Cameron didn't stay long—he had emergency fires to put out and arrangements to make for the next few weeks, while Leo was home. And conditions and contracts to go over, regarding me and Leo and our upcoming fake-dating situation. He informed me everything started now; that Leo would be leaking information to the press over the coming days, and we'd have to make an appearance together, somewhere casual, to drive the point home.

"He'll text you," he said to me, as he left, after our torrid love-making session on the couch.

The notion of Leo having my number ignited something in me, and I spent the rest of the day wandering around New York City to keep my mind occupied.

The next day, I received a message from an unknown number and panicked, thinking a paparazzi had gotten a hold of my information, though Leo had barely even mentioned me. An online magazine or two had reported him speaking of a secret girlfriend, but my name was never said in the article. And now, I was getting harassed?

When I read the text, I hesitated.

UNKNOWN: Meet me at Laughing Man Café in TriBeCa, today, noon-ish?

I forwarded the message to Cameron, along with the number, asking who the fuck this was.

Cameron: That's one of Leo's numbers. Sorry, I should have given it to you. Here's the address of the café he wants you to go to.

He sent another message with the coordinates, and I let out a large breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in. I added the number to my contacts, under Leo's name, and responded.

Me: Thank you. I'll meet you there.

I wasn't sure what to wear, but funnily enough, Leo texted me again, about an hour later, telling me what to wear. He wanted to make a statement, for us to be coordinated; so he requested I put on skinny jeans, a cropped top, and flip-flops.

I groaned. Flip-flops meant taking an Uber, and not the Subway. I removed my socks; I'd been about to slip into either some late spring booties, or a cozy pair of Converse.

"Not even dating and he's deciding on my outfits for me? Ugh." I plucked my best flip-flops from my shelf. "I hate flip-flops." It was rare for me to wear open-toed shoes unless it was for work; flip-flops had been banned by Mr. Ivy at the office, and I agreed with him. They were great for going to the beach or the pool, but for everyday wear? Tacky. Nope.

Why would Leo want me to put these on? If he had a foot fetish, I wasn't sure how long I'd last fake-dating him.

I Ubered to the location given; a wide, tall brick building with a black painted entrance, and the name Laughing Man Café sketched in white on one of the windows.

As I exited the car, headed for the entrance, someone grabbed my arm and tugged me halfway down the sidewalk before I understood I was being thrown into another car.

What the fuck; was I being kidnapped, now?

I was shoved into a sleek black vehicle in an alleyway—that was about all I'd been able to see.

But no way was I going to let anyone hurt me, not today, not when I had a date with Leo.

I caught my breath, bracing to launch myself out of the car, but the door closed—almost on my foot.

As I adjusted to the tinted windows, to the fear crawling up my spine, I realized I wasn't alone in this leathery, oversized back-seat.

I spun to my left, my heart stopping in my chest.

Leo was there, smiling at me. Wearing a baggier t-shirt than usual with some nineties band's logo on it, dark and tight jeans, and—you guessed it—flip-flops.

"Hey, sorry for that abruptness, but we need to seem like we arrived together." He brushed his dark blond hair out of his face—it was longer than his normal style, stopping at his earlobes. But it gave him an edgy, unkempt look that suited him well.

Fanning myself—I'd overheated at being hauled into a car, and then coming face-to-face with Leo for only the second time of my life—I glared at him. "Why didn't you pick me up, then?"

"You look great," he said, eyeing me as I sat, crumpled up, beside him. He flinched. "We'll work on being better at this. It was a bit...spontaneous. My team didn't have much time to plan. But, here we are! Are you ready?" He put his hand on the handle of his car door. "Things might get a little crazy until we enter the café."

I squinted at him, still processing that he'd had me thrown into his car so we could show up together.

Crazy, he said? There weren't many people outside when I pulled up, and no clusters of paparazzi. "Okay, yeah, let's go."

"Don't be nervous," he said, widening his inhumanly white smile. "It's like acting."

My heart raced. "I don't know how to act."

He ignored my comment, and exited on his side, leading onto the street, then ran around the back of the car to open my door. As he helped me out, it started—flashes of cameras, yelling of "Leo, Leo, over here! Is that your new girlfriend?" and people pushing into us from all angles.

When did all these people get here? How did they get here? Had they been hiding, knowing that Leo would be visiting this place today? They lined the sidewalk, leaving us a tiny passage to get to the café. It was intoxicating, and not in a good way; their body odor, the sound of their cameras clicking, their microphones shoved into our faces, their screeching voices echoing in my ears.

"It's one of my regular haunts," Leo said to me, as he squeezed my hand and we thrust through the crowd. "But there's high-level security inside, so no one can get in. They can snap all the pictures they like," he raised his voice, "but from outside, because they're not allowed in."

