I can’t believe my ears. “Are you serious?”

I hadn’t really expected Lucy to accept my offer when I made it. She looks like the kind of woman who instinctively shies away from the limelight, and being my psudeo girlfriend would definitely put her directly under the spotlight, especially once word gets out that I am back in my home town.

“Um, to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. I’m in town doing some promotional work for the hospital, so I guess you’ll have to come to those events.”

“Okay,” Lucy says easily. “What else?”

“Well, since we’re saying we’re a couple, we should probably do some hand holding, go on a few dates. Maybe kiss a few times.”

The very idea of kissing Lucy again, and this time having her actively participate in the experience, causes an explosion of heat to ricochet through me.

“Is that all?”

“Probably. I’ve never had a psudeo girlfriend before, so I’m not entirely sure how things are supposed to be handled. I really can’t imagine how it could be much more than that.”

“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” Lucy half-chuckles. “I wouldn’t want to be getting into bed with someone who does this all the time.”

She sits bolt upright. “I didn’t mean –”

It’s all I can do to hide the smile that threatens to stretch across my face. An image of Lucy – hair all messed up, lipstick smeared, and lying in my bed – flashes across my mind’s eye.

Down, cowboy.

Lucy looks away, chewing on her lower lip, and stares out the windshield at the row of scraggly rosebushes that line the sidewalk I parked in front of.

I take the opportunity to study her – and compose myself. While she doesn’t have the drop-dead gorgeous looks my agent would most likely prefer my pseudo girlfriend to have, Lucy is pretty in a wholesome, completely natural way that I find way more appealing than some model from the front cover of Vogue magazine. With the exception of a little mascara, she’s not wearing any makeup and her shoulder-length brown hair is clean but not styled. Her bulky sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans make it impossible to guess exactly what type of figure she has, but from the few seconds I held her, I’m guessing she’s nicely filled out in all the right places, and that while she’s not overweight, she’s also not afraid to eat ice cream, mashed potatoes, and chocolate the way some of my co-stars are.

After spending nearly every waking moment surrounded by men and women who spend the bulk of their time worrying about their appearance, Lucy’s naturalness is refreshing.

I study the starburst-shaped scar on her left cheek. Some people might say it mars her beauty, but I disagree. It intrigues me. I think it gives her looks more depth and substance, and shows that she has a history, a past that, like mine, isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I desperately want to ask how she got it, but this is neither the time nor the place.

Her long fingers with their short, unpainted nails drill a random rhythm on the hard shell of her laptop. She slants a sideways glance at me. “If I agree to this, will you promise me something?”

I’ve been around show people too long, been burned one too many times to randomly agree to those kinds of statements. They have a tendency to come back and haunt me.

“That depends on what it is you want,” I say cautiously.

“Do you promise that this ‘dating’,—” She uses her fingers to form quotation marks around the word dating, “—thing you want to do will be fun?”

I flash my trademark grin, the one that charms reporters, delights fans, and has made me the darling sidekick for rom-coms. “Fun is something I strive for in every aspect of my life. As long as you’re with me, I promise your life will be a laugh a minute.”

“Okay.” Lucy takes a deep breath and hands me the car keys. “I’ll do it, but I swear, if you let me down …” She lets the sentence trail off as I slide the key into the ignition.

“You’ll what?” The engine roars to life and I ease backwards out of the parking space.

In my rearview mirror, I see the door to the coffee shop swing open and Suzie step out, her right hand wrapped around a large paper cup. She spots my car and her mouth flattens. The fact that I’ve completely ruined her day gives me an odd sense of satisfaction. While she pretty much ignored me all through high school, a few of my good friends weren’t so lucky and occasionally found themselves being used – and abused – by the town's social queen. This felt like a justifiable sense of revenge.

“I’m not really sure,” Lucy admits. “But I promise, it will be something truly horrible.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Lucy’s words completely lack the conviction needed to make them a serious threat. Still, I decide to play along.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her as I make a right turn onto Main Street.

For the first time, Lucy seems to realize that we’re moving. She sits up straighter in her seat and looks around, her eyes just a little frantic. “Wait a minute. Where are we going?”

“To the hospital,” I say, my tone mild. “I have a meeting with Chad Rourke about donating organs and bodily tissue. I figure it’s as good a place as any for you to make your debut as my pseudo girlfriend. Don’t you agree?”

The Fletcher Memorial Hospital was built by and named after the Fletcher Glassworks, a family owned glass making factory that has the distinction of still being the biggest employer in the town. When they’d built the hospital about ninety years ago, they’d done so with the hope that in addition to being able to provide any employees who were hurt on the job with fast medical care, they might also encourage members of the medical community to move to our little town, thus creating a second industry in a town that had, at the time, a total population of about one thousand citizens.

At the time, the hospital had been a small, unimaginative brick of a building sitting right on the edge of the town. Twenty years later, when the beloved matriarch of the family was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, her husband leapt into action, adding a cancer wing and using his money to convince some of the best doctors in the world to come to Fletcher Memorial.

