Ash and I were back on the grid, big time. Following Lola’s tightly scripted itinerary (smile under the clock on the corner! Ana take Ash’s arm crossing the street!), we were definitely not in that supply closet any more. But boy did I still feel the heat.

The way he talked to me! OK, I hadn’t exactly had a lot of experience with men, but I had some experience. Most of it with Stan. Well, all of the sex had been with Stan. I didn’t think he’d ever talked to me once during any of it. There was really no lead-up, maybe a “You wanna?” Or even sexier, “You got your period?” as in, is it safe to touch you or are you contaminated?

I’d never had a man talk dirty to me, telling me what he wanted to do to me, making me tell him what I wanted. Now, as we walked along the sunny, snowy streets of New York City, smiling pretty for the cameras, it wasn’t just my mittens keeping me warm. The memory of his nasty words, telling me he was going to fuck me hard, getting me to beg for it. Holy hell, my knees felt weak at the thought of it.

“Care for a skate?” Ash asked me with a devilish grin.

I knew it was all staged. What romantic movie didn’t feature the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center? It was such a cliché. I should be rolling my eyes.

But it was my stomach that was flipping over when Ash took my hand in his own and swept me on to the ice. I stumbled a little and caught my balance on his shoulder.

“Can you skate?” he asked with concern, steadying me.

“I can,” I protested. “I’m Russian.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you grew up in the heart of Moscow.”

“My parents did,” I explained. “And if you don’t ice skate, your Russian ethnicity is revoked.”

He nodded. I loved how joking around with him came so easily. Half the time I teased Stan he thought I meant it and got offended. “It’s like an official thing?” Ash asked, gravely serious.

“Yes, it’s a huge disgrace to the family.”

“Well, we can’t have that. Let’s see your Russian moves.” Together we set off on the ice. Ash could skate as well. But I couldn’t resist, I had to hop around and skate in front of him backwards.

“You remember we’re being filmed,” he teased me. Oh shoot, I’d almost forgotten. I hopped back into place by his side, much less risk of falling on my ass facing forward. I could see the headlines now, “Fat Cow Falls Hard!” with a big picture of me grimacing in front of Ash. Come to think of it, that would probably still be the headline. They didn’t even need a real photo of me, did they? They could just photoshop my head onto someone else’s body and create any version of reality that they wanted.

But that night, as I sat in my bed back in my own tiny apartment, I couldn’t find anything bad online. Everything I found looked like it came straight out of a romantic storybook. The press were buying our romance hook, line and sinker. The problem was, so was I.

There we were under a clock on a corner, smiling at each other. Arm-in-arm at the ice skating rink, cheerful with red mittens and rosy cheeks. An impromptu snowball fight as we strolled through the park.

That video I couldn’t resist playing over and over. Someone had captured it perfectly, 45 seconds of glee, my catching Ash unawares with a snowball square in his back, him turning on me and nailing me with one right on the shoulder. But I got him good one more time on the thigh until he ran up and caught me, spinning me around in his arms, and then letting me down right in front of him. It was the look in his eyes that got me. Right then, I paused it. When he rested me there, my feet touching his, and he brought a hand up to the back of my neck. Right before he kissed me. He looked at me like he couldn’t believe what a jewel he’d found in me, the most beautiful woman in the world.

That was some look in his eyes. A woman could go her whole life hoping for a look like that from a man, never mind if that man happened to be a tall, built, gorgeous famous rock star. Who happened to sing some of her favorite songs in a gritty, sexy voice. And also happened to give her orgasms so intense they made her forget her name.

All for show, I had to keep reminding myself. All fake. But like a cheesy Hallmark movie you found yourself sucked into watching anyway, I couldn’t turn the channel. You knew it was fake, scripted, every second of it. You knew this story and exactly what would happen next, how it would end. But you still got sucked into it, still felt your heart skip a beat when he finally took her hand in his and admitted how he really felt.

Only the Ash and Ana story wouldn’t have a happy ending. That was guaranteed. I had to remember that, no matter how easy it was to forget.

Liv burst into my room, her now-purple hair all aglow. “I have 10,000 new followers on Twitter!”

“What?” I sat up, unused to Liv exuding unbridled glee. Sarcasm, brooding, these I recognized in her. But now she practically jumped up and down with excitement.

“Ash! His photo!”

