CHAPTER 2

It only took a week of extremely long shifts to burst Rachel's fairly hopeful little bubble about her new job. Yes, it was better than her old job – and paid somewhat better, too – but she worked long hours in a terrible penguin suit, and got nothing but patronising swipes and biting sarcasm from the pretentious, over-stuffed, elitist guests. It just went to prove that no amount of money could ever buy manners or style.

She didn't see Luke Heartlett again in the place, though, which was a relief, at least. She could do without that humiliation coming back to haunt her. Things were bad enough as it was. Unfortunately, it was about the only bit of good luck she would have.

After barely sleeping a wink all night Sunday from a long and stressful late shift, Rachel was in no mood to be ready for work by twelve, to get there before two on Monday afternoon. She wasn't looking forward to a long, late shift that wasn't finishing until ten, and as she painted her face up ready to look presentable in public, she wondered once again why she was putting herself through such long hours on her feet when there were lots of other kinds of jobs to be had?

The problem was that her bottom line was that she hated all normal jobs. However, she did wonder if there just might be something out there more suitable for her than gruelling eight-hour shifts at a pretentiously snobby restaurant with an equally pretentious boss yelling random obscenities at her every time she even breathed in the wrong direction. The only thing she could say was she was almost competent at her job, her boss liked talking to her in his own language, and she received some good tips from the few customers who weren't above dipping for the odd pennies in their deep pockets.

Just a shame the aforementioned equally pretentious boss was far above actually being a decent human being and giving her a break on the beleaguering and yelling.

By the end of the day that most miserable of Mondays, Rachel was overwhelmingly exhausted and done. The restaurant had been closed early and hired out for some rich, posh person's party, and it probably would have been easier managing a room of over-tired toddlers all wanting to go home after a long day, than the affluent, pretentious, inebriated and overly gregarious human disasters of the attending party. The entire experience was a nightmare, and one she really did not care to repeat anytime soon.

Without doubt, the next time she found out she was scheduled to work another such function, she would be accidentally catching the Plague, or something. No one paid enough to put up with that kind of behaviour or that amount of waiting-on work.

Everyone who had come in had been absolutely awful, Jean-Pierre had taken up screaming at her as an Olympic sport, and she'd ended up dropping a tray-full of China plates all over the kitchen floor, and herself, with the loudest crash she had ever heard.

Ironically, Jean-Pierre hadn't screamed about that. In fact, he had been surprisingly and very uncharacteristically philosophical about it, telling her to forget about it and sort-of taking care of her for an entire two minutes. He had even asked if she was alright, which was so surreal it was almost terrifying, leaving her feeling that some kind of parallel universe horror story was unravelling before her very eyes.

By the day's end, she wished that had been the case, because it still would have been a better outcome and better day that what actually transpired. Now it was finally all over, she was cranky and was so very ready to curl up in a corner somewhere and die.

Ready to run out screaming, she finally left the building, after she had virtually ripped off penguin costume and stuffed herself into bootlegged jeans, a warm roll-neck top, a long cardigan, and sky-high platformed heel boots – all black, because that was easier. The hasty ensemble got covered by a scarf and long, belted trench coat – also black – and she made a hasty escape out the hotel restaurant without a backwards glance at the place… maybe hoping it might have burned down by the next morning, when she had her next shift.

Feeling overwhelmingly nauseated and lightheaded from both stress and relief, Rachel pushed herself through the glass doors of the main entrance and slumped down the glistening, wet steps, filled with anything but joy at the prospect of the bus ride home in the dark. For the record, she hated taking the buses at night even, more so it if was the actual Night Bus, but it wasn't like she could actually afford the Tube.

At least it still wasn't raining anymore, but the cold shadow of rain-filled air was all around and heavy, making it dismal, slightly misty, and uncomfortable to walk through. The streetlamp lights shining and reflecting off the wet ground didn't help, because Rachel preferred to keep her head down, ignore everybody and remain as much as possible in her own solitude, regardless of how many people were around her. The air was chilled and had a slight bite to it, and she couldn't imagine a better version of Pathetic Fallacy to be walking through right then. Like the best staging around, it absolutely reflected her insides, and wondered if God, or whatever was around or so-called, had added theatre director to his umpteen jobs of things He did for His humans.

