Pretending He's Mine (2 page)

Now, he’d lost a client for Swift as Light.

He left the Park Avenue building, spotting the flashing red light on his phone. His boss had probably called to ream him out. There was a text message too. What the hell did you do??? Reeve ignored it, unlocked his bike, and hopped into the saddle, speed-demoning it down the traffic-infested streets of New York, spewing a stream of curse words as he gripped the handlebars. Now he’d have to give his best mea culpa to his boss at the Swift as Light offices in the East Village. When he arrived, he wheeled his bike inside, parked it in the cluttered hallway, and found Dave waiting for him. Hands on hips. Face lined with anger.

Reeve pulled the messenger bag over his head and dropped it on the floor.

“Sorry.”

“Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t fucking talk to people. Just keep your mouth shut.”

“Sorry. I almost got killed out there. I’m having a shit day.”

“Welcome to being an adult. Every day can be a shit day. You don’t have to be a dick to the clients.”

“I didn’t know he was a client,” Reeve said, then instantly hated himself for sounding whiny.

“Assume everyone is. Got that? Assume everyone is a client and shut your mouth. You’re not in a Tarantino film. You’re in a job. So act like it.”

“Okay. Got the message.” Reeve held up his hands, as if surrendering.

“And go take a week off to cool down.”

“What?” Reeve’s jaw dropped.

“I gotta spend the day trying to triage this and figure out if I can save a client. If I see you around, it’ll piss me off. So get out of here, and come back in a week. We’ll see if I no longer want to strangle you with one of your dumbass tee-shirts with their stupid sayings,” Dave said, and walked back into his office.

Reeve glanced down at his well-worn blue tee-shirt. What was wrong with his tee-shirts now? This one had the words “Beehives are not piñatas” in a cool font across the front. The shirt looked good on him. Some chick at the corner bodega where he got his morning coffee had even said “cool shirt.” He could rock a worn tee-shirt like nobody’s business thanks to his lean and muscly frame.

Reeve snagged his bike, left the office and called Jill. They’d been friends for a while, but became even tighter during Les Mis, when she played Eponine. Tight in the close friends kind of way. Tight in the way a dude can be buddies with a chick.

“Come on over tonight and we’ll drown your sorrows,” she said. “My roommate’s in Paris for a business trip so we can be as loud and obnoxious as we want.”

“Because if she were here, you’d be quiet and considerate?” Reeve teased.

“As if I’m capable of that.”

“I’ll be over after seven. I’m going to the gym. I have to blow off some steam.”

“Good. Because you are not permitted to come over angry. It would totally ruin my feng shui crystal healing energy vibe.”

He laughed. “Since when are you into new age stuff?”

“Since never. But I got something nice from a marathon mommy and it’s got your name written all over it.”

“Can’t wait to see what it is. See you later, babe.”

After a stint at the gym, and a quick shower, Reeve walked across town to Jill’s apartment in Chelsea and she buzzed him up.

“I have beer and I have vodka. Pick your poison.” Jill waggled a long-neck bottle in one hand, and a short glass with ice cubes and clear liquid in the other.

“Vodka,” he said, and took a long swallow of the liquor, downing most of the drink.

“Whoa, Tiger. Slow it down.”

Reeve just shrugged, thrust the glass at Jill, and affixed his best commercial toothpaste smile. “May I have another, pretty please?”

“Fine,” she said, pouring more into the glass.

“Since when do you buy Belvedere?”

“This is the something nice I got. It was a gift from one of the ladies in my running club who finished the New York City marathon.”

“She gave you vodka for finishing a marathon?”

“Yes. And I genuflected, because I love my Belvedere almost as much as my beer. Now, come to my couch, and tell me all your problems,” she said, pointing to the mustard-colored couch, well-worn from many late-night talk sessions.

“So your roomie’s in Paris?”

“She’s on a mission to find new designs for her necklaces. That, and trying to stay away from the guy she’s been jonesing for.”

“You know she blew me off for a nightcap after opening night when we played at the Soho Club.”

Jill waved a hand in the air. “She’d have blown off David Gandy, my dear. She only has eyes for this guy. She’s been a done deal for a long time.”