“From the art installation?” I asked, realizing what she was talking about.

“It’s crazy! You have to thank him for me!” With a joyful squeal—another surprise from Liv—she closed my bedroom door.

My life wasn’t the only one getting changed by Ash Black. Here he was, getting intertwined with the other people close to me. That thought made me wince. My parents had heard about all of this. I knew they would, at some point. My mother had called me yesterday having a serious fit. I’d managed to get off the phone with a good excuse—I’d had to get to work, and I wasn’t making that up. I was squeezing in a few shifts in-between L.A., S.F. and what was that other place? Oh yeah, Paris. Ash was taking me to Paris.

Ash was taking me to Paris! I’d always wanted to go. Who didn’t? The amazing food and fashion, the architecture and the history and museums. I couldn’t believe we were headed there, the two of us, off-roading, fully departing from Lola’s script. I was sure she’d hit the roof, but Ash assured me that she’d come around. We’d make sure the trip fit both of our agendas, he and I having some fun and her getting some great romantic pics.

I’d started sensing a shift in his perspective, as if it were me and him aligned against Lola and his agent. I liked it. But I couldn’t trust it.

He was at the heart of this, the whole reason I’d gotten hired. Because that’s what this was, a contract job.

And the next couple of days were going to be hard. It was one thing to put on a show for the general public, the nameless, faceless fans of Ash Black. It was another thing entirely to lie to family. First, Ash’s lovely grandmother was having us to tea tomorrow afternoon. She seemed especially sharp and insightful. I couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t see right through us to the truth of the matter in an instant.

Then, I had to spend Christmas with my family. I usually loved this time of year, sharing presents I’d devoted time to picking out and wrapping, seeing friends at church, sharing an hours-long meal with extended family and still more friends. I loved it, all of it, from my mother’s elaborate decorations to the special desserts we made together. And this year I’d have to do it all under a cloak of duplicity, somehow finding the right way to talk about it where I didn’t exactly lie to them but didn’t exactly tell the truth. That meant lying, I knew. But I’d never really lied to my parents, especially not over something this big.

The only thing to do was to play it down. Tell them I’d recently met him and it wasn’t a big deal, the press was simply making more of it than they should. Spreading rumors. Who knew, in a week they might even claim we’d gotten engaged? You couldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids. It probably wouldn’t last long. This would all be over in a heartbeat.

That last part, at least, was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This would all be over in about two weeks. I had to remember that.

“One lump or two?” Ash’s grandmother sat straight as an arrow, literally offering me sugar lumps for my tea in her proper British accent. I felt as if I’d been clubbed over the head and awakened on the set of Downton Abbey. Even her mailed invitation had seemed delivered straight out of the past century, with heavily embossed stationary inviting me to tea with Baroness Kavanaugh of Warwick. A servant stood by the wall in starched white and black, unobtrusive yet ever at the ready.

“One?” It came out as more of a question than I’d intended.

Ash put a reassuring hand on my thigh, only succeeding in making me more agitated. His touch didn’t exactly relax me.

“Anika Ivanov. I do like your name.” The Baroness, Ash’s grandmother, was all politeness as she offered me a small, square cut of a cucumber sandwich.

“Thank you,” I squeaked.

“And how long have you lived in Manhattan, Anika?”

“Oh, no, I live in Brooklyn. But I’ve worked here in Manhattan, at a branch down in SoHo, for most of the past year.”

“That’s where you two met, I believe?” She inclined her head, looking at Ash for confirmation.

“Yes,” he agreed happily, completely at ease. “I ducked in trying to avoid some guys with cameras.” I wondered if Ash was struggling with the duplicity like me, and if he also relished the few moments when he could say something completely honest. But he sat there looking relaxed, as if he were truly enjoying introducing his girlfriend to his grandmother. He couldn’t really be, could he?

At the mention of paparazzi, his grandmother tsked in disapproval. She reminded me so much of the British actress Maggie Smith I almost had to pinch myself.

“So you're a baroness?” I asked, slightly timidly. I wanted to be a good guest, making polite conversation, but I wasn’t at all sure where to find common ground for a nice chat.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Well, technically a dowager baroness.”

“Oh, quite so.” What was I saying? I never said quite so in all my life. She was going to think I was making fun of her!

