Page 102

“Good morning,” he says, pulling me into his arms for a hug.

I hesitate for a moment, but then I realize we have to keep up appearances in front of Winona.

I lean into Marcus and wrap my arms around him. He’s warm and he smells like that expensive cologne of his with hints of coffee.

He lets me go. “Did you sleep okay?”

So we’re playing the role of concerned boyfriend? Alright.

“Yes,” I say. “The hotel was really nice. You?”

“Yeah. I slept well.”

Winona and I met Marcus for dinner last night, since that’s what a real boyfriend and girlfriend would do in our situation. We went out for barbecue and then separated to go to our respective hotels. He’s already staying at the hotel the rest of the team will be in when they arrive tonight. We’re at another hotel closer to the studio.

“Want some coffee?” he offers. “Winona?”

“I already had a cup on the way over,” I tell him.

“Better stick to one cup,” Winona suggests. Then, looking at Marcus as if he’d care, she tells him, “She had a case of nerves on the way here.”

“You’re nervous?” he asks.

And he really should get an Academy Award for his performance so far this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, in the category of Best Imitation of a Fake Boyfriend Who Really Cares, the winner is Marcus Delaney!

That thought elicits an odd twinge in my chest and I’m instantly catapulted back to the seatrain—his soothing voice, the strength of his arms around me. The memories are like well-worn paths by now, I’ve rehashed them so often trying to make sense of how the man who so gently cared for me could be the same man who hogs the limelight and bosses people around like he’s God’s right-hand man.

I can’t deny that Marcus has a caring streak to him. It’s like how skunks have that white stripe down their backs. Doesn’t mean they can’t stink up a room on a moment’s notice. Only Marcus doesn’t stink. In fact, I’m tempted to lean into him one more time just to get a hit of that cologne. It wouldn’t be the same straight out of the bottle. It’s him. I like how he smells when he’s wearing it. And I hate that I like it.

A middle-aged man with grey hair, a close-cropped beard and dark-rimmed glasses pops his head into the green room. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Doug Randall, the producer of Good Day Nashville.”

“Hey,” Marcus says, stepping forward. “I’m Marcus Delaney. This is my girlfriend, Cass. And this is Cass’s sister, Winona.”

“I know who you two are, especially you, Marcus,” Doug says. “Nice to meet you, Winona.” Doug doesn’t even pause to hear Winona’s response. “We’ll be live during your segment. The focus will be on how you two met and the love you share for philanthropy.

“We’re bringing our viewership what they want—a chance to feel like they are behind the scenes with you—especially that they are getting an exclusive peek at you as a couple. Expect questions about each other, about your life as a couple, and about the charity. Keep your eyes on the hosts and each other, but feel free to look at the camera whenever that feels natural.” He glances between us. “Any questions?”

Marcus glances at me. Then he spontaneously steps closer and puts his hand behind my back.

I shake my head. “No. I think we’re fine.”

“Doug, there you are,” a woman says, poking her head into the greenroom. “Marcie’s looking for you.”

“On my way,” Doug says. He turns to us and says, “I’ll see you two out there.” Then he leaves as quickly as he came in.

“I’m Gwen,” the woman says, passing Doug and coming into the room.

She approaches me and checks my hair, whips out a container of loose powder and a brush, and starts brushing my face. Then she turns and powders Marcus’s face too.

“The lights pick up any shine,” she explains. “Don’t want to have you out there looking like a human halogen lamp when you’re so pretty in person.”

She’s looking at Marcus when she says this. And he is pretty. He’s so gorgeous, he’s actually pretty—like a painting in some Italian museum, one you look at once and then can’t stop staring at even though the museum is full of other beautiful things.

The way Gwen looks at Marcus makes me step a little closer.

“Thanks for taking care of us,” I say to her, placing my hand on Marcus’s shoulder.

It’s a ridiculous move, I know. He’s not mine to lay claim to, but if he were, I’d do whatever it took to let every woman in the metropolitan Nashville area know he was taken. So, I am doing just that—for the sake of selling our fake relationship.