really is dangerous?”
“I’m sorry,” Ruby says to her friend, “can you remind me who won the over-fifty-five regional championship of the Pistol Packing Mamas annual bullseye competition every year for the last five?”
Chris offers a small curtsy before answering, “But I wasn’t shooting at people and I don’t carry a gun.”
“The point is,” Ruby tells her, “you’re formidable. If you ever feel like you’re in any danger from the man, simply back off. Or call me and I’ll come with you.”
Chris shakes her head. “This has bad Lifetime movie written all over it, you know that?”
Ruby lifts her palms skyward and teases, “We’re doing it in the name of love so it’s really more of a Hallmark film.”
“I’m out as soon the man pulls a gun on us,” Chris threatens.
“This is kind of fun, isn’t it?” Ruby looks downright ecstatic.
James
The man calls out, “Room service!” two more times before giving up and walking away.
“You recognize him, don’t you?” I ask Tara.
She turns around looking like she’s seen a ghost. “He’s not a reporter. His name is Syd Byerly. He’s Romaine’s manager.”
“What? Why is he here?”
“I have no freaking clue.”
“Do you think he wants to talk to you about Turnip Garden’s new album?” I ask. After all, if the name of the album is Tomaine, then clearly, it’s about her relationship with Romaine. I’m half-tempted to pull the door open and call Syd back so he can explain himself, but that’s not up to me.
Tara picks up her phone and quickly punches in a number. When the person on the other end of the call answers, she demands, “Why is your manager stalking me and what’s the deal with naming your new album after us?”
She’s obviously just called Romaine. I listen quietly as she adds, “No, I’m not pleased, I’m livid. I don’t want anything to do with this kind of life anymore. I don’t care, Romaine. I get that you’re sorry, but it’s too late. What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?”
I feel downright awkward sitting here practically eavesdropping on their conversation, or Tara’s part of it anyway. She finally says, “I know you love me but that’s not enough anymore.” I hear his muffled voice in the background as she pulls the phone away from her ear and disconnects the call. Then she turns to me and asks, “How would you like to make some money?”
“I’m not going to kill your ex-boyfriend if that’s what you’re asking.” I’m pretty sure that’s not what she’s asking, but I thought it best to throw that out there anyway.
She dramatically snaps her fingers. “Darn! And here I thought you’d commit murder for me.” Then she rolls her eyes. “I need to convince Romaine to forget me. The only way I’m going to be able to do that is if I have another boyfriend.”
“And?” She doesn’t mean me, does she?
She spells it out, “I’m asking you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”
“Seriously?” I’m not sure how I feel about that. First of all, if I did it, I wouldn’t take money for it—talk about making me feel like a gigolo. Secondly, and probably more importantly, we can barely be nice to each other for more than a couple minutes without fighting. I’m not sure we could pull it off.
“You told me I had to do something,” she throws my own words back at me. “If I agree to talk to Rachel Perry, I can tell her all about how I’ve moved on from Romaine and then introduce her to you.”
“You want to announce to the whole world that I’ve taken Romaine’s place?” What a horrible thought. Not the part about being with Tara, that part makes me look like a rock star. The bit that concerns me is everyone knowing I’m with her. I have a sudden infusion of sympathy for the trials of fame.
“I offered to pay you,” she replies, sounding borderline desperate.
“Tara”—I stop so I can take a lengthy swig of beer—“I’m a small-town farmer. Nobody would believe you and I are a couple.”
“Why can’t a pastry chef and a farmer be a couple?” she demands with her hands on her hips.
“I like my life,” I explain. “It’s nice and quiet. It’s the way I want it. If I pretended to be your boyfriend that would change.”
She paces back and forth for several laps before looking up like a lightbulb just went off in her brain. “You don’t want to take money from me, right?”