“Anyway,” Reeve said as he stretched out on the couch, resting his head in Jill’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, but not in a romantic way. They were past that, but actors are naturally touchy people. They are used to having hands on each other, whether on stage or in rehearsals, so it becomes a natural state of affairs when hanging out.

“Let’s see. Well, I totally fucked up my audition for the Joss Whedon film, as you know. Second, I haven’t booked a commercial in weeks. Third, I’m pretty sure the residuals from my last toothpaste spot are going to dry up soon. Fourth, my boss at the messenger service is forcing me to take a week off without pay because I was rude—“ Reeve said, sketching air quotes around the word “—to one of his customers.”

“Ouch.”

“Fifth. Rent. Rent. Rent.”

Jill stared pensively at a cracked section of plaster on the ceiling. “You know, Reeve,” Jill said, in a voice that Reeve instantly recognized as her mastermind tone. “One of the Upper East Side cougars in my running club has a high-end escort service going on.”

Reeve laughed and sat up straight. “Seriously? You want me to be an escort?”

“Is it such a crazy thought? You’re young and hot and you can play any part. That’s what these ladies want.”

“What kind of ladies?”

“All kinds,” Jill said, in an evasive way.

“What do you mean all kinds?”

“Just that all sorts of ladies use escort services.”

“I can’t believe you have a chick in your running club who’s a pimp,” Reeve said and pushed his long fingers through his dark hair.

“She’s not a pimp, Reeve.” Jill punched him on the shoulder. “She’s a high-end madam. For dudes.” Then Jill laughed.

“Would I have to, you know, with them?”

“Go down on them?”

Reeve made a rolling motion with his hand. “That and other things.”

Jill shrugged. “Probably in some cases. I mean, some women just read Playgirl for the articles, but I’m pretty sure when you’re shelling out $500 a pop you want the escort to take care of the lady business.”

“Call me crazy, but I kind of like actually—you know—being attracted to the girl I’m making scream my name out loud.”

“Do you, Reeve? Do you make them scream your name out loud?”

Reeve raised an eyebrow playfully. “Every. Single. Time.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Sutton Brenner had a problem. A big problem. She was on the cusp of winning a contract so hot and so coveted that any of her competitors would walk on hot coals for it. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. She’d been prepping for it, she’d been pitching for it. She knew she was the right one—the only one—- for this project.

Escorted Lives.

Who else had better credentials to find the top talent for the red-hot film based on the biggest selling erotic romance series the world had seen in ages? After all, Sutton had cast the most successful male stripper movie—It’s Raining Men—which had showered $302 million in greenbacks at the box office down on the producers. Not to mention Spread, an indie flick about a chiseled male model who falls in love with an Oklahoma house wife. That film had burst out of the festival circuit to earn both critical acclaim and a cool $112 million, ten times its budget. Sutton had even earned a nod in an industry trade magazine as “the best appraiser of male flesh and talent in all of the film community.”

She’d grinned in delight at the accolade.

But the money guys hadn’t given her the greenlight to cast “Escorted Lives” yet. Maybe they were being cautious, but then the mega-rich Frederick and Nicholas Pinkerton were known as risktakers. Sutton was perched on the edge of her chair, across the glass conference table from the British twin film financiers. They were her countrymen, and she couldn’t help but hope that her British-ness might give her a leg up. She could talk the talk about London and the Queen and footie, and they loved that. The were avid golfers too, and so Sutton had chatted them up about the relative merits of the Augusta National Club versus Pebble Beach Golf Links. Sutton didn’t know a lick about swinging a golf club, but she’d researched the hell out of the courses so she could hold her own on one of their favorite subjects—golf in America.

Would her prep work pay off?

“You’re definitely at the top of the list for Escorted Lives,” Frederick said, but his voice trailed off.

Top of the list meant there was still a list.

Damn.

Sutton needed to get rid of the list. She needed to be the only list.

Frederick glanced at his wife, Janelle. She was seated next to him, but she hadn’t uttered a word. She’d just kept her hands folded together on the table, her lips tightly closed. Janelle’s green eyes were cool and piercing. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it looked as if the skin were being stretched to her scalp. She was stone, and Sutton thought she might be practicing her best approximation of a statue. But Sutton knew Janelle was the real puppeteer here. She was the reason Frederick was rich in the first place. He’d married into her family money, and she had a hand in all the decisions he made about his films. She might not have the official title of executive producer, but everyone in the movie biz knew that a Frederick Pinkerton movie had to pass muster with the wife before he could work on it.