“But you mustn’t be put off by all that,” she continued, unfazed. Leaning in with a slightly conspiratorial air, she added, “You know, if you go back far enough, we’re actually Irish.” She said the word “Irish” as if revealing a dark secret, a skeleton in the closet. I nodded, wondering if I should act scandalized but not feeling that way in the least. “And really,” she continued, “I’m sure we all have royalty somewhere in our lineage if we dig far enough back.”

I didn’t know about that. I was pretty sure if you went back in my family history you’d find a long line of peasants descending from a long line of peasants, toiling, starving, drinking. That was the Russian way. I’d heard about it enough from my parents, usually accompanied by a lecture on the importance of hard work.

“At any rate,” the Baroness continued, “no one gives a fig about royals these days. Celebrities are all the rage. Like our Asher here.” She turned her gaze on Ash, or Asher as she called him. So formal. Wait, if she were a baroness, did that mean that he was a baron?

“What do think of the way Asher dresses?” she asked me, surveying him with a critical tilt to her head.

“Oh…” Caught between the truth—fucking sexy as hell—and polite agreement, I said nothing.

“A bit scruffy, isn't it?” she filled in for me.

“I guess it’s sort of his look,” I offered. I loved his faded t-shirts that fit him just so, hugging his biceps and shoulders in soft cotton. The couple of thin, braided leather necklaces he wore that I constantly itched to reach over and play with. The way his jeans fit on his slim hips and perfect ass. Could I ask the serving staff for a spare fan?

“He does have a certain rogue’s quality to him, doesn't he? Fresh in from the hunt.”

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” I could see her commissioning a portrait of her grandson, Ash all in rock-and-roll black yet up on a steed and surrounded by hounds and foxes.

“Well, do try to clean it up a bit for this one,” she admonished Ash. “She’s not your usual strumpet.” I nearly spat out my tea at the word. I didn’t know if I’d ever heard anyone use the word ‘strumpet’ in casual conversation. I might love this woman. “Anika is certainly worth your putting forth some effort.” Yes, I did love this woman.

“I'll do my best, Gram.” Ash took the advice like a champ, smiling at his Gram with affection. A whole other side to Ash, doting grandson. He kept getting better and better the more I got to know him. That wasn’t good.

“I'm sure you will, my boy.” She smiled back at him warmly.

Conversation flowed forth, much more easily than I ever would have imagined. Witty, polite, refined, we enjoyed our time in her bright, sunlit morning room, a servant ensuring all provisions remained fully stocked. I’d been in a lot of wealthy Upper East Side homes teaching piano, but a morning room? How many rooms could an apartment in Manhattan have? With a breathtaking view of the city skyline, too.

If Ash felt at home with all of this, what would he think of my family? I didn’t really need to worry about it, of course. He would never meet them. But I couldn’t help compare the Dowager Baroness Kavanaugh in her pearls and coiffed hair up in a bun, with my mother, always fussing, muttering and superstitious, throwing salt over her shoulder and usually forgetting to take off her apron. My Aunt Irina lived with us, too. She’d never married, just come over from Russia to join us, and all day long the two of them bickered and chatted and laughed and bickered nonstop. With a giant bosom and a penchant for tea cakes, Aunt Irina hadn’t seen her waist since about 1986.

The Baroness looked trim and sparkling in a cream silk blouse and wool scarlet pants, suede shoes the exact same color. But she wasn’t cold or mean, she was welcoming and kind.

“I must say, Asher,” she declared, setting down her tea cup on a saucer. “I’m absolutely thrilled to see you with a musician.” I enjoyed the praise, but I had to admit, it made me think about the fact that he’d dated musicians before. Maybe his grandmother didn’t know that he’d dated Mandy Monroe?

“A legitimate musician,” she added, as if responding to my unspoken thoughts. “With classical training. It’s about time you paired up with someone who can push you a bit. Keep you on your toes, instead of simply adulating at your feet.”

She invited me to attend an upcoming concert with her, a private benefit featuring one of the most famous and renowned pianists in the world. No big deal, a typical Thursday night for her. I wanted to leap at the chance, but realized late January was outside of our time frame. Ash and I would already be off on our separate ways, back into our real lives.

In two short weeks, I’d be ripping out her grandson’s heart in some sort of widely-publicized venue. Hopefully her aversion to all the social media hype would mean she’d never see it. I didn’t like the thought of losing her good opinion. She seemed so genuinely pleased with me, with us.

