Page 22 of Lights, Camera, Love

I run my sweaty palm along the velvet couch in the lobby of the city skyscraper that houses Village Pictures’ executive offices, waiting for my agent to burst through the revolving door and save me.

Martina is coming to hold my hand through the scary meeting I’m about to endure with the senior producers of Moving .

Just after seven this morning, I woke to Mum lightly shaking my shoulder. My eyelids were still glued shut when she shoved her phone in my face.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked as I blinked hard to wake myself up, pushing onto my elbows and peering at the news website. Instantly, I was wide awake.

At the very top of the homepage was a photo of Austin and me on the sand, lip-locked and clawing at each other, our limbs tangled up in a lustful bow. The accompanying headline read: ‘Austin Reynolds and His New Co-Star Turn Up the Heat at the Beach!’

‘You’re dating an actor ?’ Mum asked. Her tone made me wonder if she got the word ‘actor’ confused with ‘mafia hit-man’.

‘Not exactly,’ I replied, unable to prise my gaze off the virtually pornographic image gallery on the screen.

I’d thrown my whole body into that kiss so it would look authentic, and I guess it paid off with dividends.

Kye had been clear that Austin and I had to sell it this time, so that’s what I did.

Turns out, I’m a more convincing actor than I thought.

Truthfully, I felt nothing good when Austin had pulled me on top of him on the beach, damp clumps of sand chafing my knees as he’d darted his tongue in and out of my mouth like a lizard. It actually made the back of my throat convulse with a little gag.

So much for getting my name in the papers and falling in love with my childhood crush in one swing. I can’t seem to drum up an ounce of genuine interest in Austin. My teenage self would be outraged.

But at least Kye’s plan had worked. A smile edged my mouth as I read the article, which was mostly about Moving and how audiences could expect sizzling on-screen chemistry between Austin and me.

Honestly, if I’d been anyone else reading this piece, I’d have been lining up for a ticket to see that film myself.

Six hours later, though, I’m waiting at the Village Pictures corporate headquarters with bitten-down fingernails because Austin and I have been called in for a high-priority meeting with the head honchos to talk about the press coverage.

Panic struck me immediately when they rang: we hadn’t informed them about the pretend relationship yet because Kye wanted to get a head-start before they got involved.

When I called Martina and asked if she thought I was about to be fired, she laughed and explained that the PR and marketing executives probably just want to find out what’s going on and figure out a media strategy moving forward.

I peek through the lobby’s glass walls at the traffic-riddled street, a whirr of office workers rushing in all directions, clutching shopping bags and wrapped sandwiches. It’s no surprise that Austin is late, but where is Martina?

Beyond the lobby’s reception desk, the lift doors glide open and a handful of chattering people spill out. I pin them as studio heads, judging by their sharply tailored suits, except for the last man to step out, who’s wearing a casual polo-neck shirt, and—

My gut hits the carpet.

What the …

My father, one of the most instantly recognisable people on the planet, is walking towards me , across the lobby, like a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life.

What the fuck?

I can’t locate my lungs. Am I breathing?

One of the suited women is speaking to Gabriel, and as they pace past me, his blue-eyed gaze slides to the right and smashes into mine.

The world comes to a grinding halt.

One beat of direct eye contact, and he’s looking away again.

Gabriel doesn’t break his stride; he quickly passes through the revolving door and slips inside a waiting car, a black SUV with tinted windows. I gape through the glass as the shiny vehicle pulls out and merges into the traffic, my throat so full that I can’t swallow.

He saw me.

My father stared directly into my eyes, and he walked right past me . He ignored me. Either that, or he doesn’t even know what I look like—wouldn’t that make for a fun fact.

My brow crushes up in sync with my knotted stomach, and I jump to my feet and stride up to the Aboriginal painting decorating the far wall, the one that isn’t made of glass. Hiding my face, I press my shaky fingers to the inner corners of my eyes.

Don’t you cry, Evie.

Don’t you cry for him.

The artwork I’m looking at begins to waver, and the swirling patterns of dots morph into a single, molten mass of earthy colour.

‘Evie?’

I glance over my shoulder. Kye stands blinking at me, jarringly handsome in a tailored white shirt, black tie and grey pants.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks, stepping towards me with a slight frown. Austin comes up beside him, looking shabby and annoyed in his half-tucked-in shirt and faded jeans.

