Page 42 of Faking the Pass

Just Go With It

R osie

Presley got out of the car first, turning back to offer his hand and help me exit the limousine gracefully in the voluminous dress.

For a second there before things got crazy, he was all I could see, and I was possessed by the fervent wish that it was just the two of us—him in those pornographic breeches, and me in something far more comfortable than this wearable work of art.

And then I was on my feet, and Pres moved to the side, and there was utter chaos surrounding us on the red carpet.

The crowd was enormous. People called my name from every direction, but Presley kept one arm around my back and held another out like a blocker, keeping me from being jostled.

I covered his hand on my waist and squeezed it, and he squeezed me back.

“Doing okay?” he asked, dipping his mouth to my ear.

“Yeah, you?”

“I’d rather face the Eagles’ defensive line with no pads, but yeah. Piece of cake.”

I actually laughed, in spite of my nerves. Thank God I hadn’t come here alone.

The celebrity press was present in full force of course, and Randy’s attack dog of a publicist appeared from the throng of bodies, ready to escort me through the gauntlet of hot microphones.

“You showed,” she said, sounding a bit surly.

“I work for him, just like you do,” I said, and to my surprise, Maggie snickered.

“Touche. Let’s get this thing over with,” she said. “He is in a mood tonight.”

And then the interviews began.

Reporters were crowded along the edges of the red carpet on both sides, and Maggie picked the ones we’d talk to, guiding me to each of them and telling them they’d get two minutes.

Eventually we would make our way to the museum’s iconic wide central staircase, where I’d have to join Randy and we’d make a slow ascent, stopping every step or two and posing for photographs together.

I wasn’t looking forward to that part, but at least then I wouldn’t be expected to answer any questions.

“Rosie, you look stunning. Tell us about that incredible dress,” asked one of the anchors of an entertainment show I’d been watching for years.

That was an easy one. I gushed about the designer and his artistry and said the obligatory stuff about how happy I was to be there. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

Then the reporter gave me a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile, waggling her eyebrows.

“And tell us about this big hunk of royal footman who’s escorting you tonight. How’s married life?”

Suddenly I was at a loss. When the paparazzi had followed us and shouted questions these past few weeks, all I’d done was smile and wave. Here was someone directly asking me about my relationship with Presley, and I had no idea what to say.

I was a good actress but a terrible liar.

I looked up at my husband, and like the pro quarterback he was, he stepped in and started running the offense.

“Well, I don’t know about Rosie, but it’s been the best time of my life. I’m just so grateful fate arranged it for us to get to know each other again—and keep Rosie from marrying the wrong guy before I could get my shot.”

Wow. He’d gone there, like first thing. His answer seemed to please the reporter. She beamed at him.

“Such a romantic story,” she gushed. And then her eyes dropped to take in his costume—and lingered on the front of his indecently tight breeches.

“Tell us about what you’re wearing tonight, Presley. They must have made this custom for you—I can’t imagine it would be easy to find a footman’s outfit in your size .”

Her tone of voice and appreciative gaze made it clear she was talking about his generously highlighted male parts.

He gave her an innocent grin. “We’re both real grateful to Randy Ryland’s production company for providing them. I mean, look at my wife in that dress, would you?”

The interviewer obediently returned her focus to me for another few seconds before Maggie pulled us away and escorted us to the next waiting reporter.

Once again, when I got stuck, I turned to Presley, and he jumped in, chatting easily about our surprise marriage and how “amazing” I looked tonight.

He was charm personified, surprising even me with his quick wit and willingness to be game for all the inane questions about fashion.

After another half hour or so of this pattern, we reached the base of the stairs.

“You got this,” he said and pressed a kiss to my forehead before going to stand at the side with the photographers.

I posed for a dizzying session of solo photos, turning to show every angle of my dress before Randy spotted me and came to my side.

He grazed my cheeks with air kisses before settling a hand at my waist and putting on his signature cocky smile for the photographers.

With all the flashes, it was a bit hard to make out Presley’s face, but I did get a glimpse of it, and his expression didn’t look thrilled.

Randy and I took a few steps up the staircase, and I lost sight of Presley. Apparently my former flame had been waiting for exactly that before speaking to me.

