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Authors: Marni Bates

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Maybe I should consider eloping.
I set down my empty glass and reached for his hand. “I'm feeling a bit queasy. Let's go back to the suite and negotiate the terms.”
He seemed to take this small act of PDA as a signal of my capitulation.
Except he wasn't looking nearly so self-satisfied when I whispered, “Your publicist has all sorts of ideas for her surprise birthday party.”
Score.
Chapter 16
Dominic
 
F
or a girl who only moments before had been approaching a full-blown panic attack, she had quickly adjusted to the idea of being on my payroll.
Not that I was surprised. The first rule of Hollywood is that money talks. You can have a fantastic product, but if nobody is willing to spend the big bucks, you've got nothing. In my case, the value of the product would increase if the scent of a scandal decreased. Otherwise my two best friends would happily kick my ass all the way back to Mexico.
Tim, Chris, and I weren't interested in becoming a band where people think, “Oh yeah,
them
. They were really big for, like, a minute. I wonder whatever happened after the drummer got caught roughing up some girl in his room. . . .”
I couldn't let that happen.
So if Holly needed a monetary incentive, that was fine by me. Most of it would probably have to be spent updating her look anyway. Not that she didn't look good in my shirt with her tousled dirty-blond hair almost obscuring the collar. In fact, she looked downright hot. But slathering on the goop and the products would go a long way toward making her more acceptable to the public.
Whether she wanted it or not, I would have to supplement her wardrobe. And if the photographers happened to see me tilt a sunhat on her head for better access to her lips, well, that would just be an added bonus.
I had every intention of kissing Holly again. Repeatedly. Sure, I had done it on the deck primarily to shut her up and give the press their photo op, but I had also enjoyed it. Holly might be a walking disaster, but when her body was pressed against mine, that didn't bother me too much.
My vacation was finally looking up. A few make-out sessions on the beach, holding hands, frolicking in the waves, and then returning to the suite where I could write lyrics and Holly could . . . do whatever she wanted. All we had to do was keep things light and casual.
But judging by Holly's determined expression when she mentioned her birthday party, she wasn't going to make anything easy for me.
Still, I hadn't expected her to haul off and slug me as soon as we were alone in the suite.
“Ow! What the hell was that for?”
“That was for the uninvited oral assault.”
I did a quick translation from crazy talk to normal-people speak. “For the kiss?”
“Yes!”
“Really.” I settled myself lazily in one of the large sofa chairs. “Interesting. You seemed to be enjoying it. I think you might have moaned.”
The glare she shot me should have been deadly. Except her hands landed on her hips again and she looked more cute than ferocious. Then again, maybe I shouldn't have smiled. The girl really did have a good left jab.
“I did not moan,” she said evenly.
“No, I guess it was more of a whimper.”
Her hands clenched and then after a tense moment she relaxed them. If my mother could see me right now she would have smacked me upside the head and said something about “raising me better.” But I couldn't resist, especially since Holly always tried her damnedest to give as good as she got.
“There was no moaning, whimpering, or breathless sighing, and furthermore—”
“You sure about the breathless sighing?” I interrupted. “I could have sworn—”
“You were mistaken. I'm also accepting your offer to make me a publicist.”
“That was taken off the table.”
“Now that I've accepted, it's back on. And as your publicist I get to decide when, where, and how we turn this fauxmance of ours into media fodder. Got it?”
Maybe she would do better in Hollywood than I'd originally thought. With the exception of her cousins, she didn't let herself get bullied or settle for anything less than what she wanted. She would probably love interning with a real publicist since it would allow her to boss people around. She already enjoyed telling me what to do.
I crossed my arms. “The kissing is nonnegotiable. We need to sell the act, and there is no way that two people, in the beginning of a relationship, on a tropical vacation, wouldn't make out in public.”
She seemed to consider this. “Fine. We can kiss.”
Her words hit me like a shot of espresso.
“With some requirements. One: All kissing must be for the cameras only. Two: Both parties must be fully aware of the situation at all times. Three: All kissing must be—”
“Under twenty seconds in duration,” I interrupted mockingly.
“No, but that's a good one. As I was
saying,
all kissing must be—”
But I didn't let her finish that time either. “This is ridiculous. We'll kiss when we need to kiss to protect our cover.”
She shot me a stern gaze that had angry elementary school teacher written all over it. “If I ever feel like you're using me I will make that punch earlier look like a love tap. I'm a publicist, not a prostitute. Are we clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. I want a signed ReadySet poster.”
“And . . .” I prompted, waiting for the demands to start pouring in.
“Well, I'd really like to meet Tim, but I know our fake breakup might complicate that so . . . yeah, I really want that poster.”
I grabbed one of the cruise ship pens and pulled out a band picture from my backpack—I never travel without a few just in case I need something to distract our fans—then I hastily scrawled my name across it.
