Page 40 of Faking the Pass

Pretty Woman

R osie

The third day after our deep sea excursion, I was finally feeling normal again.

The medicine Presley had gotten for me was a miracle in tablet form. I’d slept like the dead the past two nights, deep, peaceful sleep with no dreams I could remember.

Today I felt ready to get back to my life—or what passed for normal life these days.

Getting out of bed, I walked—steadily thank God—into the kitchen, still wearing Presley’s oversized t-shirt.

He looked up from whatever he was chopping. “Good morning.”

His tone was friendly. And he was smiling .

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” I said cautiously. “Much better. Completely normal actually.”

“Awesome. You look great.”

What was going on?

Had he suddenly gotten over his anger and decided to drop the whole bitter standoff over his truncated sex life? I should have gotten seasick sooner.

Or maybe he had gotten a secret girlfriend and had been spending time with her while I’d been lying around like a beached whale.

That would certainly explain why he was so cheery.

Pain twisted through my belly and it had zero to do with seasickness.

“I thought we’d go shopping today, if you’re up for it,” Presley suggested, making me do a double take.

“You actually want to go shopping?” I asked. “Are you even a man?”

He raised a brow. “I’d be happy to spend today proving my manhood to you, but as that is not in our contract , I’ll have to settle for shopping. I think they should see me buy you something pretty.”

They. The celebrity stalker press. Something inside me shut down, feeling shameful.

“You don’t need to spend any more money on me, Presley. You’ve done far too much already. I know we haven’t made any ‘appearances’ for the past few days, but we could just go for a walk on the beach or something.”

“We’ve already done plenty of that,” he said. “And while I enjoy it, they’re going to get bored if we don’t give them something new and ‘romantic’ to write about. We’ve got to convince them we’re a real couple. You liked that shop where you got your wedding dress, right? Saltwater Style?”

“Yes, but it’s so expensive. I don’t—”

He cut me off. “It’s perfect. If we were married for real, I’d be buying you all kinds of expensive things.”

“Our contract says ‘no gifts,’” I protested.

“It’s not a gift,” he said. “It’s a business expense. You need clothes for our public appearances—they’re props. And this point isn’t open to negotiation… unless you’d rather have sex out on the deck today? I’d be fine with that alternative.”

“Pres,” I scolded, but I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Those are my options? Public sex or shopping?”

“Take your pick,” he said.

In one quick move, he pulled off his shirt, revealing that splendid chest and those lickable abs.

When he started unbuttoning his pants, I blurted, “Fine. We’ll go shopping. Just let me shower and get dressed, and we can go.”

Leaving the house as quickly as possible suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

Downtown Eastport Bay was even more charming than it had been when I’d left here for California fifteen years ago.

There were some new shops and restaurants, but the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks, historic buildings, and Colonial-era plaque homes were still the same.

Expertly designed window boxes and standing planters overflowed with colorful blooms outside the posh boutiques and art galleries and upscale hotels that lined Main Street.

In the spaces between the buildings, the deep blue of the harbor was visible, decorated with white yachts and sailboats.

When we parked at Brady’s Wharf, the quaint shopping and entertainment center where Saltwater Style resided, I noticed a new bookstore that I wanted to check out.

It had a cute name—Bonnie’s Bonny Books. I also spotted Nooky’s Diner, my very favorite place to eat when I was growing up.

The retro railcar diner had been in business since the 1950’s. Based on the number of cars in the parking lot, it continued to draw a large daily crowd of tourists and locals alike.

Though it served all kinds of food twenty-four hours a day, I’d always been most interested in Nooky’s famous fresh-baked pies—no less than ten varieties each day.

My mom had started taking me to Nooky’s as soon as I was old enough to eat solid food, but it hadn’t been until I was a teenager that I’d understood the cheeky double meaning of its slogan, “Come and Get It All Night Long.”

As Presley and I walked hand in hand toward the clothing shop, several paparazzi kept pace with us, snapping pictures. One was using a phone to capture video.

“Where have you been the past few days?” that one called out.

“Are you fighting?” Another asked. “Is the honeymoon over already?”

Presley answered. “Not even close.”

Then he pulled me against him with an arm around my waist and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

“You guys may want to go grab some lunch,” he said as he opened the door of Saltwater Style for me. “We’ll be a while in here.”

Once inside, he turned and locked the door.

“Can you do that?” I asked, surprised.

“You can if you’ve arranged with the owner to shut down the store for a few hours. Here she comes.”

A beautifully dressed woman approached us from the back of the store, arms out in greeting. Her makeup and hair were perfect—she was the one who should have been followed around by a pack of cameras.

