The woman looks thoroughly charmed by Laila, the same way everyone is when she turns on her mesmerizing charisma to full blast. “Okay, okay,” the woman says, holding up her palms. “You make an excellent point about your NDA. I guess, since you’re bound to secrecy, I could come over to tell you a few behind the scenes tidbits.”
Laila hoots and dances and whoops from the depths of her soul, and I know, deep in my bones, this producer is now putty in Laila’s pretty palm. And there she goes again, I think. Adding to her collection of insta-friends.
After a bit more chatter about the stupid dating show, we continue the tour. The producer opens a large, industrial-sized refrigerator, which makes Laila gasp at its neatly stocked shelves.
“As you can see,” the producer says proudly, “we’ve stocked the fridge with everything you both mentioned you like snacking on.” She looks at me. “And we got all the ingredients you requested to make tonight’s meal, too, Savage.”
“Tonight’s meal?” Laila gasps out, her blue eyes wide. “You’re cooking tonight?”
I wink. “I’m making you my grandmother’s cioppino. I figured I should replace your false memories of our first date with some real ones.”
Laila raises an eyebrow, perhaps understanding my ulterior motive here. When we talked about our fictitious first date, I told Laila our meal ended midway through with me eating her out and fucking her on her kitchen table. Surely, she knows that’s my plan for tonight.
“Oooh, make sure you two look at each other exactly like that in front of the cameras tomorrow,” the producer says. “That’s sexy, guys.”
We look away from each other, our faces flushed, and the tour continues. We head into a large living space with a glorious ocean view and a baby grand in a corner. Squealing happily, Laila makes herself at home behind the piano and plays the first few bars of one of her biggest hits. And, of course, as usual, her voice sends goosebumps skating across my skin.
When she stops playing, Laila leans forward and hugs the piano. “I love you,” she purrs, making the producer and me chuckle. She adds, “I’ve always wanted one of these. The sound is so full and rich.” She sits up and sighs happily. “I feel like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries.” She looks at me. “Have you seen that one?”
“No.”
“Then, put it on our list! We’ll watch it after Beauty and the Beast and the high school one you mentioned.”
“I’m not watching a movie called The Princess Diaries, Laila.”
“Oh, yes, you are, or else.” She throws back her head and strikes an ominous-sounding chord on the piano, like she’s the Phantom of the Opera on the warpath, and I can’t help laughing at her goofiness.
“Your threats don’t scare me, Fitzy,” I tease. But I’m smiling like a fool.
“Well, you should be scared of me, Adrian. I’m a dangerous woman.” She strikes another ominous chord, this time even more passionately. And this time, I not only chuckle. I belly laugh from the depths of my soul.
“Oh my gosh,” the producer says. “Be sure to do this whole bit during a behind the scenes video at some point. This is pure gold.”
I bristle. Is that what she thinks Laila and I are doing here—a bit? Because I’m certainly not. I don’t think I’m even capable of laughing like that for pretend.
The tour continues upstairs. We see a home gym, an office we won’t be using, and several bedrooms, before winding up in a large master.
“You can take this one,” Laila says. “I’ll take one of the other bedrooms down the hall.”
My heart sinks. I know Laila requested separate bedrooms at Reed’s house last night, but we’ve been getting along so well, I was kind of hoping she’d want to sleep with me during our three-month stay here. “No, you can have the master,” I reply, not knowing what else to say. “I’m pretty easygoing when it comes to where I lay my head.”
“No, no,” Laila says. “You’re the big kahuna here. I’m just the opener, remember?” She smiles broadly, without a hint of malice, letting me know her comment wasn’t meant as a barb. But, rather, as self-deprecation. Clearly, Laila means to extend an olive branch for the tension we experienced during the tour, rather than starting yet another fight.
“No, no, we’re equal partners this time,” I insist. “Fifty-fifty. Honestly, I don’t mind having one of the smaller rooms. I grew up sleeping in a closet, literally. And as a teen, I slept on a couch. For me, any room with an actual bed and a door feels like a palace.”
Laila’s face contorts with sympathy—which wasn’t at all what I was going for. She says, “All the more reason for you to take this room. It’s settled.”
I shift my weight and say awkwardly, “Okay. Thanks.”
The producer smiles broadly. “You guys are too cute. Why don’t we shoot your first live video now, so I can hold the camera? We’ll restart the tour, and Laila can react excitedly to the house.”
“Great idea!” Laila says. She looks at me, her eyebrows raised. And it suddenly becomes clear I need to embrace this bullshit and give it my all, or I’m going to make Laila nothing but miserable for the next three months. Clearly, today is a thrilling day for her. Why drag her down by making her feel like she’s dragging me along, kicking and screaming?
“Sounds good,” I say, and Laila flashes me a smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
With the camera recording, we go back to the foyer and give our required speech about why we’re living here. We redo our entrance to the kitchen, and then to the master bedroom we’re supposedly going to share. We head into a small room we haven’t already seen, and Laila is thrilled to find the producers have brought in a pottery wheel for her, much like the one she has at her own place. And, finally, we head outside and tour the large swimming pool, fire feature, and hot tub.
“Oh, man, I know that gleam in my boyfriend’s eyes,” Laila says suggestively when we reach the hot tub. “That’s my cue to say goodbye for now, guys. We’ll say hello again tomorrow when we get on-set for our first day of shooting. Until then . . . ” She blows a kiss to the camera and slides her arm around my waist. “Say goodbye to the nice people, babe!”
I bristle. I’ve dreamed of Laila calling me babe for a very long time. But not like this. “Goodbye to the nice people, babe,” I deadpan, making Laila laugh. Or, rather, making her fake laugh.
Finally, the producer lowers her camera and whoops happily. “Brilliant, guys. Perfect.”
Laila removes her arm from my waist and exhales like she’s just finished a workout. “What time will the car come for us in the morning, Rhoda?”
“Nine.”
“Perfect.”
We accompany the producer to the front door and say our goodbyes to her. And, suddenly, Laila and I are standing alone, in the foyer of our fake love nest—the house we’re going to share for the next three months.
“So . . . are you hungry?” I ask.
“I could eat.”
“Let’s change into some comfortable clothes and meet in the kitchen in five.”
“Cool.” We start walking toward the staircase together, but Laila stops when her phone buzzes. “Oh, crap,” she says, looking down. “My mom and sister saw our live video and demand I call them.” She snickers. “As predicted, they’re freaking out about the house.”