Caroline squeezes my shoulder. “I told them you’re a devotee. And it’s good to show how great the makeup looks on someone of a different gen.”
I scoff. “I’m eight years younger. That’s not a generation.”
“In wrinkles it is, my gorgeous little sister,” Caroline says, practically ebullient for her, then grabs Parker’s hand, leading him off with a “Let’s say hi to some of the bridesmaids.”
He smiles dotingly as he replies, “Whatever you want.”
He’severything she wants—someone who happily lets her take charge.
With them gone, Fallon shoos Lake out of the shot. “Just the MOH,” she says, as if uttering the words maid of honortakes too much work. Then, something must catch her eye across the gardens. “The MIL’s lipliner!”
She sprints to triage Parker’s mom’s makeup.
The photographer smiles my way. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, love.”
Lake deals him a dark look that does something dangerous to my insides, then steps out of view of the camera. But he stays close as the British shutterbug lifts his lens to capture me. “Now, love. If you can just give me a nice pout, yeah?”
Is that really on the shot list—a pout from the MOH? But Caroline wants everything to go smoothly, so I don’t protest. Instead I get creative and say, “This is my best pout.”
Then Idon’tgive him my sexiest expression. Fresh Face can have mild vamp only.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He keeps clicking. When he’s done, he says, “Thanks again. You’re fun to shoot.”
It’s said with a gaze that lingers a little too long on my chest. An uncomfortable feeling slithers through me, but I’ve handled moments like this before. I can do it again, by maintaining my professional distance.
“You’re welcome,” I say, my tone distant and clipped, and right as I’m about to march off—since you should always march off from leery men—Lake materializes at my side, setting a strong hand on my arm. “Fallon said she wants FP now.”
I furrow my brow. “Full wedding party?”
“Yup.”
“Why not FWP?”
“I have no idea.” He smirks like he’s in on this too—the silliness of shortening everything.
“They’ll certainly need me, then,” the photographer says. I guess we can’t quite shake Mr. Leery.
Lake turns to the photographer, shifting to full game face—all stony and don’t mess with me. “Yes, they will.” And when Lake returns his gaze to me, his blue eyes flash with warmth, maybe even heat, as he says, “I’ll walk with you, beautiful.”
Oh.
I just acquired a pet name. One that sounds possessive and private rolling off his tongue. Lake ups the ante once more, dropping a quick but firm kiss to my cheek. My skin buzzes, whether from thebeautifulor the kiss, I don’t know. Probably both. I smile up at him.
“The moment called for it,” he says.
Is it wrong if I hope the moment calls for a kiss again? “Good thing you listened to the moment.”
“I always do.” The man is seriously delivering on the fake boyfriend role. Like above and beyond.
We make our way to the picnic table, leaving the photographer in our wake. Lake keeps his hand on the small of my back, like we outlined at Costco, but somehow it feels like bending the rules of fake dating. Maybe because it’s delicious and tingly, and I want so much more of it.
But you can’t have it. Or him. That’s not what this is. This is fake.
Reality is seriously irritating.
As we near the party, Lake brushes my hair out of the way and says, “If it’s FWP, then fucknozzle will be here.”
I wince. “I know.”
