The Pretending Plot Read online

  I brushed a long strand of her hair behind her ear. She shivered, and I loved the way the littlest thing elicited a reaction from her. I bet she’d be a tiger in bed, clawing and moaning, and screaming my name. Damn, I was even more aroused now, picturing the way she must make love, with a sort of fearless abandon. “Do you like the play?”

  She swallowed and nodded once. “Very much so.”

  I glanced back at the entrance to the box seats. The Pinkertons seemed long gone, there weren’t any other ushers nearby, and the closest patrons were in the next box over, a low wall between us. So I went for it. I placed one hand on her opposite cheek and shifted her face toward me, then moved my other hand to her thigh. She looked at me, and even in the dark of the theater, I could read those blue eyes, I could tell they were trying so hard to resist, but yet not wanting to resist in the least. Hell, I didn’t either. I moved my thumb along her cheek, tracing a line to her mouth then over her lower lip, when she nipped playfully at the pad of my thumb. I smiled in the dark as I outlined her mouth, then moved down to her neck, memorizing the feel of her throat, the heat from her skin, the way her body seemed to pulse toward me with every touch. Every subtle motion said, “kiss me,” and so I took the liberty to do just that.

  It was the barest of kisses, the kind that comes at the beginning of something.

  As I savored the cherry taste of her mouth, I played with the top of her stockings, slipping a finger along the band that held them in place. Sutton seemed to like me there. She opened her legs the smallest amount, an invitation to explore. I splayed my hand across the top of her thigh, being careful to make sure her dress covered my hand. She bit down on her lip as I inched higher. Another cue. Another sign. I moved closer, sliding my fingers to her panties and pressing against her. There. Between her legs. Where she was already damp beyond words. You couldn’t fake that kind of arousal.

  And I saw no need to fake my desire. I needed to touch her. Needed it now.

  “Can I touch you?” I whispered.

  “Please do,” she said, and I knew she was aching too, burning with the need to be touched, to feel some kind of release. I slipped my hand into her panties, and she groaned under her breath, leaning her head back. As I stroked her, I imagined her spread out across the chair, arms thrown back, neck long and inviting, legs wide open as I tasted her. God, I wanted to bury my mouth between her thighs, to smell her, inhale her, run a tongue across all that wetness. I wanted to breathe her in and kiss her deeply. She was a feast of a woman; the slightest touch seemed to turn her on, as if she was ready to go at any moment, a live wire, just needing the combustion to set her off.

  “I want my tongue between your legs right now,” I whispered in a low and husky voice that belied my own reckless thirst for her.

  “I want that too,” she managed to say as I stroked her, my fingers moving up and down all that glorious wetness. She was trying so hard to be still, to be quiet, as she moved her hips in the smallest of ways, not enough for others to see, but enough for me to know how much she wanted me. I pressed a palm against her, and she let a little moan escape. Then she clasped her hand over her mouth to muffle her noises as I worked her. She was so soft and silky wet; her little breaths were coming faster. She spread her legs another inch or so, and damn, this woman was all fire and heat. I was going to make her come in a Broadway theater, and I knew in this instant that she was so deep in the throes of passion that she didn’t care anymore if anyone saw or anyone heard. She was so far into the crest of the orgasm I was about to give her. I wanted to slam into her, to enter her and feel that wetness wrap around me. But for now, I was thrilled to feel her arch against my hand, once, twice, three times. She inhaled sharply and took several quick deep breaths as she came in my hand.

  Gently, carefully, I moved her hand from her mouth and kissed her, just as softly and just as tenderly as I had when I started. Then the curtain fell, and it was time for intermission.

  11

  Sutton

  Who was this wild woman inhabiting me?

  I didn’t know who she was.

  She seemed to take over when Reeve was around.

  And I didn’t know what to do with her, so when the play ended we made our way out of the theater onto Eighth Avenue, making small talk about books and such. I looked at the time on my phone and put on a show of remembering how very much I had to do tomorrow.

