The Next Evening

Date night. God, how I hated it.

But it was a necessary evil at the moment. This was our big introduction. The first time Kit and I would be photographed as a couple. It was not an official engagement. But the press had been tipped off by an “anonymous” source that we’d be making an appearance tonight at Jeanette’s nightclub in Mayfair at approximately eleven P.M.

It had been so long since I’d been on a date. A real date, one that didn’t end with me and the guy screwing in the backseat. Did I even remember how to do it?

Did Kit the Ice Prince know how? Neither of us was especially cutesy or mushy. Were we going to fall on our faces?

The cameras appeared as soon as our taxi pulled up to Jeanette’s. Immediately I was blinded by flashes. A spark of panic caught in my chest. I’d gone through days of prep for this moment. But now I wondered if you could ever be truly prepared for just how surreal it was. How overwhelming.

I blinked bright dots from my vision. The tut tut tut of the engine filled the space between me and Kit in the backseat. I could smell his lemony aftershave. Still the same scent after all these years.

My heart began to throb.

“Look at me, Em,” Kit said.

“I’m all right,” I said, the quiver in my voice totally giving me away.

“Emily, please.”

I turned to see him smiling at me. An adorably shy but still brilliant smile that had the word smitten written all over it.

My heart did a backflip.

This smile was fake. It had to be—I’d never seen it on him before. But it still hit me squarely in the chest. He was so fucking handsome when he smiled like this. So lit up. So cute.

Why didn’t he smile like this more often? What was keeping Kit from being genuinely happy, the way he was pretending to be right now? Was it his parents?

The cameras were going wild; through the windows, I could hear the photographers shouting their questions.

Kit, who is she?

Lucky lad, she’s gorgeous!

Keep smiling! Yes, that’s it!

“You’re with me.” His eyes searched mine. They were steady. Sharp. “Everything’s going to be fine, I promise. I made sure there’d be plenty of liquor for us inside.”

I managed a grin. “Then I think I’ll be okay.”

The flashes increased.

Kit passed the driver a hundred pound note—quite the tip, considering our fare had been fifteen pounds—then put a hand on the door handle. “You ready?”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Ready.”

The small crowd gathered on the sidewalk went wild when Kit stepped out of the cab. He turned back to me and held out a hand.

Thanking the driver, I let Kit help me out of the cab; he dropped my hand as soon as I was on my feet.

I prayed my hair still looked okay and that my jeans weren’t giving me a camel toe. I gave them a quick tug, just in case.

And then I smiled at Kit, and he smiled back, and everyone went insane. In addition to the photographers who crowded the scene, there was a line of shivering people waiting to get into Jeanette’s. They pressed toward us, people crying out, oh my God, it’s him, it’s Prince Kit, look how cute they are together!

Kit leaned toward me. Jesus, why did he have to smell so good? “I knew we’d make a cute couple.”

“But are we sickeningly cute?” I arched a brow. “That’s the real question.”

“We’ve got all night to get there, haven’t we?”

I stayed close to him, still smiling for the cameras as a small army of black-suited men with earpieces ushered us through a VIP entrance. Kit kept glancing over his shoulder, making sure I was still there. Still okay.

Was his concern fake, like his smile? Or was he really looking out for me? Not that it mattered. All that did matter was making the people who saw us think our connection was real.

When we got to our table, I almost laughed. It was the best in the house, and absolutely gigantic; a long, plush velvet sofa was strewn with pretty pillows and prettier people, each cocktail table set with an elaborate bottle service—vodka, tequila, a magnum of champagne. We overlooked the dance floor, and I could feel the thump thump thump of the baseline in my chest.

Already people were holding up their phones to snap pictures of us. I was glad it was relatively dark inside; the attention was making my face hot.

Kit sidled up beside me, pressing the vodka soda I’d asked for into my hand.

“I want to introduce you to everyone,” he murmured. “I think it would look most natural if I had a hand on your back. Is that okay?”

I took a long, hard pull from my drink. We had to sell this thing. We had to touch. It would suck. But at least him touching my back was better—less intimate—than holding hands.

Baby steps.

“Yeah. That’s okay.”

He put his hand on the small of my back. I closed my eyes and I stiffened but I managed to not pull away. His eyes were still on me, but I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I had to focus on breathing. Staying calm. His touch didn’t mean anything. In fact, it meant even less than the bartender’s grabs and prods the other night.

All pretend. All fake. My mantra as of late.

Kit introduced me to the pretty people at our table. Our background story was laid out in the contract. It wisely stuck as closely as possible to the truth: we’d first met at the London School of Economics, where I’d been in Kit’s class. But we only started dating recently after we’d bumped into each other at an event for the foundation.

I don’t know what I was expecting Kit’s friends to be like. Snobs? Devastatingly sophisticated city people? Khaki-clad bros? Turns out they were all lovely and welcoming. They seemed genuinely excited for us. I got a couple comments, mostly from Kit’s guy friends, about how “absolutely thrilled” they were that Kit had finally found someone—and that he was out for a change.

By now, people had really begun to notice who we were and what was going on. There were camera phones everywhere. Kit looked meaningfully at me, the understanding passing between us: it was time to turn it up a notch.

Time to go to work.

I tipped back my glass and finished my drink. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.