Fake Marriage to a Movie Star

Eliza sat on her hands as she watched the analog clock tick toward ten p.m. She’d already logged into her laptop, just in case. It wouldn’t do to have her favorite time of day ruined by an internet outage or low battery.

The blue-framed message box sat there waiting for the man on the other side of her computer screen to connect. Sometimes he was a few minutes late, but he always apologized. She didn’t mind. Of course he wasn’t obsessively waiting by his own electronic device until the appointed time like a big fat loser with nothing else to do.

Quinoa is typing…

As the italicized message popped up indicating activity in the chat window, her pulse missed a few beats. Which was dumb. She’d talked to the man she knew as Quinoa almost every night for six months.

Quinoa: Hello, gorgeous.

That’s when her active imagination took over and started narrating in her head using a voice she’d assigned to him. Also dumb. They’d never spoken verbally, just via chat.

She didn’t have a clue what nationality he was, but she envisioned him being French for some reason. Probably because the name Quinoa had this exotic flair to it. It was basically a grainy type of wheat-ish meal or something (she’d looked it up and even tried to make it one time. No, thank you), but regardless, it was a cool name.

Curlgurl: hey you.

Her onscreen name had no flair. But then she’d never expected to be using it to chat with a man. Curlgurl was left over from her early twenties when she’d been on fire to open her own salon and she’d joined every online forum she could find where people talked about hair.

Quinoa: Did you buy yourself some flowers today?

When she’d asked him why he’d picked a name that no one could pronounce, he’d said because he lived in California—one of the rare times he broke the rules about personal details—and everyone there ate weird stuff, so his name made him fit in. Another time, he’d said it was because he was good for her, just like the food.

That part, she believed.

Curlgurl: I did. orchids. they’re sitting on my desk and they’re beautiful.

Quinoa: Send me a picture.

She snapped a quick photo, careful not to capture any personal details, per their very strict rules, and sent it via the chat app on her phone.

Quinoa: Purple. My favorite color. I wish I could have bought them for you.

But that would have required something far too identifying such as her name and address for the delivery. They knew almost nothing about each other that fell into the category of Real Life. They didn’t talk about their jobs (his rule), mundane things like how their dentist appointments went (her rule—because who wanted to talk about teeth cleaning with a virtual fantasy-man?) or anything that could potentially burst their online romance bubble.

Their rules wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, which was why she’d never told anyone about Quinoa. He was her little secretone that had become a ginormous secret.

She thought about him all the time.

They’d never exchanged pictures and yes, she was well aware that he could be a she and ninety years old or a nineteen-year-old prisoner at a state penitentiary. That’s why the rules were so important. The second she found out what he was like in real life, her fantasy fell apart.

That wasn’t happening.

Curlgurl: next time you can buy the flowers.

Curlgurl: tell me something good that happened today.

Quinoa: I saw the sunset over the ocean and the colors spread through the sky like a rainbow without the rain. I thought of you as I watched the sun bleed out into the water. Usually I’m indoors at sunset, but today I wasn’t. It was nice to take a few minutes to enjoy that life has its beautiful moments. I like that I can share that with you in some small way.

Curlgurl: maybe one day I’ll get to see the ocean with you.

She took a moment to savor the thought. That was pure fantasy too, because if he ever met her in real life, he’d immediately realize she wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired poetry. No man had ever talked about her and beautiful moments in the same breath, not the way he did.

Quinoa: You should see the ocean because you want to. It speaks to me and I believe it would say amazing things to you as well.

Curlgurl: I do want to. I want to travel and see interesting things. but it would be lonely by myself. who would tell me what color orange the sunset was if you weren’t there?

Quinoa: You have made me laugh. That is one of my favorite things about you.

She shut her eyes for a moment as she let herself imagine his laugh. And a thousand other things she knew couldn’t be completely made up. He spoke with this unusual cadence, which was part of the reason she imagined he was French. He referenced colors a lot, and she wasn’t sure, but she had this feeling he was an artist, and could perfectly picture the two of them standing near the Eiffel Tower, his paint-stained hands entwined with hers.

That made her shiver. Maybe he’d talk to her in flowery French phrases and beg to paint her, which of course she’d say yes to…

Curlgurl: what else did you do today?

Quinoa: Nothing of value. Until now.

Curlgurl: I bet you say that to all the girls you chat with.

Quinoa: Now I am frowning. I do not have time for frivolous chatter of other females. This is why I talk to you. You feed my soul. Tell me another of your dreams.

Curlgurl: to learn another language. maybe French.

Quinoa: Why French? It’s a difficult language.