  “Oh my. I nearly forgot about my morning meeting with LGO studios. I must go.” I leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek—for appearances, and all—then I hailed the nearest cab.

  “That was the cat’s pajamas,” I said, slapping on my best smile.

  He stared at me as if I didn’t quite make sense.

  I knew the feeling.

  “Pajamas and meow,” he said, eyes narrowed.

  The cab pulled up and I grabbed the door first, which surprised him. I gestured for him to get in, even as I realized I couldn’t ride anywhere with him. I’d combust. I’d break down. I’d do a hundred unprofessional things.

  But I was professional, and I was in control. I needed to remember that.

  I needed to remind myself of it just then. I closed the door when Reeve was in the cab and pretended I didn’t see his face or hear his “What the hell?” Then I gave the driver cash for the fare to take my date home.

  I thought I’d feel better once outside the influence of his vibrant and sexy personality. Less confused and embarrassed. Only now I was just as confused and embarrassed, but lonely too.

  I lay wide awake in bed, ashamed. It wasn’t something I felt very often.

  I stared at the red numbers—3:01 a.m.—reflected on my ceiling from my digital clock. The Artful Dodger was burrowed deep under the covers, curled up at my feet where he slept every night, as I berated myself quietly.

  Why had I let things go so far? How out-of-control stupid was I to let Reeve get me off in the theater? My God, I was a businesswoman. I might be known for my taste in man candy, and most of the time I took the winks and nudges in stride. But at the core, it was still my professional area of expertise. That was my eye for talent. Not about some sex-crazed insatiable need to be touched at the cost of my dignity.

  I flipped onto my stomach, embarrassed at the thoughts. I loved sex, and I loved men, but I also cherished control. I was much more apt to make the first move, to be the first one to unzip the guy’s pants, to take him in my mouth, to bring him to orgasm, than the other way around.

  I loved the smell of a man, I loved stubble, I loved that they have stubble, that they can grow it and that they can shave it, I loved how kissing a man was a perfect mix of soft and hard, I loved the smell of soap on a guy’s neck, the cut of a firm belly, the feeling of strong arms. But I also loved taking charge, setting the mood, being the first to go below the belt.

  Because once I let someone touch me and bring me to that rapturous place of blissful release, I was hooked. I fell quickly, and Reeve was so very fall-for-able. He tied me in knots. He was beautiful, with those soulful eyes that looked as if they’d seen the world even though he was only twenty-four and had probably only seen New York City and Ohio. And his hands . . . He touched me as if I’d given him the secret code to my body, the right numbers and the proper combination, and he’d unlocked me.

  But there was more. I felt my heart lunge toward him when he’d saved me back in my office, and then again in the theater with his easy chatter and confident charm. Before he’d even touched my arm, or kissed my jaw, or slid a hand inside my knickers. He’d stepped in and handled the Pinkertons. He’d said the right things, and he’d said them with ease, as if we truly were boyfriend-girlfriend. That was the problem. The way we handled things together—managing the Pinkertons, surviving the painful awkwardness of their company—made me think of us as a team, which was very close to a partnership, which very nearly had me starting to believe the fake relationship that I’d engineered.

  I could see myself with him—dating him, going out to dinner and a movie.
We would play casting director-in-hindsight, offering opinions on who would really have been best for each part in each flick we saw. Other times, we’d walk my dog in the evenings, picking up a bottle of wine on the way home, enjoying it on my couch as we talked and touched each other all night long, waking up together in the morning.

  But that wasn’t our reality.

  Why had he kept touching me then, after Janelle left? Why perform when no one was watching? I noodled on possibilities until one emerged. He was probably a method actor, immersing himself in the part and staying in the role even when off-stage. I was acting too; I was totally in character.

  Besides, I could never fall for an actor, method or not. I worked with them all the time and knew them too well. Even actors and other creative types that I got along with really well, I couldn’t imagine dating them. Having a relationship. Never being quite sure what was real emotion, and what was merely an echo of something else.

