When It's Real

“Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”

Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.

“Ew, Vaughn.”

“Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”

“You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”

“When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.

Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”

“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

She blinks. “What?”

“I have a boyfriend!”

“W?”

“Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”

“That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”

“Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.

Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”

“Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”

“Really.”

Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.

“So you’ll do it?”

I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.

Or so I thought.

“No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.

“Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.

I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”

I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”

“Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”

“That would...”

“Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”

I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.

I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.

That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.

“An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.

“How long do I have to think about it?”

“Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”

Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.

This is...nuts.

“Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”

Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...

Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.

3

HER

I said yes.

Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.

Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.

Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.

The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.

Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.

“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.

“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”

“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.

We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.

I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.

A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”

“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”

As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.

“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”

Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.

“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.

Jeez. His assistant has assistants?

Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”

“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.

“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.

I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.

Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.

My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”

“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.

“Are you in college?” Claudia, the publicist, twists and frowns at Paisley. “She may need to miss classes. How old are you again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Age of consent in California is eighteen.” This reminder comes from the end of the table, where the lawyers, plural, are sitting.

Claudia waves her hand dismissively. “They’re dating. Nothing more. Besides, Oakley’s audience is mostly young girls. Anyone older and it won’t have the same impact.” She turns to me. “What are you currently doing?”

“I’m working. I took the year off to work to help our family.” I’ve said it so many times, but even the passing mention of Mom and Dad being gone still makes my heart clench.

“Paisley and Vaughn’s parents died a couple of years ago,” Jim explains.

Paisley and I cringe as the entire table gives us pitying looks, except for Claudia, who beams. “Wonderful. An intelligent, plucky orphan,” she says, and her voice is so high and squeaky it hurts my ears. “This backstory gets better and better. She’s just what we’re looking for.”

We? I’m even more confused. I thought this was about me pretending to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend, so why am I in a conference room filled with strangers? Shouldn’t my soon-to-be fake boyfriend be here, too?

“Do you plan on attending college?” Jim asks.

I nod. “I got into USC and Cal State, but I deferred until next fall.” I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans as I trot out my practiced speech about wanting to have real life experience before school but how I eventually plan to go into teaching.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Claudia’s “team” taking diligent notes. My confession that I like to draw triggers several interested looks from the PR section.

“Are you good?” Claudia asks bluntly.

I shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. I mostly do pencil sketches. Usually just faces.”

“She’s being modest,” Paisley speaks up, her voice firm. “Vaughn’s drawings are amazing.”

Claudia’s blue eyes shine with excitement as she turns to her team, and then four voices chime out, “Fan art!”

“I’m sorry...what?” I say in bewilderment.

“That’s how we’ll make first contact. We’ve been brainstorming various online meet-cutes, but they all felt so contrived. But this has potential. Picture this—you Tweet a gorgeous sketch you drew of Oakley, and he’s so blown away he Tweets you back!” Oakley’s high-voiced publicist begins to make rapid hand gestures as she gets more and more excited by the picture she’s painting. “And his followers will take notice, because he so rarely replies to Tweets. Oakley tells you how your piece touched him. It brought tears to his eyes. You Tweet back and forth a few times, and then...” She pauses for effect. “He follows you.”

This prompts simultaneous gasps from her three assistants.

“Yes,” one of them says with a vigorous nod of her head.

“But,” another speaks up hesitantly, “we need to address the sister issue.”

“Right,” Claudia agrees. “Hmmm. Yes.”

Paisley and I exchange flabbergasted looks. It’s like these people are speaking a different language.

Jim sees our faces and quickly clarifies. “The fact that Paisley works for this agency will no doubt come out. Once the press digs that up, they’ll start concocting wild theories about how the relationship is a scam arranged by Oakley’s manager—”

I can’t help but snort.

Jim doesn’t seem to be as amused by the truth as I am. “—who just so happens to be related to the head of this agency. So we need to provide a plausible reason why a Diamond employee’s sister is suddenly involved with one of the agency’s clients.”

“We’ll blame it on coincidence,” Claudia says with total confidence. “One of Vaughn’s Tweets to Oakley will be this—” She moves her fingers through the air like she’s conveying a headline “‘Oh-em-gee! I just realized my big sis works at the same agency that reps you! How cool is that!’”

I try not to roll my eyes.

“That could work,” Jim says thoughtfully. “And then we’ll get Paisley—” he glances at my sister “—to give a short interview about her role in the relationship.”

“My role?” Paisley sounds uncertain.

Claudia can obviously read Jim’s mind, because she starts nodding again. I’m surprised her head is still attached to her neck at this rate. “Yes, you’ll give a statement about how you could not believe it when Oakley’s manager called you into his brother’s office and told you that Oakley wanted your sister’s phone number.”

Paisley starts nodding, too, and I almost reach over to smack her. Why is she feeding into these people’s craziness?

“I have a few more questions for Vaughn,” Jim says. “Your sister said you were dating someone?”

I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”

Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.

“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”

“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.

Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”

I almost gag.

“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”

He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”

Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.

All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.

“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”

“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”

“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.

“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”

“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”

“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”

I have never been more humiliated in my life.

“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”

Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.

“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.

“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.

Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.

I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.

“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”

I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.

Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”

Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.

“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”

I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.

“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”

I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.

“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”

“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.

Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.

If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.

4

HER

I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.

“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.

“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”

But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.

Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.

He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.

He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.

But he has it.

Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.

And I can’t look away.

Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.

I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.

“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.

I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?

This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.

Which I’m going to be.

Fake.

I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.

Paisley nudges me.

“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.

A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.

The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?

“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.

Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”

I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.

Okay then.

Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.

For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?