And that was another reason she liked him. A lot of guys might make a smart aleck reply like maybe you should master English before you tackle French. It was painfully clear from her chat window history that Quinoa had more than a passing familiarity with grammar and punctuation, and she found it adorable that he typed so meticulously. She was always in such a hurry to get her thoughts out that she never bothered with basic rules. Like capitalization.

But she had a healthy respect for their rules and that’s why she didn’t tell him she’d mentioned French to feel him out. Sometimes he slipped and gave her glimpses into his real life. She was counting his comment about the difficulty of her language of choice as a win—because how would he know French was difficult if he didn’t speak it?

Curlgurl: I have to learn French so I can order baguettes and cheese when I finally go to Paris.

Quinoa: You will absolutely get there one day. What will you do first?

This was a game they played a lot. She spun out her dream and he asked leading questions designed to get her rolling with it. He was the best listener. So she indulged herself by typing everything that came to her mind, the season, what the people looked like, the sights she’d only ever seen in pictures but could easily envision. Everything that was the essence of Paris, she spilled out via her fingers to the man who had inspired her to dream.

Before she’d started chatting with him, dreams didn’t actively register on her scale of importance. Owning a salon was her dream and she’d accomplished that. But was that all there was to life? Quinoa’s friendship had opened her mind to other possibilities. Other dreams. Why did she have to stop with one? Was cutting hair really all she was destined to do with her life?

And of course, eventually her dreams became wrapped in a Quinoa shaped package. Visiting Paris wouldn’t have floated to the top of her dream list if she hadn’t already decided he must be French. Yet another reason she had no interest in meeting him. If he wasn’t a French artist, she’d be so disappointed.

The next time she glanced at the clock, it was nearing midnight. As much as she hated to call it a night, she had an early appointment for a very particular customer who did not like to be kept waiting.

Curlgurl: I have to go to sleep.

Quinoa: Will you fall asleep thinking of me?

Curlgurl: always.

But in reality, there wasn’t a lot of sleeping. It took her a long time to drift off because she spent so much time working on the mural in her head where she pieced together all the bits she knew about Quinoa. He was a romantic, incredibly deep individual whom she’d gotten lucky enough to meet. Not only that, but he also totally got her need to keep things virtual. They were on the same page about everything.

When her alarm went off, she blearily stumbled from bed, wishing she’d been kept awake by a far more real version of the man. What fun was it to have a man hangover when no man had actually been present? None. But it was her lot in life apparently to never get a real relationship, so she’d be happy with the one she had.

Morning was when her life got bleak and boring. She had to wait an entire day to talk to Quinoa again. His rule. They didn’t chat during the day because he had a demanding job, one that took a lot of his time and energy, and then subsequently sucked him dry creatively, or so she’d surmised from the cryptic comments he’d made occasionally.

Eliza locked the door of her condo and sped toward the elevator, willing the clock on her phone to stop rolling toward eight a.m. Fortunately, the elevator opened immediately and she didn’t even have to stop on any other floors, a rarity in a place like Vivo where everyone seemed to be on the move constantly.

With a longing glance at Java By Brydie, she skipped her usual caffeine ritual and kept going across the courtyard to the wooden door under the sign that said Relâcher. Her salon. Well, hers and Lilith’s, but Lilith ran the spa side. The salon was all Eliza’s.

She lost herself in the minutia of her world, mostly to forget that the man she’d connected with so deeply wouldn’t be waiting for her at home after work with a soft kiss and a long hug. That was the one thing she couldn’t quite convince herself was perfect—the lack of physical contact. But it wasn’t optional so…she’d have to deal with it.

The highlights appointment went off without a hitch, and then she had a cut, followed by a roots touch up and then another cut, all of which had blurred together by lunchtime. She loved doing hair, loved creating a new and better look for someone who had come to her for her artistry skills. It was a nice life. Just not the one she dreamed about.

Lilith bopped over to the salon side at noon, a cheerful smile on her face that was nearly as bright as the diamond on her left hand. “I haven’t had a break all morning. It’s fantastic.”

Nodding, Eliza wound up the cord on her clippers so she could store the device in the first drawer. “Thanks to you. Bride at First Sight put us on the map.”

When business had started flagging, Lilith had stepped up, agreeing to star in a reality show to drum up some publicity. She’d married a man on the show who was supposed to be a stranger, except he wasn’t exactly—she’d met Dane in high school. Dane had undergone a makeover so Lilith hadn’t recognized him. The big reveal played out on TV, beautifully, because that’s when she and Dane had realized they were in love with each other. And the stellar ratings had shot Relâcher into the big leagues.

