Page 42 of My Real Love Affair

“You’re going to make me feel things, Melody. That’s dangerous.”

“Good thing we have rules, then.”

“Good thing,” I echoed, but I wasn’t entirely sure the rules were going to be enough.

Dessert arrived. It was some elaborate chocolate thing. Melody took one bite and made a sound that should’ve been illegal.

“Oh my god,” she moaned. “This is obscene.”

“Right? I told you everything here is good.”

“Good doesn’t cover it. This is—” She took another bite, closing her eyes. “This is a religious experience.”

I watched her savor each bite, completely un-self-conscious about her enjoyment. No pretense of eating like a bird to appear dainty. No apologizing for taking seconds. Just pure, genuine pleasure in something delicious.

It was refreshing as hell.

“What?” she asked, catching me staring.

“Nothing. I love that you really commit to things. Food, work, even fake relationships with strangers.”

“Is there any other way to do things?”

“Most people I know do everything halfway. They’re always holding back, keeping their options open, afraid to actually want something.”

“And you? Do you do things halfway?”

“I used to go all in. Then I got burned. Now?” I shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out where I land.”

“I get that. The pressure to be perfect all the time. To never show weakness or want or need. It’s exhausting.”

“It really is.” I realized we were connecting on something deeper than I’d expected. “People see the money, the parties and the lavish lifestyle. They don’t see the weight of it. The expectations.”

She nodded. “Yes, exactly. People see the confidence, the platform, the success. They don’t see the constant scrutiny. How every outfit, every photo, every word is analyzed and judged. How one mistake can undo years of work. And they don’t realize that the trolling comments are hurtful. I am still a human.”

“We’re both performing,” I said slowly. “Just different roles.”

“Yeah.” She met my eyes. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands that. Who gets what it’s like to always be watched.”

“Even if we’re about to make it worse by fake dating each other?”

“Especially then.” She smiled. “At least we’ll be in it together.”

“Let me take you home,” I said.

When she didn’t immediately answer, I shook my head. “I already know where you live and we’re supposed to be dating.”

“Fine. But don’t get weird.”

“Too late,” I said with a wink.

I signaled for the check, and we gathered our things. As we stood to leave, I noticed heads turning again. Phones coming out. The same whispers and stares from earlier.

But this time, Melody didn’t tense up. She took my offered arm with her chin high. We walked out of that restaurant like we owned the place.

Outside, cameras flashed. Actual paparazzi had shown up, tipped off by someone inside probably. I kept my arm around Melody’s waist, guiding her toward my car. She smiled but didn’t answer, playing it perfectly. Let them speculate. Let them wonder. That’s what we wanted.

I opened her door, waited for her to get in, then jogged around to the driver’s side. The cameras kept flashing until I pulled away from the curb.