourd, standing next to Audrey from the Making Whoopie bakery, doing his best to murderThe Twelve Days of Christmas.
The jarring of his voice mirrors what’s going on in my brain. Brody’s an actor. I’ve seen him kiss women on screen. It looked believable enough to fool me, and every other fan he’s got. Is what just happened the same thing? Another performance?
After the carols, we walk home, and Mom takes a casserole out of the crockpot where it’s been simmering all day. There hasn’t been a moment where Brody and I have been left alone, and as the minutes slowly count down toward bedtime, my trepidation increases.
Marv is in top form, regaling my folks with PG-rated stories from Hollywood, and even Cara has come a little out of her shell. Harper helps keep the conversation going, occasionally sending glances my way. She’s a smart cookie and knows something’s up.
Marv and Cara leave with Harper, who’s staying with Hudson. Brody and I help clean up, then Mom and Dad send us off to bed, like we’re kids and it’s a school night.
As my bedroom door shuts behind Brody, I scoot to the other side of the room and hide the gift bag from The Perfect Package at the bottom of my suitcase.
“You don’t want to see what you’ve got?” he asks.
My face heats. “To be fair, you were the reason we got the bag, so whatever’s inside is probably yours.”
“I’d rather share …”
His words are mild, but the message behind them certainly isn’t, and it sends a flush of desire rippling up through my body.
Metaphorically pulling up my big-girl pants, I face him. “I’m sorry about Mom and Mia. Earlier.”
“I’m sorry about Marv.”
Brody’s stance is relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. Meanwhile, I’m as jumpy as a cat in a dog pound. We’re finally alone, with a bed. And I don’t know how to ask him if any part of our kiss was fake for him, or if it was as real as it was for me.
Actually, scratch that. It was the most mind-and-body-blowinglyunreal experience I’ve ever had.
“Can I see your art now?”
“Oh. Uh …”
I’m torn. Of course, I want him to see it and tell me I’m brilliant, but if I show him everything, then I’ll also have to admit a whole lot more.
Come on! Big girl pants!
He raises his hands. “It’s okay, I understa?—”
“I’ll show you.” I fetch my tablet, sit on the bed, then pat the space next to me.
He gets onto the bed and sits beside me, his hands clasped in his lap, like he’s being a good boy, here to admire my artwork, not feel up the creator.
I open up the library and start with safe images, the ones I’ve already posted to my fantasy art account.
