Page 6

Chapter 6

Andy

That was a close call, holy shit.

I almost had to tell her my real job, which would have gone one of three ways:

She wouldn’t have given a crap.

She would have pretended not to give a crap, but secretly, she would’ve immediately begun planning our wedding.

She would’ve started fangirling and making this weird.

No. It’s best that Harlow doesn’t know who I am.

Is she really this clueless, or does she actually not give a shit?

When I told her I was in between gigs, she didn’t seem fazed.

At all.

Which is so weird, considering she’s single. Why isn’t she flirting with me? Is she not interested?

Everyone is interested in me—let’s be honest.

Then again, most people on planet Earth recognize me.

Seems I stumbled upon the one person who doesn’t.

How is that possible?

Except now Harlow thinks I’m unemployed, which isn’t exactly a winning situation, although it is refreshing to be with someone who doesn’t know how much I’m financially worth or how famous my face is—even if we’re just spending a single day together.

Harlow plods along after me. “Can we please talk about that mustache now? The fact that you haven’t said anything about it has been driving me nuts.”

I laugh, grateful she’s changing the subject, and hoist our breakfast leftovers in their bag, striding toward Little Italy, our first stop of the day on this bus tour. I’ve never been to Little Italy, and now I’m craving a cannoli super bad. If we can find one dipped in pistachios, even better.

I just need one bite, and I’ll be happy.

“I thought it would be funny—don’t you think so?” I give the ’stache another wiggle. Or at least, I think it’s wiggling. I feel it on my face but can’t tell if I’m making it move or not.

“Well, yes.” She pauses, stopping on the sidewalk in front of me. “And now I kind of want one.”

She kind of wants one?

“You want a mustache?”

Harlow shrugs. “Sure, why not? It’s not fair that you get to have all the fun. I think I’d be cute with a mustache.”

I wouldn’t call this fun—at least, fun wasn’t my reason or intention when I found these online last night and had them delivered to the hotel. More like a necessity than anything; the hat and sunglasses only do so much disguising.

“My lady, you are in luck because I happen to have the pack of them with me.” I reach around for my back pocket, producing the sheet of furry felt mustaches. There are four left, and Harlow takes the packet, eyes running over her options.

“I’ll take this one.” Her nail scrapes at the English-style mustache—your stereotypical, run-of-the-mill ’stache where the ends are thin.

“You’re going to look like such a pervert with that one on.” I laugh, watching as she takes me by the shoulders and positions herself in front of me, using my sunglasses as a mirror.

“Hold still so I can see what I’m doing,” she says, bossy little thing.

Her head comes up only to my chin, and I stand looking down at her silently as she sticks the adhesive part to her upper lip, pressing it on so it sticks.

“There—what do you think?” Harlow moves her mouth around, testing it out.

“Definitely super pervy.”

“I’m female, I do not look pervy—you do. You could have chosen a normal mustache, but you went with that weird handlebar thing.”

She has her finger pointed at my face.

“I’m actually flattered you know the name of this.” I pretend to smooth down the whiskers as if they were real, pursing my lips at the same time. “Do you think anyone will recognize me?”

I’m testing her to gauge her reaction, and I’m surprised when Harlow rolls her eyes.

“Sure, you weirdo. Great camouflage—no one will know it’s you.”

Weirdo?

Has anyone ever called me that before?

No, because no one has the balls to say it, at least not to my face.

“Gee, thanks.”

We trudge along the street—it’s beginning to fill with people, tourists and pedestrians, everyone in a hurry or window-shopping or taking photographs. The colorful buildings and bustling streets provide the perfect backdrop for whatever this is supposed to be.

With every moment that passes, I find myself falling deeper under Harlow’s magical spell, the city’s charm enhancing the chemistry between us.

I look down at Harlow, content with how the day has been proceeding, this little charade of mine working out better than I’d planned. Not only does she still not know who I am, but I hope now she thinks I’m quirky and cute.

Win-win.

“There’s a lot to see today, this is only the first stop.”

“True. But I’m always thinking about my next meal.” She tilts her head. “I could try New York–style pizza today. I haven’t had it yet.”

“Love me some pizza.”

“What kind?”

“Cheese, sausage—pepperoni. Olives. Mushroom. Or plain cheese, it hardly matters, I’ll eat whatever.”

“Me too. As long as it doesn’t have onions, I’m all about it.”

Same.

Little Italy isn’t a hit, the cannoli notwithstanding, but I’m glad we got to see it—turns out, neither of us is in the mood to walk around in the blazing-hot sun once it’s higher in the sky, and neither of us is in the mood for Chinatown. So we hop back on the big red bus and head toward the Statue of Liberty, the backdrop of Liberty Island presenting us with its majestic view.

I glance at Harlow and can’t help but smile.

I’ve never been here before. Never took the time.

“Seems like we’ve upgraded our scenery, don’t you think?”

