Page 11 of Double Standard

“Ready!” she calls as she crosses the threshold, transformed from cute and casual to downright stunning in fitted jeans, black heels, and a silk blouse that hugs her waist. I’d have to fight my gaze from lingering there if it wasn’t already trained on her mouth, which is painted bombshell red. Her hair falls in waves, framing her face, and she tucks a strand behind her ear. If I wasn’t sure before, it’s now clear that Ana Barlow is completely out of my league, even as my fake date. That she’d voluntarily spend time with me is one hell of a story to sell, but lucky for us, the public seems to be buying it. I need to make sureI’mstill buying it: The way my pulse kicks up as she approaches the car doesn’t feel fake.

Edwin hops out of the driver’s seat to open the back door, and I slide across the cool leather to make room. “That was fast.”

“Fast and easy is what I’m known for.” She laughs, but it’s joyless.

I grab her hand, ducking my head to find her eyes. “New rule,” I say as the car pulls out of the driveway. “No self-deprecating. We’ve got twenty-five minutes—maybe more—and the deal is we only say nice things about ourselves. OK?”

She taps a finger against her lips and narrows her eyes. “Last I checked, I was the one making the rules.”

I shrug. “Then we’ll stick to the negative stuff. If that’swhat you want.” She tries to interject, but I keep going. “I’ll start: I left for this job without saying goodbye to my family. Without telling my dad—who expected me to help with calving season—and I think I should feel guilty about it, but I don’t.”

“That’swhat you’re going to lead with? Not something easy like, ‘I’m a terrible person because sometimes I leave the gym without wiping down the bench’?”

“One, I always wipe down the bench. I’m not a monster. Two, you shared something vulnerable with me on our gym date. Figured I could return the favor.”

She nods slowly, her eyes tracing my face like she’s trying to read whether she can trust my intentions. Her wariness reads like armor, and I’m sure it’s necessary after years of working with people who act for a living. I wish she knew she doesn’t need to do that with me.

“Well, go ahead, then,” she replies. “Tell me about your family baggage and how you ended up here.”

Somehow, in this odd arrangement we have, sharing my mess feels like a win when she’s the one listening. “You know the story—small farming town, three sisters, blue-collar parents.”

“Ahh, yes, Mr.Americana. That’s what they’re calling you, you know.” Her smile creates a pull in my chest, just under my collarbone. I absentmindedly rub a hand there to soothe it.

“Is that so? I guess I’ll take it, though I wouldn’t say my upbringing was quite that perfect.”

She raises an eyebrow in question. I lean in her direction, bring my hand to her leg, and rest my palm on her thigh before continuing. It’s for Edwin’s sake, I figure. For when he catches a glimpse of us together in the rearview mirror.

“I was the kid who was always climbing on things, jumping off stuff, injuring myself by being reckless... and there is a ton of opportunity for recklessness in the country. My mom and dad put me in karate when I was seven to burn off some energy. And by ‘karate,’ I mean a big-city guy married the daughter of a local farmer and taught a few of us how to fight in a converted shed out back.” I grin, thinking of Don and the group of scrappy boys he tried to rein in.

“My parents must’ve assumed I’d grow out of it,” I say, “this propensity to throw myself around. But instead, I pushed harder. I set up an obstacle course in our backyard. I racked up broken bones and sprains, while they racked up medical bills. They were completely exhausted by me, I’m sure.”

“And they didn’t want you to do this professionally, I’m guessing, even though you clearly have a talent for it?”

“No. They had a whole life laid out for me: Marry my college sweetheart, apprentice under my dad, take care of the house, and inherit the business one day. The true Americana experience.” Even joking about it has dread creeping into my chest. “And it’s not just that I didn’t doany of that, though I know it hurts them. It’s also that they worry about me. The whole reason I have a job is because stunts are too dangerous for actors to do. They think if I really love them, I would choose something safer. I wonder, if they really love me, why they can’t be more supportive.”

Ana slides herself closer, shifting into the middle seat and resting her hand on top of mine on her thigh. The warmth of her fingers pressing into my skin radiates straight to my groin, and I take a deep breath. “If I can establish myself, secure this next contract Francesca’s offering, part of me thinks they’ll finally get it. Maybe they’ll realize I wasn’t meant to be in Ohio forever.”

“Levi. I think you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Something in me cracks open at her words. The validation, encouragement. After years of fortifying against people’s disappointment, I respond the only way I know how: with humor. “A simple country boy who has no right to be with a woman who looks this good?”

“You know what, fine—I endorse your rule: No self-deprecation.”

Our cast is going room-to-room at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital, greeting kids who could not be more excited to meet the stars of the newest Battle of the Gods movie. Thepitch was that we’d bring some light to a heavy place by doing these visits, but the concept is fundamentally wrong. I am certainly getting more out of this than they are.

I can’t assume the same for Colt, who looks like he’d rather be doing anything other than holding Francesca’s hand and making small talk with the kids and their parents. He catches my eye and gives me an upward nod, that universal, unspoken sign between guys that says,Solidarity, man. I offer a weak smile in return. Meanwhile, Francesca seems as enamored by Ana as I am tonight, watching her command every space we step into, and giving her a different sort of nod—one of respect and approval.

“Ready for this one?” As Ana approaches the next door, she threads her fingers through mine, and her thumb traces circles on my skin. Holding hands feels natural now, comfortable in front of strangers and our coworkers. It’s a relief to have her confident presence by my side. And whether it’s an act or not, it feels like she likes me here too.

I grip her palm a bit tighter as we enter a room with “Goldie” spelled out in a collage on the door. The space has been transformed from sterile into something else entirely. It’s covered with pictures, flowers, and balloons that bat around as the fan blows, bumping against each other and me as I watch Ana approach the bed.

She pulls a chair up to the side that has the rail dropped and introduces herself. “Hey, friend! I’m Ana. OK, youhaveto tell me about these braids. Did you do themyourself?” Goldie, who looks to be about twelve, lights up like a firework, an explosion of energy in the room that sparks the smiles of everyone else—her parents, her younger sister, the nurse monitoring her vitals. Within minutes, Ana has turned in her chair, and Goldie’s hands are in her hair, weaving the strands together.

Seeing Ana like this pushes my heart into my throat. Here she is, managing her own medical issues, connecting with patients like she’s their favorite older sister. Soft and warm—that’s who Ana is here. She’s dynamic. She reallyseespeople, and they come alive under her attention. She’s not hard and cold, like the public treats her. If only they could see her like this. And yet, I have a feeling that she wouldn’t actually want that. That this side of her is reserved for those who deserve it. Based on her encouragement in the car, I’m starting to think I might be one of them.

The thought makes it hard to swallow, and I don’t know what to do with that.

Ana flips a braid behind her shoulder and knocks me out of my thoughts. “Any last-minute requests, Goldie? Want us to sign anything before we go see your neighbor?”