Professional distance, I reminded myself. I kept a polite smile on my face. And I tried not to show how much it meant to me when the baroness declared, “Asher, this one’s a keeper.”

But I’m not sure I was able to keep all of my reaction under wraps when Ash looked at me, serious and satisfied, and said, “I agree.”

On Christmas Eve, I slept at my parents’ house. My room hadn’t changed at all. Posters of movies I’d liked when I was 15 still hung on the wall. My bookshelves still displayed the collected series of the books I’d loved, from Anne of Green Gables to Twilight to the Hunger Games. I even had a small poster of Ash Black. It was from their very first album seven years ago, back when I’d still bought CDs. Inside, when you unfolded the label you got a photo of Ash. Technically, it was the whole band, The Blacklist, but Ash was out in front, those sultry eyes, that famous pout, arrogant as hell, daring you not to find him sexy. I found him sexy. I think he’d taken my 17-year-old-world and revved it up into hyper-speed, giving me a whole new kind of man to fantasize about. The kind you didn’t want to take home to meet mom and dad.

And now, here he was in my life, but I wasn’t taking him home to meet my parents. He was dividing the holiday between the city and Connecticut, spending Christmas Eve with his grandmother, then driving up to see his sister, mother and stepfather on Christmas Day. His family sounded scattered, fragmented more than by simple geography. Ash seemed close to his Gram and his sister, Gigi. The rest he spoke of in curt, dismissive tones, clearly not wanting to get dragged into discussing family drama.

I’d gotten a bit out of him. His father had passed away just this past summer, dying of cancer. I felt terrible when he told me, but then even more chilled when he explained that his father had always found him a deep disappointment. He didn’t seem close with his mother, either. His parents had divorced when he was 12 and afterwards he’d moved to England and lived with his grandmother. He’d also mentioned a stepmother and when I’d asked him if he was going to see her on the holiday, he laughed. He explained that his father had only married her a few years ago and he’d barely exchanged more than a few words with her. Not exactly a tight-knit family.

I bet most days it didn’t matter too much to him. Ash Black, rock star, had too much going on to dwell on his fractured family. But I bet growing up he’d felt some pain. And I bet Christmas might not be the most fun day of the year for him. Even the most hardcore, rock-n-roll baller had to feel the pull on that holiday, the desire to sit in front of a fire with loved ones, enjoying the peace and harmony of the season.

Christmas morning, activity in my childhood home started early. My parents would celebrate again in January, observing the traditional Julian calendar as well as the Roman Catholic calendar, covering all their bases. But they’d lived in America for almost three decades now, and each year they did December 25^th took more and more precedence. We hit the early church service, emerging a cool two and a half hours later.

“What’s this? About you and the punk rocker?” Older women I’d known since I was a baby came over to me with coffees in the adjoining hall, pinching my cheeks and warning me against predatory men.

“Our Anika has a good head on her shoulders,” my mother assured them, though privately last night she’d asked the exact same questions. I’d managed to dodge most of her bullets. I hadn’t played fair—I’d arrived late in the afternoon on the 24^th when I knew food preparation and table decorations would take precedence over all else. Even when your daughter was rumored to be dating a no-good, sleeze-bag of a rock and roller. Her words.

“It’s nothing, really,” I told them all, knowing I was actually speaking the truth. There honestly was nothing real between us. “The press likes to follow him around and make up rumors.”

“How about what he did to that nice girl, that Moira?” They shook their heads in disapproval.

“Well, I don’t know how much of that happened exactly like they say it did.”

They lit up. “You do like him! Our little Anya with the rocker!”

At home, we bustled around, the number of dishes at least two times the large number of guests. My mother and I laid out two enormously long tables comprised of a number of borrowed folding tables pushed together, all covered by table cloths and ornate fruit bowls and candles. To my father’s right, we set an extra plate at the table to honor those who’d passed. Before we sat down, I had to remind my mother to take off her apron and her babushka. She still had a red headscarf tied neatly under her chin like she was heading off to the open-air market in Moscow. In 1908.

The toasts, the wine, the teasing, the laughter, it felt so good to see my family.

“He’s a hot one!” Aunt Irina declared, already on her third glass of cordial. She’d been serving it to me on the holidays since I was five, waving away my mother’s concern with “It’s fruit and nuts!” And cognac, lots of it.