“Here you go.”
She took it from me but she didn't exactly look thrilled. “This isn't what I had in mind.”
“You said signed.” I shrugged. “It's signed.”
“Yeah, but you don't really count.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I'm the drummer. Since when does that not count as being part of the band? I've got a Grammy sitting on my shelf at home to prove it.”
“Maybe if we had met under different circumstances you would count,” she said thoughtfully. “If you hadn't pepper sprayed me and then acted like a crotchety old man, for example. But now you're not
Dominic Wyatt,
you're Nick. It's hard for me to get all excited about having it signed by a celebrity when it's you.”
I leaned back against the headboard, insulted even though I should have felt relieved. I hate it when girls keep stuttering, or cooing, or gasping, or whatever noises they make, when they come within fifteen feet of the band. Tim might get the brunt of the attention but Chris and I experienced more than enough.
But here was Holly, a girl who had only been at a loss for words once when I had mistaken her for a zombie . . . and she didn't think I counted.
It rankled me since she so obviously had a thing for my best friend. It was only a matter of time before she started asking if Tim happened to be involved with anyone. That was one question I wasn't at liberty to answer. As far as fodder for tabloids, getting caught with a girl in my room was
nothing
in comparison to coming out of the closet. It was stupid that anyone cared about Tim's relationship status . . . or would withhold a job because of it. But homosexuality wasn't part of the image that the entertainment industry wanted to promote—not when we appealed to such a large tween-age demographic. We needed to be good, clean, heterosexual, all-American boys who also happened to rock.
That, more than anything, infuriated me.
Chris and I had told Tim during at least fifteen band meetings that we would fully support him if he decided to come out. We would join him on the
Ellen DeGeneres Show
for moral support—whatever he needed: We'd be there.
Tim might prefer keeping his private life, well . . . private, but it wouldn't take much to uncover that Timothy Goff was dating Corey O'Neal, currently a student at Smith High School in Forest Grove, Oregon.
I was surprised it had remained a secret for over two weeks, actually.
But since Tim wanted to wait for the right time to come out—although he never explained when this “right time” might be—Chris and I had developed a “no comment” policy that involved wide grins, expansive shrugs, and keeping our mouths shut.
So it should have been amusing that Holly had a thing for the one member of ReadySet who plays for the other team. But I didn't exactly enjoy being told that I “didn't count” as a rock star.
Or being compared to a crotchety old man.
“I'll get Tim and Chris to sign it before I mail it to you. Now is that all?”
She nodded and then her expression turned thoughtful. “Actually, I have one last stipulation: You can't leave me alone with my family. I came way too close to stabbing my aunt with a fork last night and . . . I could just really use a friend in the trenches. So lunches, dinners, excursions—if I have to be there then so do you.”
“I have no problem with that. Your cousins were very
friendly
.”
“You make a move and so help me—”
It was fun watching her get riled up all over again.
“Relax. I'm not going to do anything . . . much.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Let's talk about my birthday instead, shall we? I'm thinking we go all out. Diamonds. Emeralds. Sapphires. What's the going rate for a rock star's fake girlfriend?”
I hoped she was kidding.
“Yeah, that's not happening.” I started walking her toward the door. “You need to get the rest of your stuff before we try to make you look, uh—”
She glowered at me. “Care to finish that thought?”
Not particularly. My life would be so much easier with Tim's ability to charm people.
“Better. More . . . polished. I'll even pick up some . . . girl products for you. While you grab your suitcase.”
God, I would much rather face Tim's and Chris's punishment for screwing up their holiday plans, than spend my time shopping for Holly. But if I didn't buy the junk, I doubted Holly would. When it comes to making sure everything gets done, it's often best to handle it yourself.
She did a classic double take. “You're going to
what?
”
“I'll grab mascara and . . . stuff.”
Damn, that was painful to say.
“
You
plan on buying
me
mascara?”
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Did you bring any with you?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Okay, then. I'll do it.”
Hell.
“Seriously?” She burst out laughing. “I'm sorry, you should see your face right now.”
“Look, just get your suitcase, all right?”
“Sure.” Her grin was out in full force again. “I wouldn't dream of keeping you from your shopping.”
And with that, she left.
Damn nuisance.
Chapter 17
Holly
 
H
e was buying makeup for me.
I probably shouldn't have laughed in his face, but judging by his disgust you'd think he had just volunteered to bathe with flesh-eating snails. America's favorite rock star drummer was about to buy me
girl stuff.
Hilarious, especially the way he scowled at the thought.
It was also really cute.
Or it would have been if his motivation hadn't been strictly work-related. Given that his exes were all glamorous singers and actresses, he needed to convince people that I was pretty enough to meet his normal standards.