The doctors and expensive medical equipment hadn’t been able to save Jean Fletcher. She passed away about two years after her initial diagnosis, but it turned out that her getting sick was one of the best things that could have happened to this little town. Because of her husband’s desperation to help her, the Fletcher Memorial Hospital became the best cancer treatment program in the state, and one of the top five in the country. As a result, people who have been diagnosed with cancer flock here, and the town has learned to cater to them.

Today, the hospital is still the same unimaginative brick it ever was, but it has expanded so that at least it’s now an eight-story brick, surrounded by an assortment of businesses that include a large hotel, various restaurants, a florist, and a few different hobby stores.

I park the car in one of the outdoor side lots. Lucy slides her laptop under the passenger seat, hiding it from anyone who happens to walk past before she lets herself out of the car. Almost as though she’s worried about losing a prized possession. For a second it makes me wonder what’s so important on that laptop, but in an instant – and helped by a glimpse of Lucy’s voluptuous ass – I forget the thought.

Side by side but not actually touching, we walk to the entrance. I glance at the pretty golf course that’s located next to the lot and stretches to the back of the hospital.

“Good to see the doctors around here are still getting plenty of exercise.”

Lucy follows the direction of my gaze and a small smile quirks the corners of her mouth as she shrugs into her lightweight coat. “When I first moved here, I thought that it was the strangest place for a golf course. Especially considering how busy the rest of this part of town is. I hate to think what the property taxes are for a piece of land that big. Then my boss told me that because the golf course is close enough for the doctors to play a few holes during their breaks, and the fact that all the employees connected to the hospital get a huge discount on membership is one of the reasons so many prominent doctors come to Fletchers’ as opposed to somewhere else.”

“Wait a minute. Your boss... Don’t you work for Suzie?”

“No.” The ends of Lucy’s hair brush across the top of her shoulders as she shakes her head. “I work for her dad. Doctor Collins. He hired me as his office manager.”

“I thought you were Suzie’s wedding planner.” I take one long stride in order to reach the door first and hold it open for Lucy.

“God no.” Lucy shudders. “She had one, but I think that lasted for about a day, maybe two, and the relationship dissolved.”

“Who called it quits?” I ask, trailing Lucy into the brightly lit, stark hallway. The strange, chemically sterile smell I always associate with my childhood burns the inside of my nose. I press a hand to my stomach in a desperate attempt to stop myself from retching. The only thing worse than being in a hospital is being in this hospital.

Lucy’s brow furrows. “I’m not really sure. I guess it depends on who you ask, but I think I heard the wedding planner ripped up the contract and told Suzie that she was the worst bride she’s ever encountered.”

Now I’m the one who shudders. “Coming from a wedding planner, that’s really saying something.”

“Mmm,” Lucy hums. She looks up at a large overhead sign that has a list of different departments found on the floor and arrows pointing the way to each one. “Where are we going?”

I stop and tug the cell phone out of my back pocket and open up my text message app. I scroll through the various messages until I find the one I’m looking for.

“The eighth floor, room 821.”

Lucy finds a small elevator bank and pushes the call button. When the doors open, they reveal, not the empty elevator I’d hoped for, but that the elevator was already occupied by a small, curvy teenager leaning against a janitorial cart as she stares at her smartphone.

I eye the phone she’s holding. If there’s one thing I’ve discovered over the course of my career, it’s that teenagers are faster at sharing celebrity news than the paparazzi. Tabloid journalists take time to make sure they get the most scandalous shot and have to create a great story. Teens don’t care about any of that – they just want the picture.

Deciding that she was a great practice audience for the pseudo relationship, I take Lucy’s hand in my own and lace our fingers together.

Lucy shoots the teen a self-conscious glance but doesn’t say anything as I lead her into the confined space. My pulse pounds against the side of my throat as I try not to dwell on the feel of her hand in mine. I’ve held lots of women’s hands, both those who I’ve been in relationships with and those who starred with me in various romantic scenes, but none of those hands felt as natural as Lucy’s does, almost like hers was made just for mine.

It’s a scary thought.

The teen’s eyes meet mine but there’s not so much as a flicker of recognition. Talk about humiliating. Here I am, in my home town, standing directly in front of a person who is part of the very demographic I most want to appeal to, and she doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Much more of this, and I might start thinking about starting a new career.

“Which floor?” she mumbles around a wad of chewing gum.

“The eighth.”

She nods and hits the button with a large eight printed on it before her attention returns to her phone.

As the elevator starts to move, I notice that the only other button that’s lit up is the fourth floor. Which means I don’t have much time to figure out how to convince this girl of who I am so she’ll tell her friends.

I stare at her cart and an idea springs forth.

“Work here long?”

She blows out a heavy sigh at the interruption but doesn’t look up from her phone. “’Bout seven months.”

“Mmm. Like the work?”

This time she does look up, just long enough to roll her eyes. “I mop up puke and haul dirty sheets to the laundry room. What do you think?”

