I blink. “Easier?”
“It keeps the attention off him. Keeps the women with diamond agendas at bay. Keeps his mother from matchmaking. You’d be surprised how convenient it is to have a fake date when you’re Spencer Devereaux.”
I stare at her.
“What about his wife and son?” I ask, my voice brittle. “Don’ttheymake things easier?”
She looks truly confused.
“Wife and son? I have no idea what that means. Spencer’s divorced—has been for over three years. And he’sneverhad kids.”
I feel the floor shift beneath me. My palms sweat.
“Where would you even get that idea?” She asks.
I can’t speak.
What would I say, anyway? I saw a photo on a website. A woman at a picnic. A child with a caterpillar. I’d built a whole story from a snapshot and silence.
My head is spinning. I’m confused. Embarrassed and furious at my stupidity. And terrified about what it means.
“How do I evenknowyou’re telling the truth?” I finally spit out.
She gives me a soft, knowing smile. “Look, I’m a professional actress. This weekend gig pays more than I’ll make all month. And besides—Spencer? He’s delightful. He’s funny, and kind, and?—”
“And what?” I interrupt, sharper than I mean to be. “Good in bed?”
She raises her eyebrows, amused.
“Rhea,” she says gently. “I don’t know what your story is, or how he hurt you. But I can tell you this—I’ve never seen that man look as distressed as he did today. And it happened twice. Both times were whenyouwere walking away from him.”
My throat tightens.
“And no, for the record, I havenoidea if he’s good in bed. He’s not my type.”
I stare at her, skeptical. “Really?”
She laughs.
“I’m happily married to a woman named Joanna. We have two little girls who are our whole world. But I love Spencer—in pretty much every other way. He’s a really good man, despite the unfortunate reality that he has too much money for his own good.”
She reaches down, grabs her suitcase handle.
“Look. You do you, honey. But I’m leaving. I’m not going to stand between a man I truly care about and the potential for—whatever is between you two.”
She glances down at her phone.
“My car is almost here.”
I stare at her as if she is an illusion. But then she leans in and wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a warm hug.
“Don’t worry—I still get paid for the whole weekend.”
And I try to laugh, but my tears are spilling over. I hug her back, as though we’ve known each other forever, and choke out, “Thank you.”
She nods and steps back, holding my shoulders square in front of her. “Take care of yourself.” And she’s gone.
Not married.
