I had the green light to do whatever I wanted, whatever I was comfortable with, with Leo. And yet after that steamy kiss, I feared doing anything else, even the basic shows of affection we'd gotten used to. We stuck to hand-holding, hugging, dancing, and now and then, an actual quick peck to appease the fans and media.

Those kisses in our pictures were hot, really hot. Tabloids reported that they'd been taken seconds before we had sex on that very couch. Some magazines described it as shoving tongues down throats to prove a point; but it worked. Our stunt had succeeded. We'd calmed the storm of rumors about our relationship being fake, and Leo's manager told us we could slow things down.

But Leo insisted on still staging events together. He didn't trust the calm, and didn't want to slow things down. So we went on more shopping sprees, walks in Central Park, pretending to hide to have public sex—though we only giggled like kids as we faked moans. I'd go home at night and think of those moans, and wonder if that was what he'd sound like in bed—and chided myself for it.

Or masturbated to ease my mind.

Or begged Cameron to come over and get rid of my tension.

Sadly, Cameron and I saw each other less and less. Not only because of the high intensity of Leo and I's relationship, and the amount of paparazzi that followed me, but also because he was overwhelmed with work. He was scheduling tours and attending events and award shows as his security assistant, and when not in front of a computer, or organizing security for Leo's coming and goings, he was asleep.

A few times, he accompanied us on our outings, making things beyond awkward, with him trying not to watch us snuggling up together. I had to pretend like he wasn't there, that he wasn't my boyfriend, the one I wanted to be with. Leo and I would be lovey-dovey and kiss, and it took all my might not to stare at Cameron, to mouth I'm sorry, to beg forgiveness to him later, with my clothes off.

But he accepted it all. He held his tongue, played along. "I agreed to this, babe," he told me, whenever I brought up how sorry I was for putting him through all this. "And the money, for you...it's worth it. It'll support the pursuit your dreams, and I want that for you. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Despite his reassurances, I couldn't help but feel like I was cheating on him. More so when I analyzed my emotions, my thoughts towards Leo; I was cheating, mentally. I envisioned myself pushing the bar with Leo, kissing him passionately again, taking my clothes off for him, getting into bed with him. The more time we spent together, the more time I wanted to spend, without interruption, without the phones and the cameras and the constant staging.

I liked Leo. I liked Leo a lot. Because when we weren't fake-kissing (anything but fake, for me) or fake-posing for reporters, we had lengthy conversations about everything. We chortled at the headlines we made, mocked the words used to describe us, and discussed our past love lives in detail. We enjoyed each other's company, even when Leo was moody and morose, or overly excited about things; to see him so raw, so real, only made me care for him more.

He wasn't the stage-diving, godly guitar player, when I was with him; he was Leo, a regular man, albeit loaded with money. A slightly sheltered, mildly rich boy who wanted recognition, who wanted to be loved, and wanted to give love in return.

My attraction wasn't reciprocated, I knew. He enjoyed me, he liked me as a person, thought I was cute, I could tell; but when it came to the rubbing and kissing and hand-holding cuteness, it was fake. He had real bodily reactions—I'd been super close to his erections more than once—but that was natural, for a man. Him getting turned on physically didn't mean he was mentally in the same place as me. I doubted he ever would be.

By accepting to do this, I'd backed myself into a corner. And I'd known it, too; I'd warned myself, and to some extent, Cameron, that I wasn't good at the fake stuff. That I wasn't skilled in roleplaying, aside for sexual encounters. This was day-in and day-out roleplaying. Playing, posing as someone's girlfriend while being someone else's real girlfriend...I was drowning, and no one knew it but me.

Because how to tell Cameron that despite my deep, delirious feelings for him, I was also catching feelings for Leo? They were opposites; Cameron was calm, Leo impulsive. Cameron was softer-spoken, where Leo was loud. My heart pumped at the sight of them both. My mind filled with alternating images of them causing me migraines whenever I tried to clean the mess inside my head.

I needed to back out of the ordeal before I fell completely, but the contract didn't specify how long I had to do this for. Leo didn't appear anywhere near ready to stop. He thrived on the positive news; being with me kept him away from scandals, away from the negative press. He glowed from all the praise at settling down with a normal, unmarried woman. And he hadn't asked for anything more from me than feigning adoration—which to me, wasn't made-up at all. I did adore him, and now, for more than his melodious voice and heavenly lyrics.

"I'm in over my head," I said to Cameron one night, as we spoke on the phone. I'd had a turbulent day of thwarting paparazzi while trying to run errands, and everyone kept asking me why I wasn't with Leo. Telling them off was hard, and lying to them even more so, because I felt like they read everything on my face. "Leo is writing songs at home," I'd tell them; in reality, he was recovering from a bad hangover after the party we'd attended two days ago. "Didn't the contract say until his image is restored? It's restored now, isn't it?"