I turned to my cousin sitting next to me, praying Irina wasn’t launching into a speech about Ash. But the thirteen-year-old by my side had the same topic on her mind. “Can I meet him?” she asked, her eyes wide with hope.

“Oh, honey, I barely know him. But I can see about getting you his autograph.” I let her down gently.

“I’ll get it!” My mother rose to another knock at the door. Most of our guests knew to arrive by two o’clock, but you never knew who might stop by on the holiday, and my parents had a wide-open door policy. She disappeared out of the dining/living/kitchen area where we’d taken over, all of us sitting down together to eat. When she came back, looking surprised and a bit flushed, she had Ash Black standing next to her.

“Hey.” He gave a small wave, looking shy as he walked in on everyone seated at the table.

“Oh!” I leapt up, nearly clattering my plate to the floor. “Hi! I didn’t realize!”

“The punker!” Aunt Irina toasted his arrival.

“Who’s this now?” My father at the head of the table rose in his argyle sweater vest with at least equal parts welcome and confusion.

“Hi, um.” I could barely remember my own name, standing in my kitchen with Ash and my parents and my entire extended family all watching us. For such a noisy crew, now you could hear a pin drop.

“I’m Asher. I’m a friend of Ana’s.” He stuck out his hand to my father and they shook. “I’m sorry to disturb your dinner. I tried to call ahead but I couldn’t reach you.” He looked at me.

“My phone’s upstairs.”

“I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. And give you a couple of gifts.” Bringing his hand up, he rumpled his hair and gave me a bashful smile. My heart melted into a hot puddle on the floor. “But I can head out.”

“Don’t be crazy!” My mother swatted him with a dishtowel. “There’s more than enough. You sit! Sit and eat!”

Before I knew what was happening, Ash got squished in between my Aunt Irina and Uncle Yuri, seated in front of a large bowl of borscht, an overflowing plate of blinis and beans and peas and cod fish, and a large goblet of cordial.

“It’s just fruit and nuts!” Anut Irina lied to him. “Drink! Drink!”

In the ensuing madness, I was glad no one could tell I was rendered speechless. With all of the excitement over Ash’s arrival, I couldn’t have gotten a word in if I’d tried. And I couldn’t find words. I was floored to see Ash, absolutely floored. Was this another PR stunt? Were cameramen waiting outside our home?

In a moment of relative calm, I caught his eye across the table. “Cameras?” I asked, nodding nervously toward the front door.

He shook his head, no. “Took my brother’s truck,” he reassured me. “No one knows I’m here.”

After dinner, a couple of cousins trapped Ash on the couch, asking him about Taylor Swift. Did he know her? What was she like? Was she super nice?

I went into the kitchen to help with dishes, and soon as he could escape he joined me, washing as I dried, making conversation with my mother about how Christmases here compared to Christmases growing up.

“More here,” my mother summed it up, more food, more presents, more of everything. The dishes kept coming and he kept at it, joking around with me, singing bits of Christmas carols with my aunt. She decided to teach him a traditional Russian Christmas song, “The Forest Raised a Christmas Tree.” The look on Ash’s face as he earnestly listened, then repeated the lines about an evergreen nurtured by the forest. He just about killed me, in a whole bunch of ways.

“Listen, I didn’t mean to barge in here and stay so long,” he apologized to me, as if he’d done something wrong.

“Ash, I’m so glad to see you. I’m just surprised.”

“I haven’t even given you your gift yet.” I had one for him, too, upstairs. I led him up the stairwell, feeling absurdly guilty for sneaking a boy up into my room. I gave him mine, first, nervous and shy. It wasn’t much and it was kind of nerdy, but after all, that’s who I was. And what did you get for the rock star who had everything?

You knit him a hat, that’s what. I’d done it in the same chocolate brown as his eyes, plus some charcoal gray, and lined it all in soft, fuzzy fleece. “So you don’t get cold when you go on tour,” I explained, looking down at my bed.

“I love it!” he exclaimed, holding it up and looking at it. “Is it Gucci?”

“No, I made it.”

“You what?”

“I made it.”

“How?” He looked at me, confused.

“You know, I knit it.” I felt embarrassed. “With needles and wool.”

“You knit me a hat?”

I nodded. So dorky.

