This was, hands down, the strangest thing I’d ever done in my life. I was dressed in an expensive suit, about to walk my girl through a jungle of reporters at a studio party in L.A. It was a far cry from anything this kid from West Virginia had ever experienced before.

Leah Mae looked stunning. Her long gold dress shimmered when she moved, and her heels made her almost as tall as me. Bright red lips begged me to kiss them and with her hair up, the smooth skin of her neck taunted me. I wanted to lick her all over.

I hoped I was a good counterpart. My suit was nice—fit well. She’d told me a dozen or more times how good I looked. It wasn’t the most comfortable getup, but I appreciated it for what it was. Felt like I fit in—on the outside, at least.

As soon as we arrived at the hotel, a man in a slick suit appeared out of nowhere and snatched Leah Mae from her perch on my arm, pulling her aside. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I was ready to beat this guy’s ass. I was back at her side in an instant, but she didn’t seem upset. In fact, she was leaning in close so she could listen.

“Okay, sugar, here’s what you’re doing tonight,” he said. “Be sweet as apple pie. Lean on those country roots a little bit. We want you likable, but not too friendly. Don’t answer direct questions about Brock. Keep them guessing. Imply whatever you want with your nonverbal cues, but don’t deny or admit to anything.”

She nodded.

“We have Brock and Maisie arriving shortly,” he continued. “They’re putting up a united front. Smile at Brock, but feel free to glare at Maisie when he’s not looking.”

Leah Mae just nodded again. I glanced at her. Was this for real?

The guy seemed to notice me for the first time. “As for you, just… don’t talk. Be the strong silent type.”

“Pardon me?” I asked.

He cringed. “Yeah, no talking.”

“Just who in the hell are you?”

“This is Rich Baumgartner,” Leah Mae said. “He’s one of the producers.”

“You’ve done beautifully, sugar,” Rich said. “We couldn’t have asked for anything better. Perfection, babe. Keep it up.”

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared back into the crowd.

“Was that guy serious?” I asked.

“That’s just how he is,” Leah Mae said. “He doesn’t mean anything.”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Don’t let him get to you.” She tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and squeezed. “Besides, you don’t want to talk to the press anyway.”

Before I could reply, she nudged us toward the waiting sea of reporters. From the corner of my eye, I could see her smile. It looked as fake as Misty Lynn Prosser’s boobs. Made my back tense, and I reached up to stretch my shirt collar a bit. I’d known I’d feel like a fish out of water, but it wasn’t just the unfamiliarity making me uncomfortable. This whole place reeked of insincerity, and I didn’t like seeing Leah Mae playing into it so easily.

We started down the long walkway toward a photo backdrop with the studio logo. As soon as the first set of eyes hit Leah Mae, reporters swarmed like bees around a hive.

The first one to reach us, a woman with platinum blond hair and more makeup than I’d ever seen on one person, held up a small microphone.

“Leah, you look beautiful tonight,” she said.

“Thank you,” Leah Mae said, her red lips parting in a false smile.

“You’ve been quiet since Roughing It wrapped,” the reporter said. “Is it true you went into hiding when you found out the show was exposing your affair with Brock Winston?”

“After filming, I decided to take some time off,” she said. “I’ve been visiting family.”

“Have you seen Brock since the show ended?” she asked. “Did you attempt to continue your relationship?”

“Like I said, I’ve been visiting family. Filming the show was a great experience. I enjoyed meeting the entire cast and we all had a great time, even though it was a challenge.”

We moved on and another reporter stepped forward. Leah Mae kept her hand tucked in my arm and tilted her chin. Too late, I realized people were taking our picture. I tried not to fidget.

“Leah, you’ve been subjected to a significant backlash since the infamous back room episode aired,” the next reporter said. She had more makeup than the first. “Do you feel the vitriol was deserved?”

“There have been a lot of comments and opinions shared about the show,” she said. “I’m just glad people have been enjoying it. Mostly, I try to project the positivity that I’d like to see in the world.”

“Is this Jameson Bodine?” the reporter asked, turning her gaze on me. “How did you meet Leah?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Leah Mae cut in.

“We’re old friends,” she said.

“Jameson, what do you think about the accusations against your father?” the reporter asked. “Do you believe he murdered Callie Kendall?”

“Well, I—”

“The Bodine family has mourned the loss of Callie Kendall for the last twelve years,” Leah Mae said, cutting me off again. “Just like the rest of Bootleg Springs.”

And before I could say another word, we were moving on down the line again.

The rest was much of the same. Questions about Brock and Maisie. About her connection to Bootleg Springs. About me, or my father. In every case, Leah Mae gave the same non-answers. Her voice was hollow, and her words sounded practiced, like she was reading from a script. She smiled, turned her chin, posed for pictures.

I stayed quiet, merely tipping my head to the reporters. Felt a bit like an accessory and didn’t much like it. But I figured she was just trying to get us through as quick as she could.

A stir went through the crowd, and heads turned toward the entrance. I recognized the couple who’d come in. Brock Winston and Maisie Miller.