All of which Eliza was incredibly grateful for. She was. It was just that sometimes she got a little sad that all of her friends were falling in love and living happily ever after while she was still alone.

The door opened, admitting Dallas-Ft. Worth’s premiere relationship expert, Carolina Kline. Shockingly, Carolina still hadn’t hired pageboys to trail along behind her while blowing trumpets to announce she’d arrived. One day, it would happen. The woman had flair, even while wearing orange sherbet colored Converse with her pink jeans.

Carolina immediately strolled over to Lilith and Eliza, acknowledging them with a two fingered salute. “Ladies. You ready for lunch, Mrs. McClarren?”

Lilith smirked. “Not Mrs. McClarren yet. Not for another three weeks. I’m dying.”

Rolling her eyes, Carolina turned to Eliza. “Shall I get you a barf bag?”

At least she still had one friend who wasn’t rolling around in the delight of couplehood. Carolina was happily single, as she told anyone who would listen, which was about ten million people who regularly tuned in to her YouTube advice show Ask Carolina.

“I think it’s lovely that Lilith and Dane are so happy,” Eliza said. Oh, look at that. She hadn’t even choked on it. “But if you want to hang out with someone who doesn’t have wedding fever, I’m free for lunch.”

“Sold.” Carolina wrinkled her nose. “Though it would be bad form to uninvite Lilith just because she’s been a Bridezilla lately. Wouldn’t it?”

“Hey,” Lilith protested with a cheeky grin. “It’s not my fault that the network wants to film the wedding and they tasked me with planning the whole thing in less than a month. At least I don’t have to find someone to do my hair at the last minute.”

No, and wasn’t that a relief? Nothing better than doing the hair of brides who would go on to wedded bliss when the best Eliza could do was a fantasy romance that didn’t even include visuals other than the ones she made up.

Which was fine. It was. This was why she resented daylight hours. Everything worked against her secret romance, unraveling the specialness of it. Quinoa was real even though she couldn’t touch him, and that was better than an in-person romance any day of the week.

Pasting a smile on her face, because she couldn’t stand it if her friends clued in on her uncharitable mood, Eliza hooked Lilith’s elbow. “Let’s all go to lunch. You can talk about your wedding until you’re blue in the face because it’s great that you’re marrying someone you love. Carolina is happy for you, too, even though she looks like a bug just flew in her mouth.”

She did actually, but then she made a face designed to get a laugh, which worked. That’s why she was a star. And why they’d been friends since second grade.

“You can talk about weddings,” Carolina said. “But I refuse to be happy about it. That wasn’t in the contract.”

Carolina was usually pretty anti-relationship but today she seemed extra negative. Eliza made a mental note to touch base with her later, since her mood usually spiraled downward for one of two reasons—stress, or one of her callers had mentioned Ask Carolina’s rival show, Two Buck Chuck, which was hosted by Carolina’s ex-husband. Her friend didn’t like the reminder of her own failed relationship, especially if it reflected badly on her advice.

Either way, Eliza could use a breather from the swirl of stuff in her head, and anything worked for her that would help tick off the hours until she could escape into her virtual romance with the perfect man.

Perfect as long as he stuck to the rules, of course.

Eliza and her two lunch companions headed through the heavy wooden door of Relâcher into the public courtyard that allowed patrons to easily access the other businesses lining the ground floor of Vivo. Relâcher occupied a primo spot on the west side, between the pizza place called Paulo’s and Java By Brydie, and as a plus, home was never more than a short elevator ride away.

“Butterfly Palace…?” Eliza trailed off since neither Carolina nor Lilith were paying a bit of attention to her. They were too busy craning their necks to see why a throng of people had congregated at the south end of the courtyard near the sole bench seat, which was completely hidden by bodies. “What’s going on over there?”

“Santa Claus has come to town early,” Carolina shot back sarcastically and shrugged. “I can’t see. Too many people in the way. Don’t they know I’m vertically challenged?”

“Please. You’re scarcely a half a head shorter than me,” Lilith scoffed, which wasn’t a fair barometer, since Eliza’s partner in crime wore heels round the clock. “Besides, I can’t see what’s going on either. One way to find out.”

Instead of heading toward Butterfly Palace, where they might have a shot at getting something to eat, the lunch party drifted toward the crowd, also known as the last place Eliza wanted to be. She didn’t mind crowds, but she did not enjoy chaos, and that mob of people had trouble written all over it.

Carolina and Lilith had latched onto the mystery though, food completely forgotten as the ladies elbowed their way straight into the middle of the crush, dragging Eliza along for the ride. How Lilith didn’t get a stiletto stuck in the grass was a mystery.