“No one’s ever knit me a hat before.” He sounded astonished. I shrugged, self-conscious. But he seemed to like it. “Thank you, Ana. I can’t believe you did this for me.”

“Try it on.” He slipped it on and I had to admit, it looked good. The brown matched the exact color of his eyes. What was it about a handsome man with a strong jaw in a knit hat? He should probably take it off. We were still in my parent’s house. Jumping him wouldn’t do at all.

“Well, now I feel like my gift isn’t anything,” he said. “I didn’t make it.”

“Ash, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

He handed me a small box, wrapped somewhat clumsily. I liked that he’d wrapped it himself. I had to smile, picturing him with scissors and tape, struggling and failing to get the paper just right. “Open it.”

I ripped off the paper, opened the lid and found a ring with two keys. No tag on it or label. I picked it up, curious.

“I wanted to get you a piano,” he started explaining, “but I couldn’t see where one would fit in your apartment.”

I laughed in agreement, picturing the grand piano I’d seen in his San Francisco home in our tiny living space. There’d be nowhere to walk around it.

“So, I talked to a friend of mine who runs a recording studio. He’s cool with you coming and using one of the practice rooms any time you want. Great acoustics, everything’s top of the line. And it’s not far from where you work, in SoHo.”

“You mean it?” I lit up. The only time I got consistent access to a piano was when I headed up to my parents’ house on the weekends. I’d been starved for one.

“Anytime you want. This key’s to the front entrance. This key’s to the practice rooms.”

“Ash!” I threw my arms around him, amazed at not only his generosity, but his insightfulness. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want more, the gift of playing music anytime I wanted. He wrapped his arms around the small of my back.

“Merry Christmas, Ana.” He kissed me, sweet and full. My lips met his, kissing him back like I never wanted to stop. Until he broke it off.

“Is that a picture of me?” he asked, looking directly at the poster of him on my wall.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked, rushing over to try to shield the incriminating poster from view.

“Ana! Are you upstairs?” My father’s voice called up the stairwell. A minute longer and we’d be in trouble.

“We’ve got to head down.” I rushed over, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of my childhood bedroom.

“So, I’m your teenage dream, huh?” he whispered as we started down the stairs.

“Shut up!” I blushed, trying to pretend that he hadn’t seen the evidence of my history of infatuation.

“Me and Robert Pattinson. I didn’t know you had a thing for vampires.”

“Every teenage girl liked Twilight,” I hissed.

“There you two are.” My mother stood in the kitchen, surveying us as if looking for evidence of out-of-wedlock sex.

“OK, I’ll get out of your hair,” Ash declared. “Thank you so much Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov for letting me crash your Christmas.”

“Crash?” My mother asked, but seemed pleased as he took her hand and gave it a quick kiss, formal and polite.

“We’re pleased you could join us,” my father said, actually looking it.

“Oh, and I almost forgot.” Ash collected two gifts from beside the door and handed them to my parents. “Something for you both.” He thanked them again, wishing them a great holiday, and I walked him outside to his car. A rusty old pickup truck.

“This is what you drove here in?” I asked, surprised.

“It’s my brother Heath’s. He’s kind of a mountain man. He let me borrow it so no one would know it was me driving up here.”

I kissed him goodbye, quick so my parents wouldn’t worry. Plus I bet my aunt and uncle and cousins all had their noses pressed up against the window watching us.

Back in the kitchen, my amazement didn’t fade. It grew. Ash had given my mother two tickets to the New York Philharmonic, a night featuring the Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov. And for my father, a signed score of Shostakovich’s fifth symphony.

Wow. And tomorrow he was taking me to Paris. I felt like I was walking on air.

The limo came to pick me up at 7:30 the following night. Our flight didn’t leave until 11:30, but Ash said he wanted to take me somewhere first.

“Dress for a party,” he suggested, like I had any say in it. A stylist dropped off a tiny silver dress and high heels, and insisted on doing a few touches to my hair and make up. After all, this was a job and I had to look just right for the cameras.

I’d packed myself for Paris, though. We still hadn’t let the PR team know about our plans.

“How do we have time for a party?” I’d asked Ash. I’d been on a few flights before, always with my parents. To them, preparing for a plane flight involved weeks of discussions and planning, culminating in arriving hours early to navigate the frightening and ominous passage through ticketing and security.

