Every single person in the room was frozen still.
“Get up,” I said, trying to grab Jack by the shoulders and—What? Somehow hoist all two-hundred-plus pounds of his solid muscle back up? “You don’t have to do this.”
But he was unbudgeable. Duh.
“I really need your help,” he went on. “I have to be here for my mom, and I can’t show up here and bring danger, or risk, or—you know—assassinations with me. And I can’t make this moment any harder on her than it has to be. Please, please take the assignment. And please help me protect her by concealing who you really are.”
“What are you doing?” was all I could think of to say.
He pulled my hands into his. “I’m begging,” Jack answered. “I’m begging you.”
His expression was so earnest, so plaintive, so intense … for a second, I thought he might cry.
And I was dumbfounded. Again. For the second time that day. Because nobody cries like Jack Stapleton.
Do you remember how he cried in The Destroyers? Most people remember the moment when he blows up the mineshaft. And of course the scene where he gives himself surgery with no anesthesia. And the catchphrase, “Never say goodbye.” But what actually made that movie great was the sight of an action hero, at his darkest moment, thinking he’d lost everyone he loved and failed them beyond recognition, weeping tears of grief. You never see that, ever. That’s what made that movie a classic. That’s what made it better than all the hundreds of others just like it—that raw, human moment of vulnerability coming from the last guy you’d ever expect. It made us all want to be better people. It made us all love him—and humanity—just a little bit more.
Anyway. This scene in the reception area was a little like that.
But with ficus plants.
He didn’t wind up crying, in the end. But just the suggestion of it was enough.
Jack Stapleton—the Jack Stapleton—was on his knees.
Begging.
And here’s the truth. This should have been the epiphany when I realized that Jack Stapleton deserved all his fame and more. Everything he did right then held me, and everyone else, spellbound.
The man could act.
He leaned his kneeling body forward and looked up at me with his hands clasped. “I’m begging you to help my sick mom,” he said.
I mean, come on.
I’m not made of stone.
“Fine,” I said, summoning a rather Oscar-worthy fake nonchalance. “Stop begging. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
And then I went ahead and snuck one peek at the slack-jawed expression on my terrible ex-boyfriend’s lousy, ratty, deplorable face.
Which, to be honest, felt like a win for the good guys.
And for humanity.
And especially, at last, for me.
Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, I drove west out Interstate 10 with Jack Stapleton in his shiny black Range Rover to meet his parents—fully in character as his pretend girlfriend.
Glenn had sent over a pretend wardrobe for the pretend girlfriend, courtesy of a personal-shopper lady friend of his. No pantsuits allowed.
Fair enough.
That’s how I wound up wearing an embroidered sundress with sandals, my hair wrapped in a messy bun.
I guess it’s hard to feel professional in a sundress with puffy cap sleeves. It was late October, I should mention, but that can mean anything in Texas, weather-wise—and it was a solid eighty degrees outside. Even so, I felt underprepared, a little bit chilly, weirdly naked, and uncharacteristically vulnerable.
I missed my pantsuit, is what I’m saying.
And yet.
I could see why Jack would want to do it this way. When my mom was sick, I’d been all about bolstering her spirits, and keeping her hopes alive, and protecting her from despair. I got it. The idea that Jack might be in danger could be very stressful. It’s hard enough being sick.
I’d thought about it last night as I’d driven the freeway—doing a quick route assessment out to the ranch and back—and I decided I was fine with it.
In theory, at least.
Now, today, as it was actually happening, I was less fine.
I sat primly in the passenger seat with my knees pressed together, feeling not myself.
Jack Stapleton, in contrast, positively lounged in the driver’s seat, steering with one hand and manspreading like a champion. Hair unbrushed defiantly. Chewing gum. Wearing aviator sunglasses like he’d been born in them.
We were going to a ranch, so I guess I’d expected a cowboy look from him. But he seemed more like we were heading for a weekend at the Cape—a snug blue polo and stone-colored khakis with loafers and no socks.