  Later that day, I swung by Sunshine Bakery to pick up an order of strawberry shortcake cupcakes I planned to take to a studio head.

  After Josie finished with her other customers, she grabbed the box of treats and set it in front of me. “These cupcakes will make anyone happy.”

  I flashed a brief smile, but it didn't feel heartfelt. Josie saw through it right away. “What’s wrong? You don’t seem yourself.”

  I shook my head, trying to forget the night before. But that was an impossible pursuit. Besides, sometimes you needed to open up to a friend, and Josie had become one. “Oh you know. I wouldn’t admit this to most people, but sometimes I find men terribly vexing.”

  Josie tossed her head back and cracked up. “Join the club. I’m in the same boat. There’s a guy who’s driving me crazy right now.”

  My smile lifted to a more real one now. I did enjoy the chance to hear about other people’s lives and loves. “Is there? Do tell. Is it the man in the scrubs?”

  Josie’s pointed “you guessed it” finger cut my way. “Yeah. He’s sexy, smart, funny. Basically, he’s everything I could want.”

  “The full package?”

  Josie nodded. “That’s a good way to put it.”

  “And? What’s the issue?” I asked. This was good. Focusing on someone else would get my mind off Reeve. Besides, Josie was a friend and perhaps I could lend an ear.

  Josie shrugged. “Just trying to figure out if he wants the same thing from me.”

  I hummed, fiddling with the box of cupcakes. “Wouldn’t it be something if we could order our significant other off of a menu and know exactly what we were getting and what to expect.”

  “That’s the customer service quandary, isn’t it,” Josie asked, “knowing what a person really wants?”

  “As opposed to what they asked for.” I nodded sagely. I encountered that often. It was hard to give directors what they wanted in a cast when they didn’t really know themselves.

  12

  Reeve

  Bench pressing two hundred fifty pounds was easier than figuring out women. A particular woman, who I mulled over while I worked out at the gym the next morning. My muscles strained, but weight day wasn’t quite mentally challenging enough to keep me focused on the here and now instead of last night.

  After the play, she was her sassy, playful self, but not once did she mention or even hint at what went down in the box seats. Not that I wanted a blue ribbon or a gold star. But some whisper acknowledging that I’d turned her inside out would have been nice.

  I pushed up the barbell, grunting—a little bit from the weight and a lot from the frustration.

  One more rep then I lowered the weight, set it down, and headed to the machines, settling in to work on my pecs, moving by rote while my mind circled around again to Sutton.

  The lady wanted to act as if nothing had happened, and I followed her lead, mostly because I didn’t have any better idea. What was I going to say—hey, are we going to talk about how I rocked your world or what?

  Instead, we’d chatted about the play as we left the theater and walked away from the crowds all clumped up to grab taxis. Then we talked about other plays, then books. She quizzed me on why I liked Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas until I ran out of answers and felt flustered and put on the spot, like in high school when you dream you’re taking an English test on a book you haven’t read. Only in that nightmare, I was usually in my underwear. I wasn’t opposed to that, but if Sutton wanted to play “Hot for Teacher,” she’d been sending the wrong messages. Because I’d simply felt as if I were being grilled, and I didn’t know why.

  I’d lost track of the reps I’d done on the pectoral machine. Since last night, I’d flipped between confused, pissed, and frustrated then back to confused, like scrolling through 300 satellite channels and starting over.

  When we were far enough from the front of the marquee to see an empty cab, she’d hailed one, and when it pulled up to us, she got to the door first and opened it . . . for me. She’d caught me off-balance again, and before I knew it, she’d kissed my cheek and I was in the cab and Sutton was not. While I sorted out what I should or could do about this, she leaned in the driver’s window, handed the dude a twenty like I couldn’t pay for my own damned taxi, and waved a too-cheery goodbye.

  What the hell was that?

  She was treating me like a guy treats a girl he doesn’t want to see again. Thanks, babe, here’s a cab. I’d say I’ll call you, but we know I won’t.