“Baby, I’m a rock star,” Ash had answered. “There’s always time for a party.”

The car took me to a club in Nolita, north of Little Italy, and dropped me off in front where I faced cameras by myself for the first time.

“It’s Ash’s girl!” one of them yelled and then all of them were on me, snapping pictures and shouting comments and questions.

“How you liking your walk on the wild side?”

“Are you worried he’s going to break your heart, too?”

“Ash is a good person,” I found myself defending him. “You should back off.” A bouncer reached out, took my arm and helped me wade through to the door. Inside, Ash stood waiting for me.

“You should have texted me you were here!” He reached out to welcome me with a hug. “Were they awful?”

I shrugged. They had been, but now I was inside and it looked cool as hell. I could already spot a couple of celebrities I recognized, musicians and actresses. Ash introduced me around, keeping his arm around me the whole time, steering conversation to topics I could join in on.

He offered me a glass of champagne. “Here’s to Paris!” He clinked my glass. “You haven’t posted to Facebook about it, have you?”

I laughed. “No.”

“I know they’ll find us, but we might grab a day without anyone knowing we’re there.” He gave me a mischievous smile that sent a thrill through my entire body. A humming dance floor called out, throngs of well-dressed partiers moving to the beat.

“The day after Christmas? Who knew?”

“There’s always a party somewhere,” Ash explained. “You just have to know the right people.”

“And you do?”

“I’m Ash Black.” He winked at me.

“Then show me how you dance.” It might have been the champagne, it might have been just feeling drunk off his nearness, but I shook my booty off on that dance floor. Not a care in the world, having the time of my life, I waved my hands in the air like I just didn’t care. The man could move, working those legendary hips and thrusting to the beat. He’d be amazing in bed. Every woman and probably some of the men at that party were thinking it, too. I knew that. Maybe some of them knew it for sure? I didn’t like thinking of that, all the people he’d been with before. Maybe even during our two weeks together?

But then Ash brought his hands to my waist, pressing up against me, moving with me to the rhythm and beat. How could I worry with the feel of him in the darkness, the smell of him right there next to me, so close but not close enough? The party was fun, but I wanted to get him alone.

“Let’s get out of here.” He read my mind. The driver who’d taken me over waited for us outside, now with Ash’s bags in the trunk as well. I loved how things just came together for Ash. I wondered if he realized it, or if he’d become so used to puzzle pieces simply falling together for him he didn’t notice anymore. I’d enjoy it while I could.

In the dark of the limo, the privacy screen drawn all the way up, Ash and I sank into each other. Lips, hands, tongues, we kissed and touched and took our flirting from the dance floor to a new, heated level. His hand on my bare inner thigh, he eased up my skirt.

Breathing heavy, he whispered into my ear, “I want you so much, Ana.”

“I do, too.” I couldn’t help grinding against him, my leg up over his, my sex pressed into the muscle of his thigh.

“We could,” he murmured, kissing my neck, his hand grabbing my ass, firm, pressing me up against him. “No one has to know.”

I exhaled into him, nearly passing out at the thought of him sinking into me. The feel of him long and hard, entering into my slick heat. He’d be rough with me and I’d love it.

But I was already hanging by a thread, a thin, flimsy thread. The gifts and the orgasms and the fun we had together, I was falling fast for this man. But I couldn’t do that. I was hired to fake date him and break up with him, not fall deeply in love in that crushing, complete way you dreamed of one day happening with Mr. Right. He wasn’t Mr. Right, he was Mr. Right Now, and it would be a lot easier to remember that if we didn’t have sex. Somehow I knew that if we did, I’d never be able to turn back.

“You know how I fall asleep each night?” Ash whispered to me in the dark, his hand now wrapped around my thigh. “I think of you. How you smell.” He drew his tongue along my neck, taking in my scent. “How you taste.” He drew his finger up against my panties, pressing against the damp lace, stroking my sex. My lips parted in a soft moan. “I think of what you sound like when you come.”

“You do seem to like making me come,” I gasped. God, did he ever. He did it so well. And so often.

“I’m addicted to it,” he whispered, his finger pushing my panties to the side, plunging into my slick folds. “You’re my new drug. You make me so hard.”