"It does say that, yes," said Cameron, while typing something on his computer, swarmed with schedule changes and appointment setting, and dreading more gigs where he had to help with security in the weeks to come, courtesy of Leo's spontaneous requests. "But I don't know that I'd say his image is restored. The fact that the paparazzi are hounding you like that whenever you're alone...it's like they don't quite trust you."

"Is this your way of saying we should do more to convince them?" I was removing my make-up, and had to push the cotton ball into my eye to get the intense eyeshadow off my eyelids.

We couldn't do more, there was no way. Short of getting naked and throwing down outside his town-house, I wasn't sure what else the press wanted of us. How much more realistic could we make this relationship seem? Get engaged? Get married? Have a fucking baby together?

Leo was content with where we stood, currently. He'd told me as much, and hadn't implied we needed to ramp up the stakes. A part of me kind of wanted him to, to see what his boundaries were. He kept asking me about mine, but he never shared how he felt, and it bugged me more than I let on.

"It's my way of saying I don't think the media will ever be satisfied." Cameron stopped typing. "Of course I don't want you to do more, but if you and Leo decide that's best, I have no say. You're under contract, and so am I."

The dejection in his voice furthered my need to end this fake-dating, now. Before things got out of hand. The kissing had already blown my emotions out of proportion, and I didn't want to risk falling for the rockstar of my dreams. I couldn't. Cameron had been so good to me, and if I hadn't met Leo, I'd be telling this guy I loved him.

"Under contract, but fuck these paparazzi and insolent fans," I said, as I applied moisturizer to my face. Dark circles resided under my eyes, more so after having to scrub and remove the layers of makeup required to cover them up in the first place. I was due for a hair appointment—my usually brown roots were turning a darker, near black shade, which cramped my style—and was considering scheduling some sort of massage or procedure that would knock me out for a few hours so I didn't have to think anymore. "Trying to get to your studio has been a nightmare, I'm sorry."

"I know." His voice was small; he was sorry, too. Our requirement of staying hidden was sexy, at first, playful and fun. Now it was exhausting. Sneaking around and not getting caught by the photographers who craved taking pictures of me, Leo's girlfriend, was next to impossible. "We'll get through it. Keep pretending for a little longer, okay?"

I bit my tongue to not tell him that at this point, I was borderline not pretending anymore. The feelings for Leo were there, on the surface, and threatening those I had for Cameron. The more time I spent with him, the less time I got to spend with Cameron, and the more confused my heart became.

If it came down to having to choose, I'd choose Cameron, always. He was stable, despite his hectic schedule. He rarely had any temper outbursts—and never against me—and his head was on his shoulders, his path ahead clear. Leo...was a mystery, a box of confetti waiting to explode. He was thrilling and exciting and pumped my blood and woke my adrenaline; but sometimes it was so much, it made me nauseous. An adventurous life with an adventurous man like him was dangerous. And more so knowing I didn't know if he felt the same way about me.

"I'll try." I wandered into my main living area and tumbled onto the couch, my back jamming into the TV remote. "You never told me celebrity life was this hard, and I'm not even a celebrity."

"You basically are, though. Dating Leo is like becoming a star. You're in the magazines, people recognize you now." He let out a low chuckle. "That's every girl's dream, isn't it?"

I frowned. "I'm not every girl."

Being famous was fun, at first, but it was never what I'd had in mind. Dating Leo was supposed to help me save money and work towards my actual dream, to write about fashion. To be behind-the-scenes; that was more my vibe. Not being in the spotlight, with flashes in my face while wearing tiny tiny dresses that didn't quite fit my fuller-than-most figure.

But Leo would make it worth it, he'd said. He'd open doors for me, he'd get me ahead in my career. If I were to end our fake-dating now, he might not follow through on that promise. I didn't want a ton of help...maybe a push in the right direction, a hook-up with the right people to get me set up, get me started. Connections that would get me into exclusive fashion shows, or a meeting with another celebrity who'd be willing to talk about fashion with me. No handouts, no favors; a gentle nudge.

"Yeah," Cameron sighed, "that's why I'm with you. But it's also why Leo requested you. Because you are, excuse the stereotypical cliché, not like the others."

I knew he meant it as a compliment. "Thank you."

We chatted a bit more, and repeated how much we missed each other, then I finally lay down to get some sleep. The past few nights I'd stayed up late, either partying with Leo, or working off my frustration from my constant proximity with him. But tonight, I needed to fall asleep thinking of Cameron. He was my boyfriend, my real boyfriend. He was who I should have been dreaming of. And I would. Tonight, I would.

I closed my eyes, pictured Cameron next to me, and slid my fingers under the hem of my underwear.

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