Brock was shorter than they made him look on TV. Dark blond hair. A cocky half-smile. He was dressed like he didn’t give a shit that this was a formal event. Sunglasses, a leather jacket, and black jeans.

His wife, Maisie, looked like a porcelain doll. Shiny dark hair, smooth skin, and blue eyes that almost seemed too big for her face. Her bright red dress didn’t leave much to the imagination.

They walked in, all smiles, and were soon surrounded by reporters, much like we were. It was hard to tell what Brock was looking at, with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but I had a feeling he was glancing over at us in between answering questions. Maisie seemed to be pretending we didn’t exist.

By the time we got to the photo backdrop, my back was stiff, and my palms hurt from clenching my fists. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

Leah Mae gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re doing great.”

We stood for a minute, and I had no idea which way to look. It seemed as if there were a hundred cameras. I concentrated on Leah Mae, like I was just a pedestal for her to stand on so she could look her best. Despite my brief brush with notoriety, she was the one people were here to see.

There were a few more people to talk to once the photos were done. I wasn’t sure who they were—reporters or people from the studio, or perhaps a bit of both. Leah Mae kept right on smiling and talking like she’d been told by the producer. Didn’t say much of substance or answer hard questions. And she certainly didn’t deny that she’d had an affair with Brock.

Which led me to wondering… why not?

“The worst is over,” she said as we walked down a short hallway. “There won’t be any press for the rest of the night.”

There were already dozens of people in the ballroom where the private party was being held. Tables were set with white linens and fancy dishes. The lights were low, and music hummed in the background—just loud enough to intrude on conversation, but not loud enough that we’d need to yell over it. I recognized several other cast members from Roughing It. A few stood together, talking near the bar. Rudy Barron, the basketball player, stood talking to another man, with a woman who looked to be his wife—or at least his date—at his side. Everyone was dressed in suits and formal dresses, and most had drinks in their hands.

A drink sounded like just the thing—a nice glass of whiskey to take the edge off—but someone stopped Leah Mae to chat almost as soon as we got into the room.

My mind wandered from her conversation. No one wanted to talk to me, anyway. More people came in. A few I recognized, but most I didn’t. I reckoned they were more people who worked for the studio.

I adjusted my jacket. The air in the room felt thick, making it a bit hard to breathe. People wandered past, some greeting Leah Mae—calling her Leah, of course. Something about that grated at me, but she never corrected anyone. Of course, to these people, that’s who she was, and she seemed to be determined to keep playing their game.

We worked our way deeper into the room, and I started to wonder how long this was going to last. I had no idea what was supposed to happen at a studio party. Would we just shift around the room, making small talk with different people? How long did she need to stay in order to feel like she’d done what she had to do? I wanted to ask her, but a couple of the other cast members were chatting her up about the show.

I glanced toward the entrance just in time to see Brock and Maisie walk in. She held onto his arm like she was afraid of letting go. He finally pulled those damn sunglasses off his face. Dark as it was in here, he probably couldn’t see enough to walk with them on. He tucked them in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and led his wife into the room.

For the first time since they’d arrived, Brock acknowledged Leah Mae. He held up a hand and nodded to her. She smiled back, giving him a little wave. Maisie didn’t exactly glare, but she didn’t look all too friendly, either.

The people Leah Mae had been talking to—she’d introduced me, but I’d already forgotten their names—finally moved on and I pulled her closer to the edge of the room. I didn’t know about her, but even though no one was talking to me, I needed a break.

“How are you doing?” she asked. “You hanging in there?”

“I reckon.” I adjusted my jacket again and tugged at my tie. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

“You must be hot in that suit. I’m sorry, I know this has been miserable. We don’t have to stay much longer. I just want to make sure I talk to Thomas Spencer, the show’s other producer.”

“All right,” I said. “But why are you actin’ so weird?”

“What?” she asked. “How am I acting weird?”

“You’re not acting like yourself. The way you’re talking to everyone, you don’t seem like you.”

“It’s just part of the job,” she said. “I don’t want to rock the boat, and it’s almost over anyway.”

I wasn’t quite satisfied with that answer, but I didn’t want to argue with her here. I rubbed my hand up and down her arm, taking solace in the feel of her soft skin against my fingertips. “Should I get us drinks?”

“That would be nice.” She touched the side of my face and leaned in to kiss me lightly on the mouth. “Thank you for this.”

“I’ve got your back, darlin’.”

“You’re amazing.”

Her smile soothed my discomfort a bit. I kissed her cheek and headed toward the bar. I still wanted that whiskey.

The bartender was a young woman with a shiny bob and dark lipstick. I ordered our drinks and waited, glad to finally have something to do. I hated the way people were talking over and around me, like I wasn’t there. Reminded me too much of growing up. I’d drifted around like a ghost, always trying to stay out of the way. Remain unseen. Being noticed usually meant being yelled at in my house, so I’d stayed invisible.

