A few minutes later, I emerged. Dressed, sober, caffeinated, and ready for whatever the world had to throw at me. I was unaccustomed to these temporary lapses in order, and needless to say, when I stormed back into the main cabin, I had one thing on my mind.
Regain control.
In a lot of ways, this was the dream situation. A handsome, wealthy client. A regimented timeline. And a girl who’s every movement I could anticipate as well as my own. Literally.
It was time for me to take charge. The way I’d been doing for two years. The way I’d been programmed to do for even longer than that.
Of course, at that time, I had no way of knowing the simple truth.
...I was about to lose control completely.
“Okay,” I said brightly, the second I was back, “is everyone ready?”
Nick looked me up and down, before lifting to his feet. He looked rather dapper himself in a designer suit jacket paired with a simple white tee and some faded jeans. It was the ‘artfully cool’ look that so many people tried and failed, but seemed to come effortlessly to a select few.
“Ready.” He paused, then added, “You look nice.”
A faint blush rose up in my neck, as I smoothed down my new clothes.
“Um...thanks. You know that I’ll pay you back for these—”
“Abby,” he held up a hand with a little smile, “this is a professional arrangement, remember? You’re my girlfriend now, so you have to play the part. Let me take care of you.”
That blush rose even higher, but I nodded quickly—bowing my head.
“Fake girlfriend,” I couldn’t help but add. But at the same time, I shot him a sideways grin. He grinned back, echoing the words like a challenge.
“Fake girlfriend.”
As if to mock the sentiment, he stoke confidently forward and slipped an arm around my waist. A host of shivers shot across my skin, but I did my best to keep my composure—fixing on a poker face smile that was just as good as his.
Two could play at this game. I’d coached the best of them. Surely I could do it myself.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” I could have sworn he winked as his hand strayed a tentative inch lower, “shall we?”
There was a low creak as the door started lowering open. A gust of crisp air flooded inside, and almost instinctively, Nick’s arm tightened around me. It was only then that I started to realize something was very, very wrong.
The airport was under siege...by an ARMY of reporters.
“What the fuck?”
It slithered through my teeth before I could stop it, and I cringed backward, molding myself into the little curve beneath Nick’s arm. Since my first day in PR, I had seen more than my share of journalists and paparazzi, but never before had I stood on this side of the cameras.
For the first time, I understood that split second of initial terror that came into so many of my client’s eyes. That instinctual urge to run from the swarming hordes, tempered almost immediately by the practiced habit of standing there instead. Letting them drink their fill.
This was how Nick lived his life? It felt like...this?
“How the hell did they even know we were coming?”
“I may have made a few calls,” Nick answered mischievously, so used to this level of invasive harassment that he was completely immune. My mouth fell open in shock, and he chuckled under his breath. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”
He certainly did. Everyone was here. The Times. The Herald. Associated presses from up and down the east coast. Even the San Francisco Chronicle had sent a representative. I didn’t think there was anyone he had missed.
“I can’t...” I caught my breath and quickly changed the end of that sentence. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
All at once, the weight of my innocent Barcelona decision settled hard upon my shoulders. This wasn’t some frivolous agreement, made outside an ice-cream parlor. It was dedicating myself to an entire way of life for the next three months.
The pros...and the cons.