She was middle-aged and looked like she might have worn a pageant crown at one point in her life—or modeled. She still could have, in fact.

Her warm smile and soft voice were the only things keeping her from being intimidating.

“Welcome back, Rosie.” She extended a hand to Presley. “Hi, I’m Chelle. And you must be the lucky groom.”

“That I am.”

He shook her hand. “Thank you for arranging a private shopping window for us.”

She beamed, her gaze moving between us. “It’s my pleasure. So what are we looking for today?”

“I’m not really sure. Nothing really,” I said before Presley interrupted.

“Anything and everything,” he said. “Ever seen the movie Pretty Woman?”

Chelle nodded, her eyes growing larger.

“We’re going to make that shopping scene look like a dash into a convenience store. No budget, no upper limit. Whatever she wants.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Lowe.”

My head whipped around to face him, and I reached out to touch his arm. “Presley, no. This isn’t… why are you doing this?”

Chelle tucked her hand into the curve of my elbow and drew me toward the first clothing rack.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Rosie. You’re going to have so much fun. How about starting with a glass of wine while you browse?”

I selected several items to try on, and Chelle brought me a ton more once I was in the dressing room. There were no price tags on anything, but I could tell from the fit and the sheen of the fabrics, these were high end items and probably ridiculously expensive.

Eastport Bay drew a lot of yachters from around the world, especially during the Summer and Fall. Thanks to the incredible Atlantic views, numerous beaches, and low-humidity climate, quite a few celebrities and business titans kept homes here as well.

I was sure the millionaires and billionaires appreciated designer labels and exclusive boutiques and probably wouldn’t look at the price tags even if there had been any.

But I was just an almost-and-maybe-never debut film actress. I’d never in my life had extra money to spend on clothes. I certainly didn’t now—not with the lawsuit pending.

And I didn’t want Presley wasting any more money on this hoax.

“How are we doing in there?” Chelle asked through the slatted door. “Need any different sizes?”

“No, I’m finished. Just putting my own clothes back on.”

I emerged from the dressing room with a single item in hand—a silky midnight blue dress I couldn’t bear to leave behind. It had felt like wearing a cloud and fit like it was made for me.

Besides, assuming Randy didn’t withdraw our movie from distribution, I’d need something to wear to the red-carpet premiere I was contractually obligated to attend, along with several other mandatory events.

Really, it was kind of a business expense—and I fully intended to pay Presley back for it.

He was standing by the counter, which was covered in garment bags. His wallet was out.

Glancing over his shoulder at me, he said, “That one, too,” and handed the woman behind the register his card.

“What do you mean, ‘that one too ?’” I asked, rushing over to him. “I only picked out this one thing.”

“Chelle said you liked these others,” he said, “And that they fit and looked great on you.”

In shock, I blinked. Blinked again. “You bought everything I tried on?”

Next to the garment bags were several handled shopping bags containing shoe boxes. Chelle had insisted I try on shoes to match every outfit so I could make an “informed decision” about the total look.

It appeared Presley had bought every pair. But why?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I said to him. “It’s unnecessary. And it’s too much.”

He grinned at Chelle as she handed him back his credit card along with the receipt.

“Nothing’s too much for my wife.”

“I completely agree, Mr. Lowe,” the shop owner said.

Of course she agreed. He’d probably just paid her rent for the next six months. How would I ever be able to pay him back for all of this?

Despite my protests, Presley gathered up the bags and asked me to carry the two he couldn’t manage. When we left the shop, the press members outside were exuberant, firing jovial questions.

“Doing a little shopping huh?” one of them asked, and the rest laughed.

“Is there anything left in the store?” another one joked.

I was embarrassed, but Presley handled them with aplomb.

“A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things. And I have the most beautiful wife in the world, wouldn’t you agree?”

Just as it did every damn time I heard him utter the word “wife,” my belly swooped then soared.

I got into the car in a daze, not quite sure what was happening.

Over the next week, Presley gave me occasion to wear some of my new wardrobe, planning dates at romantic restaurants.

One night he took me to a concert by candlelight where a string quartet performed the music of Queen, but in a classical instrumental style.

He was acting different at home, too, parading around nearly naked after his workouts. After showering, he’d come out of his room wearing only a towel around his waist to grab a drink or snack from the refrigerator.

I wasn’t sure what had changed, but he seemed to be taking every opportunity to remind me exactly what I was missing out on.

If there was a secret girlfriend in the picture, I wasn’t sure when Presley was spending time with her because he came home every day right after practice and spent every evening with me.

If I were his real wife, I’d have been thrilled. Under the circumstances, it felt like a special kind of torture.

Because all these fake dates were starting to have a real effect.

And I was starting to truly dread the day when it all came to its inevitable end.