The Real Deal

I swallow. My throat is dry. Am I out of my league? “And I told you about the terrible day I was having before I walked into your bar.”

He nods thoughtfully, as though he’s remembering that exact moment. The one we’re crafting right now, in real time, live on the bridge. “The rude Uber driver who dropped you off. The way you just couldn’t catch a break or a cab. You asked if you had to show some leg to catch a cab in this town. Your hair was soaked from the rain.”

I run my hand down my curls. “So wet. I was like a dog caught in a downpour.”

Tom and Claire move farther away, standing on the other side of the bridge, hands probably in each other’s back pockets.

“You were the cutest poodle I’d ever seen. I wanted to take a towel and dry you off. Make sure you were never caught in the rain again. But all I could do was give you a vodka tonic on the house.”

I love vodka tonic. I wonder if Xavier told him. “It was the best drink I’d ever had.”

He wiggles an eyebrow. “It did crazy things to you that night.”

I think he’s doing crazy things to me now. My heart hammers, and my skin is hot, and I’m spinning a web with this stranger. A web of tales and stories and made-up moments that feel oddly true.

Tom clears his throat, and I see he’s now by my side, one big hand parked on my shoulder. “Okay, now that we’ve established you, too, can pretend you’ve met, maybe we should sit and chat.”

Theo laughs. “Just trying to get in character.” His tone is smoother, less raspy. His smile is broader, more innocent. “Did you like it, April? Would that work for you?”

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, and my voice is ridiculously breathy. Thank God, he’s only going to be a fake boyfriend. “You’re amazing. How are you not starring in movies?”

Claire jumps in. “We’re all shocked. Let’s go to the bench before you leap into his arms.”

“My friends worry about me,” I say, by way of explanation.

“That means they’re good friends, then.”

We walk to the bench on the other side of the bridge. I sit next to Theo, and Claire and Tom take spots by my side. Tom drapes an arm around Claire. He’s rarely not touching her. She slides her fingers down his denim-clad thigh. They’re such PDA’ers.

I rub my palms on my jeans and turn to my potential five-day beau. “So this is what you do as an actor? In between parts?”

“It’s sort of like acting class,” Theo explains. “A little live-action role-playing, so to speak. It’s how I keep my skills sharp. Others do it by talking to birds.”

I raise a brow in question.

“Earlier this week, I spotted a woman in the park, having a conversation with a pigeon. She was yelling at the bird. Telling the pigeon he’d let her down. I asked if she was okay, and she shot me a sharp stare and said, ‘I’m practicing for my improv.’”

“Do you think being a fake date at my family reunion will be more fun than yelling at pigeons?”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Seems to be that way already.”

“Making a living as an actor has to be tough,” Tom chimes in. He does well as a photographer, but he knows how hard it is for those in front of the camera, whether models or actors. “Kudos to you for figuring out a clever side gig.”

“Beats dog-food testing.” Theo’s tone is offhand, as if it’s not a big deal that he might have eaten dog food.

I flinch. “You were a dog-food tester?”

“Someone has to make sure the right mix of lamb, chicken, and potatoes is in those fancy organic foods.”

He can’t be serious. “You really tested dog food?”

He barks, sounding just like a, well, a dog. Arf, arf. “I did, actually. For a month. I paid off some of my college loans with the extra money. I didn’t swallow, though.”

“So it wasn’t true love?”

His smile spreads across his face. “No. And trust me, when people say something tastes like dog food, it does.”

“How the heck do you find a job like that?” Claire asks the question, but Theo looks at me when he answers with, “Same place April found me. Online.”

“What else have you done?”

“You mean like the nerdy coworker or the best friend’s brother you crushed on for years?” he asks, and those must be other personas in his repertoire. He reminds me of my favorite character on the cartoon American Dad!—the alien, Roger, who adopts the most insane personalities, from dangerous bounty hunters to drunk school principals.

“I mean the actual roles. Like TV or film or stage. Or is that rude to ask? I’m just curious more than anything,” I say, since I don’t have a problem asking questions. Some might say I talk too much, but I say screw them.

For a flicker of a second, Theo looks nervous. Then I realize he’s embarrassed. Crap. I don’t want to make him feel bad, but I suspect he hasn’t done much on camera or onstage. It’s insanely hard to land a gig as an actor, and roles are few and far between.

“I’ve done a few things,” he says. “The Badger. The Apartment. A couple others. Nothing huge. Mostly in Jersey.”

I nod several times, even though I wasn’t aware Jersey had a thriving scene for aspiring actors. “Ah, got it. So mostly stage and stuff?”

“Stage work. Student work. Hopefully, I’ll get a big break someday.”

Briefly, I meet Tom’s eyes. We know too well what it’s like to be an artist chasing a big break. Tom landed his. I snagged mine. Claire is an artist of sorts, too, and she’s moved up from working at a salon to operating her own booth at a popular one, complete with a loyal client list.

“You will,” I say to Theo, warmth in my tone. “It just takes time and persistence. And being in the right place at the right time.”

“That’s the truth, for sure,” he says, scratching his jaw.

I consider his stubble. Why is the unshaven look so sexy? Why does it make a man seem like a rogue? And why are roguish men hot? I don’t know the answers, but I like asking the questions as I stare at his handsome face, his square jaw, his full lips, and his utterly fantastic smile.

I picture him by my side at the barbecue, laughing while playing lawn Twister, killing it in the paper-airplane competition. My eyes drift to his hands. His fingers are long, and I bet he makes great paper airplanes with them.

I blink. “What do you usually charge?”

The question feels strange to ask. I know it’s necessary, but it’s a reminder that whatever chemistry we might have just concocted is fictional. This is a job. I’m the client and he’s the contractor. While I’m not rolling in endless piles of dough, I’ve had a good year, I’ve saved well and wisely, and I consider this an investment in my mental health. If I stay the course and avoid dating, I have a better chance at landing the Sporting World gig, and cementing my rep in the business. Besides, I actually love the honesty of this sort of transactional date. Everything is on the table. Terms are arranged up front. This sure beats having the wool pulled over my eyes by Landon, those three long months with him.

Theo is straightforward and businesslike when he answers. “I try to base it off the actors’ union rates for daywork,” he says, then gives me some figures. All very reasonable. All less than I imagine an escort would charge. More important, his fee is worth the price to me—it’ll save me from hurting my parents’ feelings by telling them I don’t want to come home to Wistful permanently. They love the town I grew up in, and I do, too. But not enough to live there again, and when you’re the one in the family who moves away, you’re the one they try to lure home.

I glance at Claire, wanting to be sure, and she nods, her way of saying the rate sounds good.

“That’ll be fine,” I say. “And you’re able to take the time off from the bar and the dog-food testing?”