Fifty four

Fifty four
Fallon
Swallowing my pride tasted a lot like regret.
I stood outside Reid’s home office, the soft hum of his voice carrying through the heavy wooden door. I should’ve turned around. Every instinct told me to forget the Luxe Amor campaign and avoid this conversation entirely. But this job — this opportunity — was too big to pass up.
And like it or not, I needed him for it.
I raised my hand to knock, hesitated — and then knocked twice before I could change my mind.
“Come in.”
The sound of his voice — low, clipped, and entirely too composed — sent something sharp through me. I pushed the door open, stepping into the room, and Reid looked up from his laptop.
God help me, he looked good.
He was all sharp lines and cool detachment — sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and dark hair tousled like he’d been dragging his hands through it. His eyes, however, were anything but relaxed. They narrowed the second they landed on me.
“What do you need, Fallon?”
Not exactly a warm welcome. But I wasn’t here for warmth.
I squared my shoulders. “I need your help.”
One brow arched. “That’s new.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” I warned.
His mouth curved into a slow, infuriating smirk. “Too late.”
\~~~
I kept my voice steady and professional — laying out the details like it was any other business deal. The Luxe Amor campaign. The exposure. The paycheck.
“I can’t do it without you,” I admitted, hating how true it was. “They want the couple angle.”
Reid leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. “So let me get this straight — you want me to drop everything and play the doting husband for your followers?”
I forced myself not to rise to the bait. “It’s one afternoon. One shoot. Then you can go back to ignoring me.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “And what do I get out of it?”
“The satisfaction of helping your wife’s career?” I said sweetly.
He just stared.
I sighed, already regretting every life decision that had led me here. “Fine. What do you want?”
The air between us thickened, and his gaze never wavered. “Dinner. You and me. No cameras.”
My pulse jumped. “Reid—”
“Take it or leave it.”
My pride screamed at me to walk away. But my career whispered louder.
“Fine,” I bit out, the words like glass on my tongue. “You’ve got a deal.”
His smirk deepened — and for one terrifying second, I wondered if I’d just made a deal with the devil.
The set-up was perfect — soft lighting, warm tones, and enough Luxe Amor products to make my followers swoon. The blanket was draped artfully over the couch, the matching mugs steamed on the coffee table, and the candles filled the air with something rich and woodsy.
It was the picture of romance. Too bad the reality was… less so.
I adjusted the camera angle, hyper-aware of Reid watching me from the couch. He looked far too comfortable — one arm draped over the backrest, his long legs stretched out in those perfectly tailored dress pants.
“You ready?” I asked, holding out the matching robes.
He held out a hand. “Give me yours.”
“What?”
“You’re going to put it on wrong,” he said, like I was some sort of robe-wearing amateur.
I threw it at his head.
He caught it without breaking a sweat, grinning like the insufferable man he was. “Real mature.”
“Shut up and put it on.”
The first few takes were awkward. Forced. I was too aware of the camera. Too aware of him. Every brush of his skin, every glance that lasted a second too long — it made my heart pound for reasons I refused to examine.
“Smile,” I muttered through clenched teeth as we held our matching mugs for a shot.
“I am smiling.”
“Try looking like you mean it.”
“Try being less bossy.”
I elbowed him, and his low chuckle sent heat curling through my stomach.
But then… something shifted.
The banter faded.
The air grew warmer.
When I reached for my mug, his hand covered mine — his touch warm, solid, and far more steady than I felt. A spark shot through me, and I knew the camera would catch the way my breath hitched.
Later, when we wrapped ourselves in the blanket for a “cozy” shot, his arm slid around my shoulders — and when I leaned into him, it didn’t feel like acting.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured, his lips brushing my temple.
My heart raced. “At pretending?”
His eyes held mine, and the heat there made my mouth go dry. “At making it hard to tell the difference.”
When the shoot wrapped, the air between us felt charged — like we’d been playing with fire and neither of us wanted to admit we’d gotten burned.
I busied myself packing up the equipment, trying to steady my breathing. But I could feel him watching me.
“Dinner,” Reid said, his voice low and quiet.
I looked up, my pulse kicking. “What?”
“You agreed,” he reminded me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Tomorrow night. No cameras.”
My throat went dry. “Right.”
He smiled — slow and knowing, and I hated how it made my stomach flip. “Don’t be late.”
That night, long after the house had gone quiet, I lay awake in my too-big bed. The scent of the Luxe Amor candles still lingered in the air — warm and woodsy and far too intimate.
And when I closed my eyes, I didn’t think about the campaign. Or the perfect couple the world believed us to be.
I thought about the way his hand had felt on mine.
The weight of his arm around my shoulders.
And the way my heart had raced when he looked at me like I wasn’t so easy to walk away from.