“I worked as a janitor.” That got Lucy’s attention, but didn’t seem to have any impact on the teen. “Not at a hospital, thought that would have been cool. But at a hotel.”

It’s a blatant lie. I've worked some pretty crummy jobs, including some that would have made doing custodial work at a hospital seem like a walk in the park. “The work was hard, but I met a ton of interesting people and man, the things some people do in their hotel room. I think I worked there three, maybe four months before I finally landed my first commercial role.”

As I suspected, the word commercial got the teen’s attention. “You were in a commercial?”

I nod and flash my trademark smile. The one that is renowned for charming the panties off both fans and journalists. On more than one occasion, my agent has told me it’s my greatest asset. “Guilty as charged.”

“That’s so cool.” The girl pushes her hair behind her ear and her angular face softens into a wide grin. “I want to be an actress.”

“It’s a noble profession.”

The elevator starts slowing as it passes the fifth floor. “Was it hard to get started? Did it take you a few years? Did you get to work right away, or did you spend years and years working odd jobs until something came along?”

“There were some ups and downs. I think I spent about five years auditioning before I landed my first acting gig.” And there was no way I’m going to tell her it took another two and half years before I got a role that actually paid more than peanuts.

The elevator bumps to a halt and the doors glide open. The girl backs up half a step and hovers there. She grips her phone so tight, her knuckles glow white.

“Um, would it be all right if, like, you and I take a picture together?” Her eyes glow with hope. Even though she still doesn’t know who I am, there’s no doubt in my mind that having a photo snapped with a celebrity, even one who might have only appeared in a few commercials, will be the highlight of her year.

“Of course.” This is exactly what I wanted from the beginning. She’ll post the photo to her favorite social media sites, and at least one of her friends will recognize me and word that I’m in town and escorting a pretty woman around will spread like wildfire.

It probably won't make it as far as the studio execs who don’t think I have a stable enough lifestyle, but it’s a good start.

I take the phone from her and pass it to Lucy, who has watched the entire conversation with a perplexed expression.

“Honey—” I lower my voice a bit, the way I’ve been taught to do whenever I’m playing a character who’s interested in a woman. Not only is it supposed to be a subtle sign of sexual interest, but my acting coach also said it makes female fans swoon. “Would you do the honors?”

“I guess,” she says, her attention shifting to the phone.

“Thanks.” I place a whisper soft kiss on the center of her scar.

I feel the teen’s eyes boring into us and suspect she’s secretly wishing it was her cheek I was kissing.

After a few seconds of debate, we decide that the best light is coming from a nearby window. I drop my arm casually around the teen’s shoulder and turn my trademark grin in Lucy’s direction.

Instead of staring into the camera, like I should be, I look just above it, at Lucy’s face. Her eyes are locked on the view screen, a small crease mars her brow and her lips form a thin line of intense concentration. I think she looks adorable.

“Ready?” she calls out.

“Yep,” the teen responds and snuggles more deeply into my side. I have a few actor friends who grit their teeth when this happens, but not me. I’m just glad she doesn’t attempt to grab my ass like a few fans have been known to do.

The camera flashes and Lucy frowns at the image in the LCD screen. “That one’s a little blurry. Let me try again.” Another flash and this time when she looks at the screen, Lucy’s expression softens.

“That’s better.” She walks toward us and hands the teen the phone.

“Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?” I ask the girl.

Her eyes narrow. “Why? You're not going to make me sign some sort of confidentiality agreement, are you?”

“Of course not,” I say easily. “I was just going to give you my autograph.”

“Oh!” The teen stares blankly at her maintenance cart. “I don’t know that I have anything.”

“Here.” Lucy pulls a small spiral notebook and pen out of her coat pocket.

“Thanks.” Smiling, I take it from her and quickly flip through the notebook. It’s full of notes and sketches. I resist my curiosity and don’t study any of it as I keep flipping until I find a blank page. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy,” the teen responds.

“To Tracy,” I sound out each word as I write it. “Wishing you a future that’s full of stars, Love, Ryan Jakes.” With a small flourish, I rip the piece of paper from the notebook and pass it to Tracy.

“Wait… You’re Ryan Jakes?” she whispers.

Grinning at Tracy, I return Lucy’s pen and notebook, waiting until she tucks them back into her pocket before I take her hand. “The one and only.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she says, awestruck. “But I never thought I’d get to meet you. You never come to town.”

“I’m here now.” I want to use Tracy for publicity. I don’t want to engage in a long discussion about my career, or worse, my personal life and I why I ran away in the first place, and that’s exactly what will happen if I stick around much longer. “I hate to sign and dash,” I tell Tracy before she can ask another question. “We’re late for a meeting.”

I nudge Lucy back in the direction of the elevator banks even as I feel my phone spring to life in my pocket. I don’t have to look at it to know the caller is my agent – and that she’s angry that I’m officially late for a meeting that required her to fly all the way from Los Angeles to the Midwest, something she’ll never let me live down.