“Oh, my gosh,” Lilith stage whispered as her gaze lit on the dark-haired man wearing sunglasses who seemed to be the focus of the crowd’s attention. “That’s Joaquin Cortez. What’s he doing here?”

“Who’s Joaquin Cortez?” Eliza was fairly certain Lilith was about to tell her she needed to crawl out from under whatever rock she’d been living beneath and/or get out more.

Surely this man was a celebrity. He had that polish about him that said he couldn’t get dressed without the help of a stylist, a six-figure wardrobe, and four assistants. The arrogant tilt of his head raked across her last nerve too, as if he’d been on premises for less than five minutes but had already decided to look down his nose at the humble folks of Vivo.

“That’s only the hottest actor on the planet.” Carolina jerked her head at the man in question, who had just gone way down in Eliza’s estimation. And he’d already been pretty low. “If you like his brand of plotless thrillers, stuffed to the gills with improbable stunts. Oh, look, there’s Hugo.”

Carolina pointed at her new buddy, the owner of Vivo, who was adorably British, and the only person Eliza had ever met who hadn’t let the obscene amount of money in his bank account turn him into a jerk. Her friend waved Hugo over, clearly not worried about whether there was a certain protocol that should be followed when trying to get the attention of a billionaire.

Hugo didn’t seem too concerned about any perceived breach and brightened as he caught sight of Carolina. He beelined it over to their little group, easily cutting through a knot of cameramen who seemed to be utterly failing at creating a clear perimeter to set up their expensive equipment.

“Isn’t it brilliant?” he said in his cute accent that made Eliza feel like she was watching a delightful new episode of something or other on BBC. “Joaquin’s production company agreed to film some scenes for their movie here. The publicity will be smashing.”

“Lilith already did that,” Eliza reminded him with a flat-lipped smile. “And it was smashing. She increased the revenue of Relâcher by like double toward the end of Bride at First Sight’s season.”

“Makes my little show look like amateur hour,” Lilith murmured, but she didn’t seem upset about it. “We can always use more publicity.”

Sure, but that wasn’t the point, and gee, was that all Eliza got for her loyalty? See if she opened her mouth again.

“All of these people are part of the production company?” Carolina asked, her mouth hanging open slightly. “Put me in the amateur hour camp alongside Lilith, then. I have a production company of one.”

“Because you don’t need a bunch of people’s help to be glorious,” Eliza insisted, because that one was worth opening her mouth for again. “Unlike some others I could mention.”

Inexplicably, Mr. Movie Star’s head swiveled in her direction, as if he’d heard her over the commotion. With two fingers, he levered up his sunglasses, setting them on his perfectly-coiffed dark hair and that’s when his gaze locked on hers.

A strange sense of awareness blanketed her instantly. It practically coated her skin, winnowing through her pores to wake up all of her nerve endings, and she’d like to chalk it up to the sheer beauty of his face—which was arresting—but it was more than that. It was as if he’d crawled inside her to take up residence with nothing more than a glance.

The long exchange should feel creepier than it did.

She shivered and blinked, glancing away with more difficulty than she’d like. He was pretty. So what? He was also clearly arrogant, staring at a woman he’d never met like that, as if he knew secrets about her that even she herself had not yet learned.

Then he threw a very large, very solid monkey wrench into the works by waltzing over to their little group, completely cutting off the beleaguered assistant-type who’d been speaking to him. Rude. The list of his sins was growing by leaps and bounds.

“Hugo, introduce me to your friends,” he instructed in a perfume-commercial voice, soaked in sensuality with a side of wicked. “After all, I’m going to be around for a while.”

Eliza narrowed her gaze. If that was true, then she might be making herself scarce.

And then he winked at her. Winked. At her.

Hugo introduced Carolina first. Mr. Movie Star shook her hand with a pleasant smile, and did the same when Hugo indicated Lilith, almost as if he’d learned how to behave in civilized company in the space of seconds.

All of that unraveled when he got to Eliza. His gaze slid over her as he lifted her hand into his, despite her not being quite sure she’d intended to offer it. Their palms nested together with shocking intimacy and she drowned in a sea of sensation that shouldn’t be so vivid given the fact they were in public.

She flushed. Desperately, she cast about for a way to stop the tide of too much Joaquin Cortez in her system, and then he said her name. Eliza. The same name she’d been using since birth, but from his lips, it sounded exotic and mysterious.

No wonder people paid him lots of money to be in their movies. Women probably fell all over themselves to buy tickets to his films, strictly to hear his voice in the dark.

