“Take the picture,” I mouth.

Vaughn gives me the thumbs-up and snaps one picture. Her friend Kiki darts out from under my arm and hands her another phone. A bunch of other people are taking pictures now. Inside the club, so dark that I’m certain the only thing that will show up on Carrie’s camera is three shapes and three sets of red eyes, there are cameras being pointed at me from all directions.

Somewhere on the internet, this picture’s going to be labeled Oakley Ford’s handful at the club. Already stepping out on his girlfriend?

Thankfully, it’s over quickly, and then we’re walking out the back toward the waiting Escalades.

“W’s going to be so jealous when he hears about tonight,” Carrie says.

Next to me, Vaughn tenses. A revolting thought hits me. Had she pretended that W was kissing her? When she leaned against me in the club, was she thinking it was W? When she pressed my hand against her waist, was that W’s hand she was holding?

I hadn’t planned on kissing Vaughn again tonight. I’m sure Claudia is already in a rage over the first one, but I’m not letting Vaughn get in that truck until she knows exactly who’s kissing her. It’s not her wannabe, hat-wearing, plaidloving boyfriend. It’s me. Oak Ford.

“Hey.” I tug her back before she can climb in behind Kiki.

“Oh, right, our public goodbye.” She pushes some of her hair away from her face.

Behind us, I hear the clicks of the cameras. The flashes of bulbs light up her face every half second.

She rolls her eyes, which only stirs up my anger. “Smile for the cameras, baby. That’s your job, remember?”

“I’m not your baby,” she grumbles.

“You are for a year.”

Her eyes flash angrily. All the warm feelings that were stirred up in the green room are getting flushed down the toilet, but I can’t seem to stop my stupid mouth. Every time I open it, something assholic comes out.

“Now kiss me like you can’t get enough of me.” I wind my hand through her hair and tip her head to the side. “A better angle. Tongue this time.” With my mouth millimeters from hers, I pause. “What’s my name, baby?”

This time her eyes flicker with confusion. “Oakley Ford.”

Elation fills me. “That’s right.”

My lips press hard against hers and I sweep my tongue inside, tasting the sweetness of the cola she sipped on all night and the mint she popped into her mouth as we were walking out.

I kiss her, but she doesn’t kiss me back.

19

HER

Oakley Ford engages in serious PDA!

Oh em gee! Oakley and his flavor of the month were seen at the Valor Club for last night’s charity concert headlined by Maverick Madsen. The once-a-year benefit raises money for muscular dystrophy. But that’s not all that was raising last night…

Stop that! It was eyebrows;) Oakley Ford was caught giving the lip to his new arm candy, not once but twice last night. Insiders say the two could not keep their hands off each other.

Looks like Oakley’s making this good girl go bad…

The Heidi Does Hollywood post makes me cringe. I shut my laptop and remind myself that my love life won’t be a circus forever. Once this job is over, I’ll be able to make out with W—who I need to call ASAP—again without seeing the evidence of it pop up on all the celebrity blogs.

And without getting yelled at by Claudia a hundred times a day.

“Tongue!” she screeches in my ear first thing in the morning. “We don’t want tongue, Vaughn! We don’t want public makeouts! That just makes your relationship look like a dirty sex fest instead of the pure, sweet love we’re trying to convey.”

“Tell that to Oakley,” I mutter. Because it’s all his fault. I don’t know what power trip he was on last night, but I totally didn’t like it.

First he sprung a kiss on me in the dressing room, and then he taunted me outside the car and stuck his tongue in my mouth and said “What’s my name, baby?” like some kind of gross porn star.

Every time I think he might be a nice guy, he goes and proves me wrong. Thank goodness I don’t like him. That tingling I felt after the first kiss was just post-concert adrenaline. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing.

“Amy and I are working on damage control,” Claudia says irritably. “You’ve got a lunch date with Katrina at noon today—”

“Katrina?” I interrupt.

She huffs impatiently. “Katrina Ford. Oak’s mother.”

My jaw hits the floor. I’m having lunch with Oakley’s movie star mother today? Would it kill these people to give me some advance notice about these things?

“W-why?” I stammer.

Claudia hisses. “Because it’s time to take the relationship to the next level. And a meet-the-family shows that you and Oak are serious about each other.”

“Does she know it’s a fake relationship?”

“No. So that means you need to sell her on how much you love her son. We’ll leak the lunch location to the paps to make sure they get some shots of you and Katrina. This might neutralize the tongue disaster.”

“Will Oakley be there?” I swallow hard, because the thought of meeting his mother—alone—makes me very, very nervous.

“No, I’m making sure he’s at the studio today. I don’t want any pictures of you two for at least a few days. We want the tongue thing to die down first.”

“Jeez, it was just a kiss.” I’m starting to think everyone in Hollywood is insane. Then again, if Claudia’s this worked up about it, what will W say?

I order myself not to worry about it. W will understand. He already knows that this is all for show. At least, I hope he does.

“It was not just a kiss. You’re supposed to be the good girl. Not the good girl gone bad!”

I wince. Claudia and I must be reading the same websites. I try to turn the conversation back to Oakley’s mom. “Does Oakley know I’m meeting his mom?”

Claudia takes the bait. “I’m about to call him and fill him in. It shouldn’t be a problem. And I already spoke to Katrina—she’s excited to meet you.” A slew of commands proceed to fill my ear. “Wear something nice and conservative. Nothing too racy. Some makeup is okay, but not a lot—Katrina doesn’t like being upstaged. Oh, and do not mention Dusty.”

“Dusty?” I ask stupidly.

“Dustin Ford—Oak’s dad. Katrina loses it every time someone mentions his name. Amy’s emailing you some talking points right now. A car will pick you up in an hour.”

She hangs up, and less than a minute later my phone beeps with an email notification. I click to open the message.

Don’t mention graduating early from high school. K’s touchy about education—dropped out at 16, got her GED at 20.

Do NOT mention Oakley’s father.

Don’t bring up plastic surgery—K’s touchy about it. Swears she’s never gone under the knife. They all do.

Don’t discuss: politics, the economy, her childhood (K grew up in a trailer park—touchy about it), her last two movies (bombs), the environment, her…

My eyes almost bug out. The list goes on and on, and either I’m dumber than I thought, or there aren’t any actual talking points here. It’s just bullet points of all the things I shouldn’t say. And there are so many of them.

I scrub my hands over my eyes and try not to scream in frustration. It seems like Oakley’s mom is touchy about everything. And why can’t I talk about the environment? Does she have traumatic memories associated with climate change?

My phone rings again, and I can’t ignore it because it’s Tyrese. That means Oakley.

I wonder which Oakley is on the line, though—the one who’s funny and sweet, or the jackass who forced his tongue down my throat last night.

“Claudia says you’re seeing my mom today.”

“Hello to you, too,” I mutter. Jackass, then. “It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

He ignores my sarcasm. “I’m sure she’ll have lots to say about what a selfish, awful son I am—”