“It’s smaller than I thought it was going to be,” she remarks, and I smirk.

“That’s what she said.”

“Yeah—that’s what I said.” Harlow rolls her eyes, ignoring my innuendo and walking ahead, stepping onto the cobblestone path leading to the water ferry. The crisp sea breeze carries the distant echoes of seagulls toward us, the lapping waves against the harbor becoming visible as we get closer.

I shiver.

Who knew the sight of the iconic Statue of Liberty, standing tall and proud against the Manhattan skyline, would give me goose bumps?

I mean, seriously. And I’m a guy, and guys don’t get impressed with shit like this.

“This is so cool!” I sound like a teenager on a class trip.

Harlow grins up at me, her eyes sparkling. “Definitely an improvement. And you’re turning this morning into quite the adventure.”

Eh, that’s only mostly true.

We haven’t done anything yet, except eat breakfast and joke around, and I wouldn’t even call our conversations flirty.

I lean in closer, our voices lowered for intimacy, but the wind’s killing my buzz. I’m practically shouting.

“Well, I try my best. But I’ve heard the real charm is when you get up close and personal with Lady Liberty.”

“Personal with the statue?” She playfully bats her eyelashes, hair whipping around her face. “And just how do we do that, Mr. Tour Guide?”

“I hope you’re not being serious about me being your tour guide—I’ll get us lost, and then we’ll be screwed. I know less about this city than you do.” I point to the approaching ferry, putting my hand out so she watches her step, not wanting either of us to nose-dive into the harbor.

It docks.

People disembark, and we embark, moving onto the gangway single file.

As we step onto the ferry, the wind tousles her hair, the smell of her perfume wafting into my personal space. I try not to inhale, because that would be weird.

“Did you know,” she says, “they say the Statue of Liberty is struck by lightning at least six hundred times a year.”

“What? There is no way.” Then, “How do you know this?”

“I was googling facts about it on the bus.” She laughs. “I wanted to say something impressive. To impress you.” Harlow glances up at me. “Did it work?”

“Actually, it did.” Not that she has to impress me. “How adorable that you were googling information. I usually do that after I’ve seen something.”

I’m a nerd like that, googling facts during historical movies or after seeing a landmark.

Harlow is cute and fucking fun to be with, and I’m enjoying zipping around the city with her, no plan, no fuss. She is the complete opposite of my ex-girlfriend, not that I’m stupid enough to bring up an ex-girlfriend, even if it is to compliment Harlow.

When we reach the island, I watch her walk, weaving through the crowds of people, heading toward the lifts for the top of the statue. She stops a few times, keeping track of me, not wanting to lose me.

Lose me?

As if.

“We need tickets,” she informs me when we’re near the front of the line, and I hold up my phone—I have us covered.

“Done.”

“Wow. I am so impressed.” Harlow grins, top lip hidden by the creepy black mustache sticking to her skin. Cheeks flushed from the heat, she’s cute and kissable and beaming at me as if I were the smartest dude on the planet.

Hardly.

I barely managed to get average grades in college, and if I hadn’t had a full-ride football scholarship, I most likely wouldn’t have gone at all.

Harlow and I get jammed into an elevator with a dozen other tourists, none of whom speak. I keep my head down so the brim of my ball cap covers the top half of my face, lest one of the dudes crammed in here with us give me a closer look and recognize me.

The last thing I need is my cover blown in a room full of people. Not that I’m lying to her about who I am, but I also haven’t been forthcoming—because it’s nice, and I’m enjoying being normal for the day, not being treated like a celebrity.

But I’ll be honest. Standing in line sucks.

And being in this elevator with a bunch of people sucks.

And if I were myself and the staff knew who I was, chances are we’d be zipping to the crown of this statue with an escort and no one else. And we’d be able to skip the lines.

Whatever.

This is cool.

I can pretend to be normal for a few hours without throwing a bitch fit—I’m not that much of a prima donna ...

Fine.

I am.

A private elevator ride wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, if only to avoid the eye contact of the man standing across from me. He’s staring way too intently at the fake mustache stuck to my face, then back at Harlow’s mustache, and I can see his eyes going back and forth between us, trying to make sense of it all.

He thinks he knows it’s me ... but he’s not entirely sure , and in two seconds he’s going to tap his wife on the arm in an attempt to casually draw her attention in my direction so she can confirm his suspicions.

I’ve seen it a thousand times.

Clearing my throat, I dip my head, wishing I’d had the energy to shave this morning—the stubble on my face is a dead giveaway, as I have a beard most of the time, and clean-shaven cheeks would have been a better disguise.

Harlow stands blissfully unaware beside me as my heart thumps wildly, not wanting this day to be ruined because someone recognizes me and has balls enough to interrupt me for an autograph.

I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet, but the day is young, and all it’ll take is one nine-year-old kid to spot me and my cover will be blown.