Page 58 of Devotion
My brain went into emergency mode. Red alerts. Sirens. Every internal system screaming at once.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked.
“What do you think new couples in love do, my dearest wife?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Smile, wife. A new wife shouldn’t be frowning at her husband.”
“I’m not frowning. This is my face.”
“Your face looks like it’s planning my funeral.”
“It might be.”
He was close. Too close. His cologne was doing that thing again where it made my thoughts scatter. And his thumb on my jaw was warm, his blue eyes were locked on my face, and my heart was beating so fast I was fairly certain he could feel it through my skin.
“I know your acting skills are terrible,” he said, “but try to put in some effort.”
“Who says my acting is terrible?”
“The parking garage video. You were shouting and drawing unnecessary attention.”
“That was genuine emotion, not acting.”
“Exactly. So this time, act.”
He kissed me.
His lips were warm and firm. And the kiss was supposed to be quick. A press of mouths for the camera. A performance. A checked box on Trisha’s damage control list.
But my brain emptied like someone had tipped it upside down and shaken it. I forgot the photographer. I forgot the gallery. I forgot the contract and the damage control strategy and the fact that I was standing on a sidewalk in Miami kissing a man who had destroyed my restaurant on purpose.
I kissed him back.
A throat cleared behind us. Trisha. Standing ten feet away, tablet in hand, eyebrows approximately six inches higher than their normal position.
We separated. Fast. Like two people who had been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do.
I smoothed my dress and straightened my spine. My lips were tingling, my face was hot, and my heart was doing something that I was going to address later, in private, possibly with a cold shower.
“My acting isn’t too bad, is it?” I said.
Christopher looked at me. His expression was controlled. Perfect composure. But his breathing was faster than it should have been and there was color on his neck, right above his collar, that hadn’t been there before.
“Not bad at all,” he said. His voice was steady, or at least close to it.
Our eyes held. Two seconds. Three. The photographer’s camera clicked. The sound broke the spell and we both looked away at the same time, like we’d been caught staring at the sun.
He placed his hand on my back, guided me inside and whispered, “That should make the front page.”
I walked into the gallery on legs that didn’t feel entirely connected to my body. My lips were still tingling. My heart was still doing the thing. And the voice in my head, the one that had been saying fake, fake, fake for two weeks, had gone very, very quiet.
I told myself it meant nothing.
It was for the cameras.
The kiss. His hand on my neck. All of it.
