Fake (West Hollywood #1) -Kylie Scott Page 0,72

at your disposal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Lady’s choice. What would you like?”

“I, um . . .” And all the words up and left me. Ugh.

“What does it mean when you look like that?” he asked. “The tips of your ears are turning pink, Norah.”

“Huh.”

“What’s going on inside that head of yours?”

“Funny you should say the word ‘head.’”

He smiled. “Oral it is. Then I think we should fuck a time or two. Just because.”

Before he could flip me onto the mattress, I scrambled back. I don’t know what was stopping me from just asking. This was stupid. Like it would be impolite to grace his gorgeous face with my thighs. I was a grown woman, dammit. And allowed to want what I wanted. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I want to, um . . .” I gifted him my most salacious grin. “Why don’t you lie back and get comfortable there and I’ll just show you?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How are you doing?” asked Patrick, appearing behind my chair.

Kelly, my makeup artist, gave him a brief smile before returning to contouring. Total lack of bedazzlement on her part. Guess seeing stars would get old fast when working on a major talk show.

“Good,” I said, hardly shaking at all.

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

I nodded. Sometimes you just got to fake it until you make it. And appearing on daytime TV in front of an audience of millions definitely qualified as one of those times. Perhaps everyone would be busy or watch something else today. You never know. Margarita Ramirez had been one of the reigning talk show queens for over two decades. Which was why Angie chose her as our sole big interview together as a couple. On school holidays Gran and I used to watch her show together. Now I was going to be on it. Whoa.

My outfit had been carefully chosen. A black crepe belted midi dress by Valentino with short sleeves that hid the worst of the bruising and low-heeled suede boots. Patrick complemented me perfectly in a dark suit with no tie. We looked like total couple goals if I said so myself. Let’s hope everyone else thought so too.

It had been a rushed morning, but I’d managed to sneak in some calls. First to the lawyer who would represent me and the second to a real estate agent regarding the shop Zena wanted. Tomorrow, Zena and I would do a walk-through of the space and then have a long talk about what being partners would entail. It was really happening and I couldn’t be more excited.

But back to the here and now.

Kelly gave me the okay and I said my thanks. This was it. A sound assistant wired us up. Then I held my hand out to Patrick and an assistant led us onto the soundstage to wait in the wings. A full audience packed the back of the room and a myriad of camera people and other types filled the floor between them and the set. A collection of cream armchairs and a comfy-looking couch along with a dark wooden coffee table. Big vibrant flower arrangements sat on pedestals farther back, in front of a screen currently displaying Margarita’s name.

“You’re going to be great,” whispered Patrick in my ear.

“I haven’t been on TV before.”

“The awards were televised. People saw you on that and you were wonderful.”

“This is different,” I said.

“I know, but you’re a natural.”

I frowned. “What if they think I smell funny or something?”

“Fortunately for us, not even digital television has mastered the art of scent yet. No one outside of this room will ever know.”

“That’s still a fair amount of people.”

Patrick bent down and sniffed at my neck. “Nothing funny smelling about you. Try not to worry. We’re going to do this together, okay?”

“It’s live to air. Live, Paddy.”

“I think there’s like a five-second delay, but yeah.”

“What if I mess up and people think you’re an idiot for dating me?” I asked.

“Fuck ’em.”

The intro music started and the audience clapped and cheered and, oh shit. There was a good chance I was about to pee myself. This is exactly why stars and average people shouldn’t date. It was much too dangerous. I could have been hiding from the world, highly dissatisfied with my life, and polishing silverware right now. Yet here I was, dressed in designer gear and holding his hand. Despite my palm being slick with sweat, he didn’t let go.

From the other side of the set, Margarita walked onstage in a cool pale blue pantsuit, waving all the while. Her