Nothing cute about buying someone makeup because she's too plain without cosmetics.
Still, he was right about one thing: I did need to move my stuff into the suite.
But when I slid the key card into the lock on Allison and Claire's door, the room looked completely different—and not because I'd been so seasick last night that I couldn't remember it properly. My stuff was sprawled everywhere: clothes strewn under the bed, on the desk, even crumpled in the bathroom. If I hadn't taken my sketchpad with me in my backpack it would probably have
LOSER
carved into the cover.
With relatives like mine, who needs enemies?
They had been thoughtful enough to leave a note on my cot, right on top of some of my underwear.
Hey, Annie,
You really shouldn't leave your crap lying around for people to trip over. And since you acted like such a bitch last night, we don't want you coming back. We've actually got social lives. Unlike you. Tell Grandpa anything about this and everyone will know about Santa's sluttiest little helper.
Merry Christmas, loser.
Okay, that was so not what I'd been expecting. Maybe I should have anticipated it. After all, Allison and Claire were probably lounging on the chairs by the pool, trying to come up with new ways to torture me while guys of all ages scoped them out.
Still, it would have been amazing to wheel away my suitcase with a casual parting remark like, “I'm staying with my rock star boyfriend. Enjoy the space, ladies.”
I bet Cinderella never had to deal with this before her happily ever after. No motion sickness in her pumpkin coach, and her prince probably sent servants to retrieve her belongings from her wicked stepfamily's house. Then again, she wasn't faking the whole thing in an attempt to become popular.
Still, was it too much to ask that I feel like a princess for a little while?
Apparently.
I scooped up handfuls of clothing and crammed it all back into my suitcase, feeling as crappy as Allison and Claire had probably intended. Everything about that note was designed to make me feel as unwanted and unlovable as possible. Mission accomplished.
Part of me wanted to do something to make them back off, but . . . they had the Santa photos. They weren't afraid to release them either. That threat had been terrifying when I thought the pics would make the rounds at my school, but now . . . it was so much worse. They could sell any of those shots to
People
magazine and turn me into a national laughingstock.
I had to be careful.
Not just of Allison and Claire, although they were the two people I had the most reason to fear, but anyone and everyone who had photos of me that weren't particularly flattering. Most of which were safe with Jen. Then again, maybe that wasn't such a good thing. Of course Jen would never
intentionally
humiliate me, but we don't always share the same idea of what constitutes embarrassing. Whenever she posts photos of us on Facebook I have to untag myself in at least half of them.
I definitely had to contact Jen. She was the one person I trusted to help me out, even though she would probably think of Nick as the sweetest, kindest, most gallant man on earth once she saw photos of us together. She would probably see me as Cinderella no matter what I told her to the contrary. But that's Jen: determined to see the good in everything and everyone.
That's partly why we work so well as friends: She encourages me to be daring while I double-check that she stays safe. Somehow it balances out. Well . . . usually. When it goes wrong, I end up slapping Santa and getting blackmailed by my cousins with the photographic proof.
Still, whether Dominic Wyatt liked it or not, I wasn't about to keep something of this magnitude from Jen. Or a secret of any size, for that matter.
Zipping up my suitcase, I decided it was about time that I refigured my plans. Since Nick was putting his best interests first, then I should be doing the same thing.
It didn't matter that Nick was probably hating every minute of shopping. We weren't friends—we were acquaintances who had been saddled with each other.
I couldn't lose sight of that little detail.
It was business.
This was my one shot to experience life as a Somebody, and I didn't want to miss out on anything because I had failed to brainstorm with Jen.
I started back to the suite, wheeling my suitcase behind me, and trying to gauge how much time I had before Nick would be back. Hard to know how seriously he took this makeup stuff. Most likely he would take it as seriously as he seemed to take everything else. Odd how I always noticed Nick's inability to relax and yet Jen constantly reminds me to loosen up and have fun.
Well, whatever. I should have enough time to Skype Jen without him ever finding out.
Who says an ordinary girl can't be devious?
I swiped his key card for entrance and considered the best way to go about, ahem,
borrowing
an expensive electronic device from Nick. One thing I didn't own was a laptop, which meant that if Nick had taken his iPad with him, I was screwed.
So much for my deviousness.
I wheeled my suitcase into a corner and began systematically searching the desk drawers in the hope that he had forgotten it there. No such luck. The iPad had left the building . . . or at least the suite. I eyed Nick's leather messenger bag suspiciously, feeling guilty even considering digging through it. Somehow logging into Skype didn't seem quite so intrusive if he'd left the necessary technology out in the open, more or less. But rummaging through his bag would undeniably be an invasion of privacy.
But talking to Jen would be worth it.