Walking as quickly as she could with what little energy she had, lost in these meandering thoughts, Rachel suddenly found herself careering straight into someone running right in her direction nearly fell backwards on the ground.

Shocked from her reverie, she let her mouth do the thinking and the talking before she consciously knew what she was doing.

"Hey, watch it dipshit," she snapped harshly at whoever it was. "Why don't you look where you're going?"

Now, normally, she would never, ever react in such a way. But Rachel was feeling so exhausted and at odds with the whole world, right then she just didn't care. She wasn't letting someone quite literally try and walk all over her. Not in the mood she was in.

"What? Hey, don't yell at me," reacted a loud, brash American, his voice raised in defensive annoyance. "You're the one who should be looking where you're going. I'm in a hurry, if you don't mind."

"Yep, whatever you say," Rachel retorted snarkily. "Maybe if you weren't in such a bloody rush, you wouldn't go knocking people over."

"You shouldn't be in the way!"

"What, you think I'm the one in the way? You've got a flipping nerve, haven't you? What is it with men and their innate inability to apologise and see when they are the ones in the wrong?"

Rachel glared right at him. He was now standing in front of a streetlamp, and she could suddenly see just who she was yelling at, and she quite frankly couldn't believe her eyes.

Oh, Holy God, Jesus and Mary, she inwardly panicked, as she suddenly found herself staring at him.

Sodding Luke Heartlett.

Actually. The. Luke. Heartlett.

And, well, they weren't overdoing it even a little bit when everywhere described him as gorgeous and smouldering. Deep and mesmerising dark eyes were locked on hers and definitely smouldering – in anger, granted, but still looked the same. Under the streetlamp, the light showed he had even darker hair that was almost pure black, which gave way to sharp and high cheekbones, a square-jaw, grim features, and a rather irate man who looked more like a billboard underwear model than a music-industry god.

She had seen pictures – let's face it most people had. But in person? No picture she had seen could ever do him even a reasonable amount of justice. This man was… Something else.

Nevertheless… Here she was, yelling at him, staring straight into his face, and about ready to launch another attack with what rubbish he was sprouting at her now. Gorgeous and famous or not, he wasn't getting away with that. Oh, no.

Not today.

"I do apologise when something is actually my fault," the man went on, as her brain went slightly offline. But then he snorted at her with derision, and that got her out of her stunned reverie.

Returning her focus to the situation again, Rachel got her snarky flow back.

"But it was your fault," she insisted stubbornly, knowing he could be God himself, but she wasn't letting him get away with behaviour like this.

"No, it wasn't. And then you started yelling at me. Now are you going to let me go or make me freeze here while arguing with you all night?"

"Well, if you just—"

A bright flash suddenly started her and caught her attention. Immediately, they both naturally looked around to where it had come from, and from extensive prior experience, Luke recognised the flash and the retreating shadow of a photographer attempting to make the deadline for tomorrow's stories and swore under his breath.

"Damn paparazzo photographers," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Rachel's eyes widened in horror.

He shot her a look that silently asked if she was stupid. He obviously assumed she had recognised him. Pompous git.

"The press," he repeated slowly, with pointed wryness. "That'll now be in every corner of the world now, for everyone to comment and click on."

"They can't be that desperate for stories, surely?"

Luke shot her an incredulous glare and crossed his arms across his rather substantial chest. Not that she was looking.

"They're always desperate for stories," he retorted dryly. "God knows what they will create out of this."

"Well, that would be one more thing that would be your fault," Rachel grumped loudly at him.

"Oh, for God's sake, stick a cork in it, honey," Luke exclaimed in exasperation. "Now. I am leaving. I'm sorry you couldn't look where you were going. I'll probably see you tomorrow morning all over the damn gossipy entertainment news. Goodnight."

He strode off, and Rachel huffed and stomped off in the opposite direction, muttering obscenities about him under her breath as she walked away. Stevie was going to hate her by the end of the night.

And Stevie did – especially when Rachel let herself into her flat and went about slamming everything and complaining loudly about something at eleven-thirty at night, when all she wanted to do was get some sleep.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Stevie demanded, slamming open the door to her room. Her ruffled, long, two-toned hair were in messy pigtails trailing over her shoulders, and she was in Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, but Rachel ignored her, and carried on as if it was still the middle of the day.

"That goddamn Luke Heartless is what's wrong with me," Rachel steamed. "He thinks he's so bloody marvellous because he's some up-his-arse celebrity."