‘You all right, sweetie?’ Martina, who has suddenly materialised as well, adds. What were the chances of them all showing up at this exact moment? She brushes past Austin and Kye to gently clasp my shoulder.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say brightly. I blink hard a few times and force out a smile.

Don’t you cry.

‘Should we go up?’ I choke out.

‘Heck, yes,’ Austin grumbles. ‘Let’s get this over with. Fuckin’ drama queens, summoning us in on our day off like kings of the rainforest.’

‘ Jungle ,’ Kye corrects, and his frustrated eyes skim back to mine.

I stare straight ahead as we walk towards the lifts, willing my eyes to stay dry.

Don’t you dare cry.

The universe decides to throw me a bone.

The meeting goes better than I could have hoped, and I don’t have to say much other than confirming, with Austin, that our relationship is a publicity stunt, and apologising for not informing Village Pictures sooner.

Kye and Martina do most of the talking, reassuring the executives that our only intention was to generate buzz for Moving , which remains our number-one priority, and that we will maintain the ruse until after the film’s release.

Martina and I grab the chance to share a coffee and a pastry at the French bistro next door, and I spend the rest of the afternoon locked inside a dark movie theatre with one of my friends from dance college.

A mindless modern-day screwball comedy and an extra-large tub of salty popcorn are exactly what I need to unchain my mind from what happened in the lobby.

Gabriel Dean totally ignored me.

I don’t know what to say to Mum about it all, so I choose the shameful option of avoiding her. Instead of going home, I catch the bus to DanceLab directly from the movie theatre, deciding I can just teach tonight’s class in my leggings, slouchy cable-knit jumper and ballet flats.

After I demonstrate the first half of the showcase routine—a fast-paced sequence to ‘Not Like Us’ by Kendrick Lamar—to my adorably panicked regulars, the class wraps up, and I sneak into Rafael’s studio, where his salsa class is still in progress.

Austin and I are scheduled to have our first practice session tonight for our partnered showcase performance.

Slipping onto the bench at the back of the room, I change into a pair of glittery salsa heels, lent to me by Rafa, while scanning the whirl of dancing couples.

My lips pop open.

Over near the industrial-style window, Kye is dancing with a middle-aged woman, who has her hair wrapped up in a brightly coloured headscarf. His hand supports her lower back as he smoothly guides her into a cross-body lead.

I sit back and stare at him, my brows in the air. So this is why he hasn’t been in my class lately? He’s switched teams from hip-hop to salsa?

Kye raises the woman’s hand and leads her into a perfectly executed double turn, his eyes snagging on mine when they come to a stop. He glances away and then back at me, a soft smile hovering over his mouth. Warm honey leaches into my stomach.

The song ends, Rafa thanks everyone for coming, and the students begin to disperse.

Kye brushes a hand down his jaw as he wanders over to me. He’s dressed completely differently for salsa than he does for hip-hop, and my gaze burns a trail over his gunmetal-grey T-shirt, distressed blue jeans and worn leather ankle boots. He looks too good.

‘Hey,’ I say, my cheeks warming as I get up to face him.

‘Hey.’

A single word repeated, yet it feels like we just had an entire conversation.

It’s good to see you .

You, too.

‘Are you sticking around for the practice?’ I ask as he plays with the messed-up tendrils of his hair. Say yes.

‘Of course. I’m running it.’

My chin jerks back. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Rafael asked if I could teach Austin the routine. I think he must’ve found the old YouTube clip of Austin dancing in his first film and figured out how excruciatingly painful it’s going to be.’

A laugh escapes me. The celebrity in question appears in the doorway, looking like he just left the beach in pink pineapple boardies and a scruffy singlet top. Rafael dashes over to greet Austin and pins his arm up against the door like James Dean on a fifties film set as they chat. Down, boy.

I set my gaze back on Kye. ‘How do you even know how to dance salsa anyway, let alone teach the steps?’

He smirks, his long-lashed eyes cutting away. ‘I have many unsung talents, Evie.’

‘Yeah?’ I can’t fight my blush. ‘Like what?’ Having the perfect voice for a phone-sex hotline?

‘Making people want to know more about me,’ he replies without missing a beat. ‘How am I doing?’

I chuckle. ‘Well, I have a talent that you might be interested in knowing more about,’ I tease, speaking under my breath. My goodness, where did this burst of bravery come from? Kye can be so shut off that, when he starts to play with me a little, I can’t help but want to play back.

His pupils darken; his eyes flick over my face. ‘Yeah? What talent is that?’