“Ash.” I placed my hands on his shoulders, trying to slow down the roller coaster. Really, I only succeeded in feeling his hard muscles and thinking how good it would feel with his shirt off, digging my nails into his flesh while he drove into me again and again.

“Yes, Ana?” he asked quietly, wickedly, his finger slow and leisurely circling around my clit.

“Ash!” I had to think of something to snap me out of this. “Have you slept with anyone in the last couple weeks? You know, since we’ve been pretending—?”

“There’s been no one but you, Ana,” he assured me with passion. “I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re driving me crazy.”

He took my hand and brought it to his jeans. Wow, he was huge. His long, rock hard shaft pressed against the soft, fitted denim. I ran my fingers along its length. I wanted to unbutton, unzip his jeans. I swallowed with fierce need.

“You make me so hard, Ana.” His voice sounded hoarse. “I haven’t been with anyone else.” I stroked him through his jeans and he groaned. “I’m hard all the time. I’ve been taking my cock in my hands and jerking off thinking of you. I’m going crazy.”

“I know how you feel,” I panted.

“You do?” His eyes opened, fixed on me. The silence stretched between us. Then he whispered, “Have you touched yourself thinking of me?”

I had, many times, late at night. I felt embarrassed admitting it, but I gave a shy nod yes.

His voice came out strained. “Show me.”

“What?” I sat up, surprised, sliding my leg off of his.

“Show me how you touch yourself, Ana.” He kept his hand on my thigh, his fingers pressing into me, urgent. My pussy throbbed.

“I couldn’t.” I shook my head, no. I could never show him how I touched myself. That was naughty.

“Show me, Ana. We’re both going insane. Show me how you touch your sweet pussy and make yourself come.”

Shy, unable to believe I was doing it, my hand slid down between my thighs. Without thinking, on instinct, I slipped my fingers into my slick heat. I sighed at the touch. I was already so wet for him. I was wet for him all the time, wanting him. He’d gotten me turned on at the club, dancing with me, then stroking me in the car and I wanted more. I slid my fingers along my slit, quivering with need. My body wanted to come.

“That’s it.” Ash watched my hand. “Show me.” He pulled up my dress, bunching it by my waist. He took my panties in his hand and pulled them far down my legs and then completely off. Now he could see everything.

“That’s it,” he exhaled, his breathing shallow. “Now spread your legs for me while you touch yourself.”

I closed my eyes, losing the last of my inhibitions, spreading my legs for him so he could see everything. So slick, so wet for him, I was dripping as I touched myself. I wanted him to know it, to see it. I finger-fucked myself in a slow rhythm, moaning as I remembered how he’d eaten me in that closet, in the dark, so ravenous for my taste.

I could hear Ash breathing harsh and heavy at my side, so turned on at the sight of me. “What are you thinking about, Ana?” he whispered, so close.

“How you lick me,” I whispered, guilty.

“How I lick your pussy?”

“Yes, and how you bite me.”

“How I bite your clit?” he demanded as I worked myself, moaning. “Wider, Ana,” he barked. “Spread wider. Show me everything.”

I did it, loving following his order, wanting to give him everything, so dirty, so naughty, stroking my pussy with my fingers. He unzipped the side of my dress and pulled at my shoulder strap, baring my breast. With a hiss, he grasped my breast and flicked my erect nipple with his thumb. I picked up the pace, thrusting into myself, circling my clit, so close.

“Do you like it when I bite you?” he asked. I opened my eyes to see him fixated, feasting like a starving man on the sight of my fingers pleasuring my pussy.

“Yes! I love it when you bite me,” I moaned, loving to confess it to him.

“Are you close to coming, Ana?” He gripped my breast in his hand, urgent.

“So close!” I cried out.

“When I bite you, come on your fingers.” He dropped his mouth, taking my nipple between my teeth. He bit down on my sensitive tip.

I came apart, exploding on my fingers. He bought his hand down to cover mine and feel every one of my shudders, all of my juices. He groaned in appreciation, licking my breast, stroking my hand.

“So good, Ana, so good. So sweet.”

“Ash!” Wave after wave hit me. It felt so intense, showing it to him.

I never could have believed I’d do something so dirty for a man. Now I couldn’t believe I’d ever have to stop, in just two weeks. Time was speeding so fast. But just now, I buried myself in Ash’s shoulder, blissed out as the limo took us to the airstrip where we’d fly off to Paris.