Except nothing about this is simple.
I take a breath. Feel my shoulders roll back—automatic, years of training. The mask slides into place like a second skin I hate but can’t take off.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. Smooth. Easy. Candy Kane, reporting for duty. “Always happy to meet fans.”
Liar.
The girl beams. Looks at Chloe. “Is this your girlfriend? Can she be in it too?”
And here’s where I make the decision that’s going to haunt me.
Here’s where I choose performance over truth.
Here’s where I become exactly what Chloe’s going to think I am.
I don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Just react—the same instinct that made me chase down that purse thief in Barcelona, the same protective reflex that got me into this mess in the first place.
“Yeah,” I say. “She is.”
Chloe makes a sound. Like a gasp, or maybe she’s taking a breath before she bolts.
So I slide my arm around her back—gentle, not possessive, just there—and she doesn’t pull away.
All right, she’s not exactly leaning in either. But it’s something.
“Smile,” I murmur. Not for the photo. For her. Apologizing without apologizing, because I don’t have time to explain and I don’t know how to anyway.
This is why I ran in Barcelona. The photographer, taking our picture après kiss. And, as it turned out, during said kiss. Admittedly, I panicked.
But now, I’m in the game and smiling with that signature Candy Kane smile, because that’s what I do.
The fan is grinning, phone up. “You guys are SO cute together! Okay, ready?”
I pull Chloe a little closer—it feels too good, feels too much like Barcelona, feels like everything I’ve been missing—and she’s looking up at me with wide eyes and that expression, that trust she had six months ago before I destroyed it, and I hate myself a little more.
No flash. Just the soft click of a phone camera that’s going to blow up my life in about thirty seconds.
“Thank you SO much!” The fan is already looking at her screen, probably already posting. “You two are perfect!”
Perfect.
In my wildest dreams.
“We need to go,” I say, hand still on Chloe’s back, already steering her toward the door. My voice has dropped back to normal—clipped, urgent, real Brody instead of Candy. “Now.”
Chloe’s moving on autopilot, still too shocked to argue.
The air hits like a slap. Single digits, clear sky, that Minnesota cold that makes your lungs hurt. Our breath comes out in clouds between us.
I get her around the corner, away from the windows, away from witnesses. My Mustang is parked down the block, black against the dirty snow.
Finally, some privacy.
Except now I have to explain, and I don’t know where to start.
Chloe pulls away from my touch. Steps back. She’s breathing hard—cold air, shock, anger starting to break through the surface.
“What—” She stops. Starts again. Her voice is sharp, cutting. “What the…what was that? Did you just tell a stranger I’m your girlfriend?”
