S E V E N

A notification lights up my cell phone screen as I rub my eyes, furiously trying to focus on the message. Today is my day off of work - if it was up to me, I'd work every day, but Nadine insists I take time to relax - so I'm sleeping in. Or trying to, at least. I check my phone, reminding me that Beau and I are supposed to post on Instagram today. Nothing that reveals my identity quite yet, but enough to get fans speculating. All part of Fiona's master plan to get Beau in the right kind of spotlight again. I groan, sinking deeper into my covers and closing my eyes once more.

But sleep, it would seem, is just not in the cards for me today. My phone lights up again, sending vibrations through my pillows and jolting me out of bed. "Hello?" I yawn before checking the number on the screen.

"Miss Carter? My name is Valerie, I'm Fiona's assistant." The voice seems young to be Fiona's assistant. Poor Valerie.

"Mmm," I groan again, finding my slippers and making my way to the kitchen. If I can't have sleep, coffee will have to do.

"I'm just reminding you that you have a scheduled post this afternoon. Fiona asked me to go over some possibilities, in case you might be stuck." Translation: Fiona doesn't trust us enough to figure this out on our own. I ponder briefly on whether or not I should be offended, but then I remember how difficult my partner in all of this is. Beau. I suppose I'd call to confirm if I was them, too. I sigh and pour myself a mug of coffee, ready for my lesson. "Okay,"

"The goal is, of course, to cause speculation and take attention off of Beau's recent behavior. To do this, we want to drag the reveal out and keep people guessing. So we need to start small. Does that make sense?"

I nod before remembering Valerie can't see me. "Yes," I mumble, burning myself on the too hot coffee. The line is silent for a couple of seconds and I wonder if we got disconnected. "Hello?"

"Yes, excuse me, Miss Carter. Fiona just-" Valerie stops abruptly, silence on the other end once more. Finally, a sharp tone in the background insists Valerie "be quick about it," and I gather that poor Valerie probably just endured Fiona's wrath. I hope she's paid well, at least.

I feel an empathetic smile spreading across my face. "Valerie?"

Her voice is much more timid than before, defeat seeping through her words despite her professional tone. "Yes, Miss Carter?"

"Call me Emma."

***

Beau and I are back at the small grocery shop a little ways down the street from my apartment. I called after my conversation with Valerie, reminding him about today's duties. Of course, he threw a tantrum and up until he actually arrived outside of my apartment, I hadn't even been sure he would show. I catch him in the corner of my eye and secretly admire the bedhead he wears so well before silently going over tonight's plan in my mind.

Val suggested we do something low key, maybe a dinner at home, and to make sure we got a picture suggesting the dinner was not a solo affair. For example, a photo of the food, with my hands across the table, or a cryptic caption. Truth be told, it doesn't even matter if we actually eat together at all, so long as it looks like we did. The whole thing seems ridiculous to me, but I barely use my own Instagram, so what do I know?

"So what are you making me?" Beau grins cockily, sliding his phone into his back pocket and shaking me from my thoughts.

I roll my eyes, scanning the shelves for my favorite brand of tomato sauce. I could make my own, and I normally would, but I just don't have the time today. "We," I glare at him pointedly, "Are making chicken parm," I hand him the sauce a little more forcefully than I need to, his tattooed fingers nearly dropping the jars because of it.

His smile widens, losing its normal arrogance. "Sounds good," His voice is so soft it stops me in my tracks. I peer up at his face curiously, catching his pretty green eyes beneath the smudged liner. But he sees me, and that's the end of that, leaving me to watch him huff away with our basket, pissed off that someone caught him being... well, not angry. I shrug to myself, grabbing the other items off my list and carrying them in my arms.

Once I'm finished, I find Beau standing at the counter, glowering at his phone. Nothing new there, I note, as I eye the red wine he's added to the load suspiciously. Surprisingly, though, Stevie is also staring right at him, an equally unpleasant look on his face. "Hi, Stevie," I try to break the tension, dropping some bread, garlic, and a box of pasta onto the counter. Beau shoves himself into a standing position once I'm beside him, grabbing his wallet from his pocket and handing Stevie his card before the items are even rung up. Stevie's face flushes with irritation as he nods in my direction. "Slow day?" I try again, looking around at the mostly empty store.

He rings up the items, hurriedly bagging them without looking in my direction. "See you 'round, Emma." Stevie shoves the receipt and Beau's credit card back at us. Before I can grab them myself, Beau takes the bags into his arms and saunters out of the store, leaving me to run after him.

I try to keep up with his long strides, nearly tripping in the process. "What was that about?"

Beau peeks down at me, "What?"

"You know what,"

"I don't like that guy," Beau shrugs casually, adjusting the paper bags in his hands.

I watch him carefully. It would be wonderful if any of my relationships in this town could survive our little deal. "Do you need help?" I try to grab one of the bags, "And why not - Stevie's great,"

Beau jerks away from me. "I got it," he snaps, shooting me a glare. "He asked me what was 'up' with us."

"What'd you tell him?" Part of me wonders why the question bothered Beau so much, but the larger part is worried that he may have blown our cover. I don't need everyone in town knowing our... situation. I still feel strange accepting money for pretending to be his girlfriend.

