Page 39 of Fourth Base with the Alpha

“Then you’d better check it out.”

As soon as she’s gone, I login, hiding behind my fingers as I scroll through the new chat topics. The first ten on the site are about me and Hunter. There are rumors that we’re already married, some that I’m knocked up and one that claims we are old lovers reunited. There’s also a long thread debating whether Hunter’s written a song about me with several fans declaring they’d buy it immediately.

When I scroll down further, I find footage of us kissing at the awards ceremony, of us dancing and of Hunter carrying me out of the theater. There are one or two bitchy comments, but most rave about how cute and in love we are.

I slump back into my chair feeling confused.

We do make a cute couple. Objectively I can see that. If I was ogling those pictures as a fan, I’d be wholeheartedly agreeing with everyone else. But it isn’t real, it’s all fake. Only, the way I’m looking at him in those photos, all entranced and captivated, makes me uneasy.

I’m an idiot. Everyone knows that fake-dating has one major risk. It isn’t your friends and family finding out; it’s not the truth being exposed leaving you looking like a fool. It isn’t everyone knowing that you lied.

No, it’s falling in love with the person you are fake-dating. And when the person you are fake-dating is Hunter Larsson, a rock god, that is a pathetically stupid.

My heart can’t take any more battering, I’m going to have to up my guard.

Which is easier said than done when he sends me another bouquet of flowers. This time to work, this time bright, colorful flowers that remind me strangely of the dress I wore on our last date.

I shouldn’t read anything into it. I asked him to buy me flowers. It’s in the Goddamn contract. He’s only fulfilling his end of the bargain.

Holding my breath so I don't set off my allergies, I remove the little card poking out of the flowers and carry them down to the reception.

“Heychica,” Frankie says, looking up from his typing. “Looking rosy cheeked today.”

“Am I?” I say, holding the back of my hand to my face.

“Must be all that sex.”

I plonk the flowers on the reception desk. “I thought some flowers might help brighten things up down here.”

Frankie examines the flowers, giving them a tentative sniff.

“Did something go wrong in romancelandia?”

“No, why?”

“I assume these are from themuchachoand if you’re gifting them to me–”

“I thought they’d look–”

“Then something has gone terribly wrong.”

“Nothing’s gone wrong. Everything’s fine.”

“Did he screw someone else, is that why he’s sending you flowers?” Frankie scowls at the flowers like he is hoping to scorch them with laser beams from his eyeballs.

“No!”

“Then why is he sending you flowers?”

“Just because.”

“Men don’t send flowers just because.”

“This one does.” I shrug.

“And yet you're giving them away …” Frankie ponders slowly.

“I have to get back to work,” I say scurrying into the elevator before Frankie can quiz me more.