I nod.
He takes my hand into his. “Let’s get this circus over with.”
Before we step onto the red carpet, an army of photographers shout Kaz’s name.
It’s past twilight, but it’s not dark yet. With the sun setting, the bright lights of a million flashes are blinding.
Kaz wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. This close, his masculine scent tickles my nostrils. I suspect there’s a high concentration of testosterone in his Eau de Pheromone.
I catalogue all the places my body touches his wall of muscles—the fabric of his linen suit scratching the skin of my bare shoulders, my side pressed against his, the heat from his hand burning through my skin.
A sensation that hasn’t made an appearance in forever tingles between my legs.
He positions us this way and that way. A Hollywood smile stretches my lips, but my fake boyfriend remains true to form. I suggested he makes an effort, but the only thing I got from him was a dubious stare.
What would it take for this grumpy giant to smile?
We move from one group of photographers to the other and even though a number of them have questions about Devlyn’s comments in front of the vegan restaurant, Kaz remains committed to the plan. If he doesn’t comment, no one can spin his words. Since he’s been labeled brooding, might as well run with it. He doesn’t have to be forthcoming, accommodating, or eager to over share.
“Kaz,” a reporter says. “Who’s your date?”
We turn his way so he can take photos.
“What’s your name?”
I turn up my smile by several notches in lieu of an answer.
“Which designer are you wearing, mystery woman?” another reporter says.
Kaz and I turn in her direction.
I blurt out the name of the designer.
“He designed that dress with you in mind.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Your date is stunning, Kaz,” a reporter wearing a ball cap backward says. “Easily the most attractive woman here tonight.”
I try to school my expression, but fail.
My eyes widen at the man’s words.
“Without seeing any of the other women here tonight, I’m willing to bet, you’re right.”
My eyes fly up to Kaz.
No, no, no.
You’re going off script.
Don’t take the bait.
Don’t answer the reporters’ questions. The easy-going questions are a trap for hard hitting ones.
“Kaz, are your date’s necklace and earrings borrowed?” That question came from a female reporter wearing a gray pantsuit, accompanied by a light blue shirt. “Or maybe a potential sponsorship deal?”
A woman wearing a short black dress with puffy sleeves lifts a hand up. “Did your date leave the matching bracelet to the necklace and earrings at home or is it hiding in her Manolo Blahnik clutch?”