"To mind his fucking business." Beau rolls his eyes aggressively, ending the conversation.

***

"Could you stir that pot for me?" I turn the chicken over in my pan, which has become much more finicky over the years, the smell of garlic filling the small kitchen. To my surprise, Beau does as I instruct without a single complaint or snide remark. I watch him, always curious about his moods. He seems so happy sometimes, lighter almost. But within seconds, his whole demeanor can shift, leaving him rude and irritable.

"True or false," I venture slowly, peering at him through my lashes. He stills for a second before returning to his examination of the sauce. I take his silence as encouragement, "You write most of the songs for the band,"

Beau chuckles once, a deep, throaty sound. "True." I smile in surprise, having expected sarcasm instead of a true answer.

So I test the boundaries further, "Why's that?"

"Their songs suck," Beau shrugs simply, keeping his eyes fixed on the massive pot of bubbling red pasta sauce.

"That can't be true," I mutter, trying to recall the lyrics to one of the songs I listened to earlier. I half sing-half hum incoherently, the words sounding wrong almost immediately.

"God, stop," Beau's words are cruel but his tone is playful. "You're awful, you know that? Ruining a perfectly good song by me."

"Okay," I check the chicken again. "So you sing then, if you're so much better," For a minute, I'm satisfied with myself as he quietly stirs the pot, his silence like a small victory flag for me. Then, ever so quietly, I hear it. A hum, deep in the back of his throat, finally flowing into the softest lullaby as he refuses to make eye contact with me, his voice deep and smooth in the space between us. I stare at him, unable to close my mouth. I could tease him, but something inside me doesn't want to... I can only listen.

When the song ends, his cheeks turn pink and I can only keep gaping at him. "Leave me alone," Beau grumbles before I say anything. I open my mouth for a snarky reply, but close it right away. Some things don't need to be said, I guess.

"You can go sit," I mumble instead, finding a bread knife in my drawer. "It's almost done." Beau walks away without hesitation, and I try not to register the frantic pounding of my heart. This is Beau we're talking about - Beau Lewis. Womanizer, complete jerk, total pain in my ass. So why did hearing him sing make my insides turn to mush? Why do I feel so hot, like the thermostat's been turned up to ninety degrees? I shove the thoughts from my mind, placing two pieces of chicken on his plate and piling it high with spaghetti.

I hand him his dish before awkwardly sitting across from him at my small table. "We don't have to, you know, make a big thing out of this," I wave my hands around nervously. "You can take the picture and we can be done with it. I know you're busy with... stuff,"

Beau's brows shoot up behind his hair. "But you worked so hard," His eyes glint sarcastically. Still, he sticks his fork into the center of the plate, twirling his pasta into a massive bite. "Really, it's nice to have a meal somewhere that isn't a hotel or a restaurant," The thought makes me sad, which is really weird. Here he is, rich and able to do whatever he wants, but I feel bad for him. How is that possible?

Neither one of us knowing what to say, we eat our dinner quietly and I take the time to observe him when he isn't looking. Dark circles rim his eyes, but they're still such a lovely shade of green, soft when he isn't scowling.

Beau recovers finally once he's finished with his food, arrogant smile returning as he puts his walls back up. "So is that grocery clerk your boyfriend?"

"Are you still on that?" I take a sip of the wine he picked. Not nearly as decadent as at the restaurant he took me to, but still good.

"He is, isn't he?" He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, tattoos glistening in the overhead light.

I grab both of our plates and bring them to the sink. "He isn't. But what difference does my love life make to you, anyways? Jealous?"

Beau follows me across the kitchen, standing right behind me at the counter. When he exhales, his breath sends a shiver down my spine. His hair tickles my cheek as he leans his head over my shoulder, pressing his lips to my ear. "Not a chance," He takes an abrupt step back, leaving me breathless and annoyed. "I'll be going then," He grabs his leather jacket off the back of a kitchen chair and saunters through the living room to the door.

"We didn't get a picture," I protest lamely, still staring at the dirty plates in my hands.

I can practically hear Beau rolling his eyes as he tells me not to worry about it, followed immediately by the click of my front door.

What. The. Hell. Was. That?

I abandon the dirty dishes, instead choosing to crawl right back into bed. Fiona will be pissed we didn't get the picture, and I'll probably lose the "job" anyways, I reassure myself. Anything to ignore my body's ridiculous reaction to Beau being so close.

Shit.

I can't help myself - I search for his Instagram profile, scrolling through the pictures to convince myself that I am not attracted to him. Is he good looking? Yes, but so are lots of people. He's not my type, and even if he was, he's a complete jerk. I click on his story, having not noticed it initially. When the image appears, I almost drop my phone. He uploaded a photo of me, my entire body, as I was cooking the chicken. Granted, it's just the back of me and you can't see my face, but this was not the plan. I return to his latest post, a simple shot of the recording studio, and immediately see dozens of  new comments asking about the girl in his story.

Oh God, Fiona is going to be so pissed - this story skipped a few of her carefully laid out posts. What was he thinking? I pull the covers to my chin, trying to drum up excuses I can make for his decision... and the million ways I'll tell Beau off for that stupid decision.

Instead, I fall asleep replaying his story, telling myself off for the little flutter in my belly each time I watch it.