I hit pay dirt the instant I flipped back the leather flap and unzipped. A MacBook Pro. The guy clearly had a thing for Apple technology. Not that I blamed him, but, really? An iPad
and
a MacBook Pro? Because heaven forbid he was out of range for so much as a minute.
Then again, considering my willingness to paw through his belongings for Internet access, I was in no position to judge.
Especially since his controlling nature was now providing me with exactly what I wanted.
I logged into my email only to find thirty messages waiting in my inbox, fourteen of them from Jen. The subject lines said it all:
 
How's the cruise? I miss you! Good luck with your cousins!
Dominic Wyatt's new girlfriend looks EXACTLY like you. I mean it!
You're not secretly dating Dominic Wyatt, RIGHT?
Kidding.
OH MY GOD, YOU ARE DATING DOMINIC WYATT!
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?
People
magazine is saying you've been dating for TWO WEEKS!?
HOW could YOU keep this a secret from ME!?
You're not still mad about the Santa thing, are you? I'M SORRY, OKAY!
So I'm NOT your best friend, is that it? FINE BY ME!
Sorry. I take it back.
Email me already!
My inbox is still empty.
I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE DATING A ROCK STAR!
Oh, yeah, Jen had definitely seen the article.
I quickly logged onto Skype and called her. Every year, Jen loves to redecorate the Christmas tree by herself accompanied by loud carols blaring from her computer. Well, it used to be her mom's computer, but then Mrs. Lawley got a new one and it officially became Jen's. Still, with all this media excitement surrounding me there was no way she would be able to go more than fifteen minutes without checking to see if I had responded to one of her billion messages. I was afraid to check Facebook and see how many posts she had left for me there.
She answered on the second ring.
“Oh, my God! Okay, tell me everything! When did the two of you start dating? Was it love at first sight? He's so dreamy . . . I bet it was love at first sight. HOW COULD YOU KEEP THIS FROM ME?”
“It's complicated,” I muttered lamely.
“Complicated. COMPLICATED! What kind of an answer is that?”
“Look, we met on the cruise, but we don't want the media making a big deal out of how quickly we got together, so just . . . play along, okay?”
She let out a big breath. “Okay. So you weren't keeping this from me, then?”
“Of course not! You're the first and only person I'm going to tell. And this can't go any farther than us.”
She nodded. “I won't say a word!” Then her smile turned mushy and I knew her common sense had probably just melted. “So you met on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. Wow, that's just so
romantic!
So how did it happen? You saw each other from afar?”
“Uh, yeah, sort of.”
Well, he had spotted me staring at him in the dining room.
“And then what?”
“I . . . well, I—”
Jen clapped her hands together in excitement. “Yes?”
“I puked in his bathroom.”
It's amazing how quickly a smile can disappear from the face of a hopeless romantic.
“You did
what?
”
“It was an accident!” I said defensively.
“I should hope so!”
“It was just . . . one of those things.”
Jen stared at me as if her video wasn't working properly and I had suddenly spouted an extra head. “Oh, yeah, one of
those things.
Because people barf around
rock stars
all the time.”
“Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Jen.”
She ignored that entirely. “Okay, so he saw you in distress and chivalrously offered to help, right?” Jen sighed wistfully. “I guess that's romantic after all.”
“Well, first he mistook me for a zombie and nailed me right in the face with pepper spray.”
“Be serious, Holly! I want to know what actually happened!”
Apparently, the truth was too far-fetched for even my best friend to believe.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, he was very gallant. A regular knight in shining armor.”
It was the only answer she'd accept without protesting.
“That's what I thought,” Jen replied smugly. “I could tell that just by looking at him.”
“Tell what?”
“That he'd make a great boyfriend, of course! He's so easygoing. I think the only time he's ever been caught scowling at
anyone
was in that photo with you.”
Well, that made me feel
wonderful.
“I'm sure that had nothing to do with
you,
” Jen added quickly. “He probably just didn't appreciate the interruption.”
No, he definitely hadn't appreciated it. Primarily because it had forced him into a fake relationship with me.
“Uh huh,” I said, for lack of anything smarter. I couldn't confirm any of that nonsense, but I didn't want to correct her either.
“God, Dominic Wyatt.” She laughed. “
Dominic Wyatt is dating my best friend!
I never thought I'd say that.”
“Me neither.”
Jen brushed her long auburn bangs away from her eyes. “So . . . is he a relaxed kisser?”
“What does
that
mean?”
“You know,” she said, even though clearly
I didn't
. “Slow, smoldering kisses that are casual but really, really hot?”
“I'm confused,” I admitted. “Words are coming out of your mouth, but all I hear is the back jacket of a romance novel.”
“Is he a
good
kisser, then?”
I didn't want to answer that question. So I secretly hoped that her brothers might light something on fire, like they'd done last Christmas, and she would have to evacuate the building.

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