  I didn’t like it last night, and I was still irritated in the morning. I didn’t want the brush-off. I wanted to be seen again, called again, texted again. I wanted a second date with her, dammit.

  I finished my reps, breathing hard, trying to shake off these thoughts. What the hell? This was a job, not a real date. It didn’t matter who would text the other first, or who said goodbye first or put the other in a cab.

  But none of that sensible lecture, not even with her hot-and-cold routine, kept me from wanting her again.

  And again.

  And maybe one more time.

  Yes, I’d like to do bedroom reps with Sutton Brenner.

  13

  Sutton

  That afternoon, I wrapped up my latest round of calls to agents, requesting callbacks for a part in a TV show. Thanks to my reputation, a premium cable network had contracted me for one of its racier shows about a cadre of Los Angeles party girls who travel to New York City for a bachelorette weekend. The girls go to an invite-only strip club—as one does—for its “Parade of Firemen” night. My task was to find five smoking hot actors who could be the best “firemen” in New York City.

  I’d known immediately which of my favorites I wanted to see, but I always liked to give new blood a chance too. Last week I’d spent an afternoon flipping through photos, watching demo reels, and calling the top agents for their input on a few rising stars to mix in. The result had been a visual fiesta at the audition, and though the whole crew had been top-notch, I’d picked the best of the bunch for a callback.

  The agents I called today for second looks squeed and oohed and ahhed, and this was one of my favorite parts of the job—delivering good news. I could either be Santa bringing coal, or Santa bringing gifts, and I’d much rather get to be a Santa who brings a bulging bag of opportunity to hungry actors.

  “Great. So the producers will look forward to seeing Joe tomorrow afternoon,” I said brightly to Erin, an agent I knew well.

  “And Joe will look forward to seeing the producers again,” Erin replied. “Also, thanks for the candy sushi. I thought about sharing it with some of my colleagues, but as soon as I finished thinking that, it was all in my belly.”

  I laughed. “For next week’s special, the shop owner is offering grapefruit macarons. I’m pretty sure if anyone can make a grapefruit sing, it’s this baker.”

  “Interesting. That flavor profile would be unexpected. But so would a singing grapefruit,” Erin said, and I could hear the wink in her voice.

  We wrapped up our conversation, and as I hung up
the phone, my mind drifted briefly to grapefruit. Reeve’s favorite food. Such an unusual choice, but yet one he seemed committed to. Never met a grapefruit he didn’t like, he said. I amused myself imagining how I could put his love to the test—a grapefruit pizza, a grapefruit sandwich, a grapefruit wedge on a bottle of beer.

  I caught myself chuckling, and it occurred to me that even the simplest, silliest thoughts of Reeve made my heart dance.

  My focus needed to be on work, not grapefruits and a gorgeous man and whether or not he might like the citrus in a macaron.

  I was about to call one more agent when my cell rang. My first thought was that it might be Reeve. But he had no reason to call me before Friday afternoon. And why did I feel like a cocktail of nerves and hope at the possibility it might be my fake fiancé?

  But the number was private.

  “Sutton Brenner here.”

  “Good afternoon, Sutton. This is Janelle.”

  The hopes flew away. The nerves took deeper root. I sat up straight in my chair. “Good afternoon, Janelle. How are you?”

  “Did you enjoy the play?”

  “Yes. It was fabulous. The seats were amazing. Thank you so much. I hope everything is okay—I know you had to leave early.”

  “Oh, I saw what I came to see.”

  I looked at the phone like it might interpret that note in her voice—smug sounding humor of a private joke mixed in with satisfaction. It made her tone sound oddly illicit. Or maybe it was what Reeve had said about her, implying there might be a wild side to Janelle hidden deep—really deep—inside.

  It was stressful, not knowing which Janelle I would be dealing with on any day—scary, stern, or salacious. But my stomach was a hard knot as I admitted what I was really afraid of—had she seen what Reeve and I had been up to? Would she call me out on my lack of professionalism?