I was breathless, my heart beating so fast, so hard it hurt my entire rib-cage.

We made it through the throng of photographers and sleazy reporters. The café doors opened for us—regulars, inside, were helping us get in so we'd no longer be harassed.

"Phew," he said, releasing me as he shook out his arms, the door closing behind us. "They're on the prowl today."

One dude behind the white marble counter to our left waved, and chuckled. "Probably because you told them about your girlfriend, man." He gestured at me. "That her? The infamous secret girlfriend?"

I froze in place, hearing the yells outside the window, still sensing the flashes on my face. Leo guided me farther into the black and white-themed café, with its black and white stools, and its shelves lined with coffee bags and mugs.

"This is her," he said, as we moved by the barista, who'd been working on someone's order. The patrons inside were calm, not shouting and jumping to and fro at Leo's arrival; they were used to seeing him here, and waved as he passed. "Meet Emma, everyone."

A few folks acknowledged me, lifting their mugs towards me with nods. Others didn't say anything at all.

Leo led me to the far right of the room, to a sleek booth with beige cushions. A steaming cappuccino awaited, along with a plate of croissants and macarons. My eyes widened—I loved macarons, but how did he know that?

We sat side-by-side in the booth, and he stretched out his arms, cracking his neck. "Sorry, you'll have to get used to that shit." He relaxed, smiling at me like he had in the car, but this smile felt more genuine, less plastered on. "I ordered ahead, though they know what I usually get," he said, gesturing at the mug. "A little birdy told me you liked these lovely pastries, so I ordered those, too. But what will you drink? I didn't want to assume."

I bit my tongue to not bark back some smart-ass retort about who that little birdy was, and peered at the other barista coming up to take my order. "Sugar-free vanilla latte with nonfat milk, please," I said, my fingers itching to crawl over to the platter of macarons and snatch one. Two. Okay, maybe three.

He leaned closer to me, his mouth near my ear; invasive, but sexy, not unlike the night I'd met him. "Act like this is normal, okay? I know you said you don't know how to act, but I don't believe that. Grin real quick for me, will you? Make it look like I'm saying something kind of naughty."

It felt naughty, him whispering so sensually in my ear, so it wasn't hard for me to spread my lips wide and emit a giggle as my cheeks overheated. "Gosh, Leo, stop it."

He pulled away, smirking. "Don't know how to act; my ass." He brought his mug to his lips. "You were saying?"

I wouldn't tell him about Cameron and I's role playing sex, but in any case, I didn't feel like that counted as real acting. "If I'm prepared, or guided, then I guess I can act. Somewhat." My face was still hot, and I wished I'd ordered an iced coffee instead of a warm one.

"I'm going to speak softly, so we'll have to sit as close as possible," he said, tugging me almost into his lap. "Everyone in here seems cool and quiet, but they're sometimes recording shit on their phones. We have to maintain the illusion at all times."

"Noted," I said, connecting my gaze to his. His eyes were a bright, beautiful blue, drawing me into him. They were like I'd remembered them, only peppered with a mischief I found outrageously sexy.

"If you get uncomfortable, pretend like I'm Cameron, okay?" He took my hand in his, and I was electrified by his warmth. "Pretend like you care about me."

I refrained from blurting that I did care, but not in the way I was supposed to. I cared about what he was wearing, how he'd given me chills when he whispered in my ear, his lips grazing my skin. I cared about how he was holding my hand, delicately sliding his fingers between mine, a gesture so weirdly sexual that my core tightened and I stiffened.

My drink arrived, and as I reached for it, he pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. "Relax, sweetheart."

I took a sip, burned my tongue, and gritted my teeth in a fake smile. "Kind of difficult to do that when all this is happening so suddenly. I barely know you, and you keep touching me like we've been dating for years."

"That's the point," he said, his thigh pressing hard into mine. "We have to sell this."

I wondered how blunt I could be with him. We were fake-dating, but there had to be a way to set up boundaries. A way to test his temper and see how I was supposed to react to him.

"And whose fault is that?" I arched an eyebrow as I held my mug, and twisted to him as I took another sip.

He'd yell at me now, for sure. Stage an argument to make our relationship even more plausible, make us seem more human. I'd pressed his buttons by reminding him that we were here, in this situation, because of him and his insatiable urge to sleep with married individuals.

Instead of yelling, though, he grinned. "I'm an idiot, okay?" He drew me tighter into his arms and kissed the side of my forehead, still playing his game. "I got too high, went to a fancy party, and ended up in bed with someone I shouldn't have. It happens to the best of us, but sadly, I'm the one who always gets caught."

I wriggled about in his embrace, not out of discomfort, but because he smelled so good—a floral, forest musk—that he conflicted with the delicious scent of my vanilla brew. "High enough to not know who you were sleeping with?"