But being invisible had started to eat at me after a while. More than once, I’d wondered if I just wandered off and left home, how long it would take before anyone would notice. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d looked at those posters with Callie’s face, pretty sure if it had been me, they’d never have been made.

“Hi, there.”

The woman’s voice startled me from my thoughts. I looked over to see Maisie Miller standing at the bar next to me.

“Pardon me,” I said. “Afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Sorry about that.” She held out her hand. “I’m Maisie.”

“Jameson Bodine,” I said, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her smile widened. “You really are from West Virginia, aren’t you?”

“Born and raised.”

I glanced around, but didn’t see Brock. I wondered if I was supposed to be talking to Maisie, or if all that mattered now that the show was done and the press wasn’t around. Wasn’t sure why she was talking to me, either. Reckoned she was just being friendly.

“Have you been to L.A. before?”

“I haven’t,” I said. “I’ve been a fair few places on the East Coast, but never out west.”

“What do you think so far?”

“It’s… different.”

She laughed a little and nodded slowly. “I’m sure it is.”

Something seemed to catch her eye and her smile faded. My eyes darted in the direction she was looking, and I saw Leah Mae and Brock standing together, talking.

My back clenched all over again. They were standing close, talking with a certain familiarity. Granted, they’d spent two months filming a show together, so a bit of friendliness didn’t mean anything. But I didn’t like the way he was looking at her, and truth be told, I liked the way she was smiling back at him even less.

Maisie didn’t appear to be any happier about it than I was. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and a flicker of emotion passed across her features. I only caught a glimpse of it before she took a breath and smiled at me again. But now her smile looked forced.

The bartender put our drinks out, and she grabbed her martini. Took a sip.

“It was nice to meet you,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said, but she was already walking away.

I picked up my whiskey, and Leah Mae’s gin and tonic, and moved in her direction. She was still talking to Brock, but Maisie had found someone else in the crowd to speak to.

Just before I reached them, Brock stepped in and hugged Leah Mae. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but he smiled and said he’d see her later.

I stepped up next to her and leveled Brock with a hard stare. I wasn’t the jealous type, but this was the guy she’d supposedly slept with. A guy who had a wife in this very room. He needed to move the fuck on.

Brock didn’t acknowledge my existence any more than the rest of the people here. He just walked away, heading in the direction of his wife.

“You didn’t have to glare at him,” Leah Mae said, taking her drink from my hand.

“I wasn’t glaring.”

She smiled. “Yes, you were.”

“He was being a little too friendly, is all.”

Her brow knitted together, like she didn’t understand. “We were just talking.”

I let it drop and swallowed back half my whiskey. The burn of it felt familiar—the only thing I recognized in this place. I’d expected to be uncomfortable. Worked myself up to it and thought I’d been prepared. But there was a discomfort of a different sort that had taken root in my gut, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Maisie Miller caught my eye again, standing next to Brock in that bright red dress. She was looking up at him with the same look she’d had before, when we’d been standing at the bar. A look that said exactly what I was feeling, and I reckoned she was thinking the same as me, too.

What had happened between Leah Larkin and Brock Winston on that show?

I’d never asked. I’d seen the way they were settin’ it up in the early episodes, but after that, I hadn’t watched. Sort of felt like a betrayal to Leah Mae, even before we’d been seein’ each other. So I’d avoided the show. I’d heard things second hand—from people around town, a few articles I’d bothered to read, and the little bit that Leah Mae had told me.

But we’d never really talked about it outright. And I’d been going on the assumption that nothing had happened, and Leah Mae’s distress was because the entire thing had been faked.

But what if it hadn’t been? What if something had happened between them, and she was upset and ashamed because they’d been caught?

I felt bad for thinking it, but at the same time, how would I know? Turned out, she was an excellent actress. She hadn’t seemed like herself since the moment we’d arrived. I could see her doing it—playing a role. She was playing Leah Larkin, and it made me wonder who she’d been playing when she was filming the show. How deep had she gone?

It was deeply uncomfortable to feel like there was suddenly a whole lot I didn’t know about Leah Mae Larkin. About what had really gone on behind the scenes when she was filming that show. What had she been willing to do for that career she’d wanted so badly?

She hadn’t ever denied the affair. Not to me. Not to the media. Why not? What else did she have to lose, now that the show was over? She’d had reporters asking her questions out there. Why hadn’t she told the truth?

It didn’t make any sense. Unless there were parts of the truth she wanted to avoid telling.

I kept up my role for a little longer while Leah Mae took little sips of her drink, smiled that fake smile. Talked to some more people who looked right past me. Thankfully, she decided we could leave before they served dinner. The thought of eating a meal among these people turned my stomach sour. I reckoned there were decent folk around, but I was damn tired of feeling like a ghost, or a bodyguard. Someone who just took up a bit of space, but wasn’t worth talking to.

We went back to the hotel and ordered room service. Leah Mae suggested a bath together, but I told her I was tired. Truth be told, I had a lot swirling through my mind. Wasn’t sure what to do with all of it. I needed some space to think, so I turned in early.