“What about the press conference?” Tiff is surprisingly calm for the bomb I just dropped on them like a controlled blast.
“He defended me. A reporter said something inappropriate, and he shut it down. On camera.”
They both inhale like I set off fireworks.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. PR moved fast. Cooper said fake dating is the plan, and I agreed. It was that or… it was that.”
“You didn’t just say ‘PR moved fast’ like you weren’t the one who wrote the plan,” Maria says. “It wasn’t just a plan. You wrote your own emotional funeral.”
“It’s containment. A controlled story beats a runaway one.”
“You don’t sound contained,” Tiff snaps.
“Don’t make this a heart conversation,” I say too quickly. “Please.”
Maria exhales sharply. “Too late. You’re talking about him like you’re reading a press release, not like you kissed him.”
“I am keeping this professional.”
“Professional?” Tiff questions. “You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself out of wanting him.”
“There are no feelings. There’s a story that needs controlling and a team that needs protecting. That’s it.”
“You don’t have to sell us on the press release, babe. We already believe the spin.” Maria’s voice softens a notch.
“It’s just—sometimes you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, not us,” Tiff says quietly.
I press my thumb against the corner of the counter, staring at the lines on it until they stop wavering. “Saturday is the first date. We are meeting at a coffee shop near the arena. We roll out the soft part of the story there. I have a schedule and approved photo moments and a line about ‘shared values’ that tested well in other markets. It will be fine.”
“Tested well where? Narnia?”
“You wrote a line about shared values,” Tiff repeats, like she isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I hear myself perfectly. It is a campaign. I know how to run a campaign.”
The silence that follows is heavy enough to make me babble.
“It’s just PR. It’s not like—” I stop, words tangling, then tumbling out anyway. “It’s not like he gives me clitterflies or anything.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say clitterflies?” Maria chokes.
Tiff’sdelighted laughter breaks through first. “Oh, shedid.I heard it. Clear as day.”
“I did not,” I protest, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s not—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“Oh, you meant it,” Maria says with vicious delight. “You meant it with your whole chest.”
“Never say that word again,” I mutter, pressing my palms to my face.
“Say it again,” Tiff says, practically wheezing.
“Clitterflies!” Maria crows. “God, I love when your repression breaks.”
I groan into my hands, my laugh strangled somewhere between mortification and surrender. “I hate both of you.”
“You love us,” Maria says, still giggling. “And we love you, which is why we’re going to stop joking for a second and ask if you are okay.”
A pause opens like a trapdoor. The truth stands just under it, ready to grab my ankle if I step wrong. I force a laugh that sounds too bright, too thin.