He tensed, but not once did the happy, bubbly smile leave his lips. "Oh, I knew her, but I wasn't lucid enough to remember she was off-limits. The thing is—she didn't stop me. She consented, and she'd admit to it if we're exposed. I didn't take advantage of her. If anything, she took advantage of the fact that I was so dazed. But," he grabbed at my shoulder to pull me in even closer, "you're here to help me fix that. I appreciate you."

My teeth ground in my mouth as I held in all the replies I was desperate to fling at him. Oh, he was handsome, he had a heavenly aroma, his voice was like a melody of the skies—but he was a prick, wasn't he? Sleeping with whomever he wanted, then using his money and fame to reel me in, to use me as a cover-up for his fuck-ups.

He sensed my tension and let go of me. "I'm sorry. I know this is a lot, and you're wondering why I picked you, why all this nonsense. Who is this asshole of a singer who can do whatever he wants by throwing cash at people and showing some skin?" He blew out his cheeks; a whiff of coffee and cinnamon lingered in his breath, and I wanted to melt. To forget I was angry with him, to forget he'd made me do this. How could I be mad when he was here apologizing, being so sweet, instructing me on how to get through this?

"I wouldn't go that far," I said, angling over the table to fetch a macaron. Enough waiting—I needed something to distract me from his enticing aroma and presence. To repel me from his intense appeal.

You're mad at him. Don't give in to his charm.

"It was urgent, and honestly, you were the first person who popped into my head. Probably because we'd met that night for dinner." He seized my hand again. "You were so kind, so charming...I figured Cameron wouldn't mind, since he always helps me fix my mistakes. His hesitation, though...I hesitated, too, seeing his face on that conference call. But he knew how much I needed this. What a swell guy."

I couldn't tell if he was being serious, or backhandedly insulting Cameron for being too nice, for allowing us to do this.

"I doubted I could find anyone else in such a short time-frame," he continued, plucking a macaron from the plate. He bit into it, and his eyes rolled back in pleasure at the taste. He chewed leisurely, enjoying every morsel. I'd already devoured mine, not giving myself a chance to savor the incredible texture and flavor, too in a hurry to get this date over with. So I could get away from him and how he fueled me with weird desires that I absolutely needed to resist.

"Seriously?" I shook my head, then stopped, nearly forgetting I was on display and needed to appear enamored with him, not irritated. I lowered my voice. "You're an international rock star with several albums under your belt and gazillions of women and men begging for your attention, but you couldn't get anyone else to work with your short time-frame?"

He sucked in his lips and dropped his chin. "I had to think fast. My manager put me on the spot."

"So this was your manager's idea? Petra, was that her name?" I took a heavy breath, reining in my anger. "You're telling me this is her fault, then?"

His fingers twitched, squeezing mine. "The thing is..." He whipped his neck up and his gaze was so deep, tinted with blue and green, a disco ball about to hypnotize me. "I have a reputation, right? We'd have preferred another celebrity to do this, but so many of them have refused because of how...fast...I tend to cut things off."

One of my eyebrows quirked up. "Fast? As in, ending the contract?" I winced; that was too loud. "The relationship?"

He nodded. "My moods are...fucked-up. I admit it."

On the one side, I might not have to do this gig for too long, because he'd get sick of me even faster than the others. On the other side...that meant I might not get to be in his presence for long. I might not get to realize any of my fantasies, and they'd remain as dreams in my head. Which was a good thing...right?

The moods...Cameron had, in his own way, warned me of those. I'd have to be extra careful around this guy. He hadn't been offended by my comments, so far, but it could happen at any time.

As much as I doubted this fake-dating gig, it would pay the bills for a while, until I finally made my big break in the fashion industry. Or so, I hoped.

I munched on another macaron as he explained to me how I might have to talk to the press and the media, especially in the beginning.

"As far as they're aware, we've been dating for several months." He ordered another coffee, but I declined any for myself; too much caffeine and I'd be jittery and impulsive, and we didn't need that. "They don't know you, and they'll be curious. Let's make sure our story is straight: we met here, and fell head over heels in love with each other. With everything going on, I begged you to let me make our relationship public, and you consented, at last."

I sipped on the final drops of my java, nodding at his words, absorbing them. Head over heels in love, he said? So, not only did we have to act like we'd known each other for a while, but now I had to pretend to love him?

I'd never been in love for real, though I'd been close. Currently, my heart swelled for Cameron, and I was starting to fall in love with him. So how could I fake-love Leo while real-loving Cameron? Could I use my emotions towards Cameron, as Leo had suggested, and apply them here, in public?

This would be a never-ending migraine, and I made a mental note to buy a bunch of Advil and rosé to get through it.

♪♪♪