Page 15 of Guarding the Star

Paula doesn't answer. She just looks out the window.

***

The event is at a big hotel in Orlando. Very fancy. Marble floors. Chandeliers. A couple of waiters circling with trays of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

Alexandra Drummond makes a beeline for us the second we walk in, like she wants to make sure Paula's doing a good job pretending to be my girlfriend.

We work the room. I'm good at this. It comes natural. Everyone asks the same questions. How did we meet? How long have we been together? Everyone says we make a great couple.

A reporter asks for a photo of the two of us.

I put my arm around her waist.

I've done it a million times with a hundred different people. With Zoe, Jade, Tina, every player on the team. With fans. It's automatic. Mechanical. Social.

What is not automatic is what happens when I touch Paula Delgado's waist.

I rest my hand on her hip and feel muscle underneath, tense, firm. Her hand moves to the small of my back. Open. Fingers spread. Warm through the thin fabric of my top.

I smile for the camera, but I am shaking.

The reporter leaves. Paula pulls her hand away.

The warmth stays.

“See?” I ask, mostly because I need to break the silence. “Piece of cake.”

“Yeah. Piece of cake,” she repeats.

We spend the next two hours doing what we're supposed to do. We smile. We lean into each other when cameras are around. We talk to the sponsors and the press.

Every now and then, she moves close to give me an instruction. And when she does, her breath brushes my earlobe. And when that happens, my brain stops working.

It's starting to be a problem.

At ten thirty, we leave the event and get into the car waiting to take us back to the hotel.

“Hey, we're not half bad at this faking thing, huh?” I whisper in her ear, so the driver won't hear.

“It worked because you're convincing when you want to be.”

Silence. Streetlights. A red light.

“You didn't think it was believable?” I press. “Tonight. All of it.”

Another pause. Long. The car turns left.

“Too believable,” she says without looking away from the window.

I don't ask what she means. I don't crack a joke. I don't fill the silence.

I stay quiet.

***

At quarter past eleven, someone knocks on my door.

Zoe walks in with Wesley in her arms. Dinosaur pajamas, eyes half shut with sleep, face smooshed against his mom's shoulder.