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“I stand corrected. You can drink beer. That’s a start.”
“I can do more than drink beer.” She leaned back in her chair and kicked off the heels she’d worn. “I wasn’t always like this, you know. The whole ice queen thing. That’s a persona I built. Armor, like you said.”
“What were you like before?”
“Different.” She shrugged and took another sip.
She wasn’t wrong about the armor. I could see it even now. Yes, the beer and the casual clothes diminished it, but it was still there. Breaking down those walls wasn’t going to happen in one night. But maybe I could put a few cracks in them.
“Alright,” I said. “New rule for our fake relationship. When we’re together, you have to actually try to enjoy yourself. No business talk. No strategizing. Just two people having a good time.”
“That seems counterproductive to the whole reason we’re doing this.”
“It’s not. People can tell when someone’s faking it. If you’re miserable every time we’re out together, that’s going to come through in the photos. But if you’re actually having fun?” I shrugged. “That’s the kind of thing that sells a story.”
She considered this, her brow furrowed. “Fine. I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
We sat eating the snack tray and drinking beer. It was not how I imagined the evening going.
“This is nice,” she said quietly. Almost like she was surprised by her own words.
“The view?”
“All of it.” She gestured with her beer. “The ocean. The quiet. Not having to be on all the time.”
“That’s what I like about this place. No one expects anything from me here. I can just exist.”
She turned to look at me, something curious in her expression. “Do you ever get tired of it? Being on all the time?”
“Sometimes. The courtroom stuff, that’s performance. It’s exhausting in a good way, like running a marathon. But the schmoozing, the networking, the constant need to be charming?” I shook my head. “That wears on you.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed. You make it look effortless.”
“Practice.” I took a sip of my beer. “Lots and lots of practice.”
“You grew up being the son of a Hollywood star.”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“I should Google you.”
“Why?” I asked with a laugh.
“I want to see your awkward years.”
“Who said I had awkward years?”
Another eyeroll. “Because you’re the one that has informed me repeatedly you’re human. And if you don’t have awkward years, I don’t want to fake date you.”
“I’m wounded. There are awkward years but I doubt you’ll find them on Google. Our parents were pretty good about shielding us from the media. Especially during the awkward years.”
“Smart,” she said. “I respect that.”
12
DARCY