“You look gorgeous,” he said between his teeth. “I hope you like the dress I had designed for you. It fits perfectly.”

“Lucky thing, that,” I said. “You haven’t seen me in a while. I could have gained fifteen pounds since then—or be pregnant by now.”

He chuckled, keeping his voice low and wearing a permagrin. “Everyone knows your marriage is fake. And I know what a prude you are. There’s no way you’d be putting out for that Neanderthal when you’re still in love with me.”

It took all my discipline to keep my jaw from dropping in shock and giving the onlookers some very interesting pictures.

Did Randy really think I’d been pining away for him all this time?

I was sorely tempted to go jump into Presley’s arms and lick his face just to prove a point, but of course I didn’t. Instead I turned and smiled for the cameras lining the other side of the staircase.

“That goes to show how much you know,” I said under my breath. “You did see him in that skin-tight-thirst-trap costume you sent for him, right?”

Randy whipped his head to face me and looked at me in shock. Not gonna lie… I felt pretty triumphant.

“There’s not a woman alive who’d turn that package down,” I said. “But I’m not sure why you’re even thinking about my sex life, when you must have your own hands full. Congratulations on the baby, by the way.”

My co-star pulled himself together, his famous smile returning as he lifted a hand and waved to the crowd.

“Thank you.”

After a minute he said, “If you really think you and the jock are the real deal, you’re even more of a dingbat than I thought you were. I watched the video of that so-called wedding. The man looked like he was being led to execution.”

My whole body went cold, as if I was on the sidelines of a game and someone had dumped a cooler full of ice over my head.

In the interest of self-preservation, I hadn’t watched the wedding video since we’d returned from the island.

Had it been obvious Presley was forced into this?

Maybe I’d only seen what I’d wanted to see since I was having such trouble resisting my attraction to him on our honeymoon and needed an excuse to sleep with him.

Randy put on a little pout of sympathy. “Oh wow. You did, didn’t you? Poor thing. You started to believe your own lie. I’ve always been astounded at your naivete.”

He went back to beaming at the crowd, pointing and winking at someone he recognized.

Struggling for breath beside him, I tried to keep my own smile in place. Suddenly looking around at the photographers and reporters felt different.

Were they all thinking the same thing Randy was?

Was I actually the blind fool I’d been fighting my whole life not to be?

Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the press gauntlet. At the top of the stairs following our final interview, during which Randy answered every question without even glancing at me, we parted without a word of goodbye.

The minute he stepped away from me, Presley appeared, taking my hand and pulling it to the crook of his bent arm.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” I lied. “Where’s the bar?”

Thankfully, no media was allowed inside the event itself, and even attendees’ phones were collected at the door of the ballroom. Instead we were all handed disposable box cameras to record memorable moments.

Randy, not wanting to stand anywhere near Presley’s vastly larger form, kept his distance for the rest of the evening.

Unfortunately, the damage had been done. I kept thinking of what he’d said about my naivete (and stupidity.) About Presley’s face on the wedding video, that everyone had seen his dread and reluctance.

Everyone but me.

And now here Pres was again, saving me from my mistakes, throwing himself on the sword for whatever reason.

“Hey, everything okay?” he asked. “You’re pretty quiet.”

“It’s this dress. I can barely breathe,” I joked.

“I’ll be happy to help you out of it,” he offered with a rascally grin. “I saw a few dark alcoves off the hallway back there.”

That got a chuckle out of me. “Thank you for your generous offer. We should hang around for a while, though, put on a good show for everyone before retreating for jammy time.”

For a long moment, Presley studied my face.

“You sure you’re okay? You didn’t talk much during the red carpet interviews. You kept looking at me like you wanted some help—hope I did the right thing by talking.”

I blinked in surprise.

“No, yeah. You were great. I appreciate you jumping in when I needed it,” I said.

“I just… well, I always feel so stupid at these kinds of things. Like I told you before that disastrous presser at Bellevue Manor, I avoid interviews as much as I can— especially live ones, because I’m always afraid of saying the wrong thing. ”

Presley engulfed my hand in his large, warm one. “I think you should do more interviews, let people see the real you. It could only help.”

I barked a laugh. “I completely disagree. Anyway, I’m just taking your advice and following my intuition. And it says to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.”