She was the sort of silent partner who could make or break any deal of his.

Janelle moved, leaning closer to Frederick. She whispered something in his ear.

He nodded, then spoke. “And we were thinking perhaps we could meet your fiancé. Perhaps we could all have dinner?”

Sutton tried not to look confused. She didn’t have a fiancé. “Sorry?”

Frederick’s brows knitted in concern. “I was sure I’d read in the papers that you were engaged recently.”

The papers. An engagement. Of course. Sutton was often mistaken—well, in print at least—for the Broadway actress Sutton McKenna, who had gotten engaged to her manager last week. There weren’t too many Suttons in New York show biz, hence the frequent mixups. Sutton was about to say that there’d been a misunderstanding, but Janelle piped up. “We do so love to have a family atmosphere at our company.”

Janelle gave Frederick a pointed look, and everything clicked for Sutton. Frederick had cheated on his wife over and over with many nubile young things, and word on the street was that Janelle was doing everything to keep him in line. Perhaps that included making sure he only hired attached women to work on his films?

Sutton could read between the lines. They might have mistaken another’s engagement for hers, but perhaps this was the lucky break she needed to nab the film.

She played along, holding up her ring-less hand. “My boyfriend surprised me the other weekend. The ring was just a tad bit too big, so now it’s being resized and I can not wait to get it back on my hand,” she said, mustering up all the glee she imagined a recently betrothed twenty-eight-year-old casting director might feel.

Frederick beamed, Nicholas clapped, and Janelle managed a sliver of a smile.

“Then we cannot wait to have dinner with you and your fiancé on Friday night, and perhaps we can finalize things then,” Janelle said, and it was clear that she was in charge of the hiring. That whatever decision the brothers made about the casting of the film would be Janelle’s choice, and Janelle likely wanted a taken woman working closely with her philandering husband. Funny, considering Sutton had heard from an agent friend that Janelle wasn’t even giving her husband the goods anymore. Apparently, she’d cut him off til he proved he could behave. “Why don’t you come to our penthouse on Fifth Avenue? Just the six of us.”

Friday night was five nights from now. Where in the whole of New York was Sutton supposed to come up with a fiancé in five days? But she had no intention of losing this project simply on account of lacking a man. She’d sort out the details later.

“Absolutely. I’d be most delighted,” Sutton said in a crisp voice.

Janelle stood up to leave. The brothers rose too. “Oh, I just thought of a brilliant idea,” Janelle said. “Perhaps you and your fiancé might like to see the new play that just opened at the St. James. I have box seats for tomorrow, but alas, I have a charity event to attend.” Janelle reached into her Hermes purse, rooting around for tickets but came up empty. “Oh dear. They must be in my other bag. I’ll just messenger them over to you later today.”

“Wonderful. How generous of you. We’ll be so excited to see it,” Sutton said, and now she had little more than twenty-four hours to produce a fictional fiancé to take to the theater.

How hard could it be though? This was her forte. She knew where to find the sexiest men to star in the sexiest man candy roles. She could bring you hot firemen, tattooed bad boys, heroic soldiers, hometown guys with chips on their shoulders, rock star types who made girls throw bras on stage, and all-American athletes who could melt panties.

Now, hours later, as Sutton tapped a Louboutin-clad foot on the floor in her office and stared at a framed photo of her most adorable dog, she knew none of those types were right for this particular role. Sutton had never dated that type of man. She could bluff at the conference table about having a fiancé, but to pull off a dinner with the producers of the film, including that hawkish wife? Wives knew when a relationship was not what it seemed, and Janelle already had her bloodhound nose a-sniffing around her husband’s wandering eye. If Sutton were to pull off this farce of a fiancé, she’d need a man who really was her type, someone she could reasonably like.

But all the actors she’d auditioned for It’s Raining Men were stripper types, beefcake and bravado. This was not a job that necessitated swagger. Sutton had never gone for those kind of guys. Truth be told, she’d always had a thing for hipsters. A little bit of stubble, a little bit of attitude, a tattoo on the arm, jeans that showed off a fine piece of ass.