Not her though. She yanked her hand from his—and finally, blessed relief from his stranglehold on her senses.

“Nice to meet you.” She hoped she wouldn’t be struck by lightning for the lie.

There was nothing nice about this man. That much was clear. And it had also become painfully obvious why she preferred the safe, slightly reverent feelings she had for her online love. Quinoa never made her feel like she needed to claw her skin off to have room to breathe.

Hugo was talking again. Mr. Movie Star’s gaze trailed back to Eliza openly as Hugo rambled on about how great it was to have the production company on site. The nerve. Watching her while someone else talked was almost as rude as walking away from the assistant-type a moment ago.

She almost opened her mouth to tell him off when she caught the tail end of what Hugo had been saying.

“…longtime friends so I hope I can count on you ladies to show Joaquin around.” Hugo beamed at Carolina and Lilith who were nodding with genuine smiles. “I have to fly to London unexpectedly, which is unfortunate timing to say the least.”

Great. Eliza nearly groaned. Hugo and Mr. Movie Star were friends. The production company’s presence here made a terrible sort of sense now. Vivo was an amazing place to live, and Eliza loved it, but it did not have the Hollywood flair that someone like Joaquin Cortez must be used to.

“You should come to lunch with us,” Lilith suggested brightly and somehow managed to step out of the way when Eliza elbowed her. “We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we?”

Carolina, who had just been added to the persona non-grata list alongside Lilith, nodded eagerly. “Sure. I’d be happy to help hold off the throngs of admirers that you’re bound to attract.”

Joaquin laughed which, of course, came out as richly as his voice. Did he practice that in the shower so he could deliver the exact right cadence to settle warmly in a woman’s insides?

“It’s a date,” he said and winked at Carolina.

So that was his thing. He went around charming every woman he came across.

Maybe she could plead a headache or something and escape this madness that had just befallen her.

But then Hugo slapped a nice layer of crazy on top of the entire encounter. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The production assistant mentioned that their stylist had been unfortunately delayed in Los Angeles. I recommended you as a fill in, Eliza. See Ramona when you get a chance if you’re available to help out.”

Hugo waved and took off. Joaquin’s eyebrows rose a fraction as he glanced down his nose at Eliza. “You’re the brilliant stylist Hugo mentioned?”

“What, do I not look like I can do hair?” Eliza shot back before she could check her ire.

But come on. Mr. Movie Star did not get to malign her skills just because half the world slavered over him.

“No offense intended,” Joaquin said. Smoothly. The way people do when that’s exactly what they’d intended but expected the phrase to act as their get-out-of-jail-free card. “I was picturing someone older with a few more years of experience.”

“I have plenty of experience, not to mention education,” she snapped as the implications dug into her stomach. He was saying she didn’t have the chops. “Not that I expected anything less from a Hollywood type, but here’s some news for you. Appearances don’t matter. It’s only what’s on the inside that counts. And you have yet to discover what amazing things I have to offer.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his too chiseled jaw. “Well played. You have the job.”

Eliza squeezed her eyes shut. What had she just done? Argued her way into a position that she shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole?

“And Eliza?” He speared her with a gaze that electrified her entire body in much the same way the dentist did when he hit a nerve with his pointy little metal poker. “There’s more to me than meets the eye as well. I have a feeling I’ll be reminding you of your adamant position on that soon. I have a couple of things to wrap up. Where should I meet you ladies for lunch?”

“Butterfly Palace.” Carolina pointed toward the entrance across the courtyard. “We’ll hold a table for you.”

And then she and Lilith dragged Eliza away from the showdown that should be happening right now and wasn’t because Joaquin Cortez had forgotten she existed. No less than three people leaped into his orbit, all clearly taking notes on his majesty’s wishes as he rattled them off.

The nerve.

“Did you just get a job on an actual movie set?” Lilith stage whispered, clearly enthralled with the idea, and if her partner had any sort of skill with hair instead of esthetics, Eliza would offer to switch places. The spotlight was not her favorite place.

“I don’t know, I guess.” It wasn’t like she could back down. If she didn’t show up, Mr. Movie Star would probably tell everyone she was scared or something. “It’s not my dream job or anything.”

It would give her a handy excuse to avoid spending so much time around Lilith, whom she loved, but sometimes it became painful to be reminded day in and day out of her friend’s impending wedding to the man of her dreams. She had a feeling the out was the only plus to working with Joaquin Cortez.

Maybe she could just ignore the whole thing and pretend it had never happened.

A pretty redhead bounced over and stuck out her hand. “I’m Ramona. You must be our new stylist.”