"I take it you've seen him again, then?"

"Seen him? He only just came stampeding towards me at sixty miles and hour out of nowhere and nearly knocked me over, then insisted it was all my fault!"

"So, a gentleman then?"

"Hah! Are you kidding? There's nothing gentle about that egomaniac arsehole, I can tell you."

Rachel threw herself on the couch in a stressed-out huff and Stevie watched her stomping tirade with weary amusement.

"Are you done yet?" she asked dryly.

"No, I am not."

"Well, can you please strop quietly, go home, or just get in the bed, so I can get some sleep?"

Rachel made a face and eventually succumbed to the idea of company, rest, and a warm duvet. She motioned for Stevie to lead the way into her sole bedroom, who then proceeded to throw pyjamas at her and climb into the big bed to get back to sleep. It's what they'd been doing ever since they'd known each other, staying up and hanging out until all hours in one person's place or the other, then staying over in the bed of whoever's home they were hanging out in. They'd probably still do it in their 90s – it was so much easier than trying to actually go home.

Rachel crawled in soon afterwards, snuggled into one of her soft and warm pyjama sets she kept here for just such an occasion, and was indeed grateful for the warm duvet and some company. She now hoped she could at least try and go to sleep.

Unfortunately, sleep didn't help whatsoever. Despite having quite a comfortable night with Stevie – where the warmth and safety of another person, in her hugely comfortable bed, made her feel cozy, and fuzzy and relaxed – it was the daytime that proved to bring the true nightmares instead, to make up for the lack of any the night before.

Despite being on the late shift the evening before, Rachel had been roped into the breakfast shift the following day in someone else's absence. It did not sit well – and was going even worse.

"Miss? Miss? Excuse me?"

That was someone wanting a "real" sugar bowl, not "this tiny thing in front of me" – which was the size of a normal sugar bowl.

"Oi, 'scuse me?"

Oh, goodie, someone with no manners whatsoever, who was probably far more used to people bowing to him, rather than… say… poking a finger into his eye. Rachel turned to find out it was indeed a cocky rich bloke waving his arm and clicking his fingers, like she was some kind of damned genie. He had wanted "bigger eggs", to which one could only presume he was used to ostrich eggs or similar – because no hen was capable of creating anything bigger than the ones on his plate.

"Excuse me, miss?" Rachel turned to yet another person who wanted a very busy restaurant to materialise things at the drop of a hat. "We ordered coffee ten minutes ago and it hasn't come yet? Do you think that perhaps you could make sure that we finally get it now?"

That was the story of her life now, with no exception. She was always running around after everyone else. And they always complained. Rachel assured them that the coffee was on its way and apologised for the wait. Just what was going on in the kitchen for coffee to be late was beyond her. It was coffee.

"Excuse me, miss? There were no mushrooms with my English breakfast, and the menu definitely says the English Breakfast has the mushrooms! Please don't come back until this order has been done properly."

Well. There was an offer she didn't want to refuse. Maybe, then, she might just not come back at all… She didn't have to tell Chef that he required mushrooms, meaning she had blanket permission from the customer to therefore avoid him the rest of the entire day, no…?

Rachel deftly bit back an equally snarky retort around this thinking and left it all to the hyper-privileged and smug douche, preening himself in front of his fellow tablemates for "putting her in her place and telling them straight", as she overheard another one of them say after she'd left.

"Call me again and I'll pour the plate all over your head," she muttered under her breath as she walked off with said plate to go and get someone else's order. They could wait, now.

"Excuse me..."

There was another one. She was seriously beginning to consider legally changing her name to "Excuse Me", since that was what she always being called. Not even "Waitress". Hell, why complicate things by having an actual name? Christ, she really, really, really hated working the early shifts.

"Yes, sir," she answered with grinding politeness, turning around, and giving him a tight smile. Then the smile quickly snapped into pursed lips when she saw who it was. Was this man ever going to leave her alone?

The. Luke Heartlett. He was sitting at the table[DK1] , the last person who had called out to her, waiting to be served, and of course she was the one who had to do it. Especially since he was the last person she wanted to see after both last night and that morning's gossip headlines all over the internet, real print, and social media – claiming the photograph of the two of them arguing was them having a lover's tiff – the audacity! – publicising their "secret affair" after the very supposedly-famous and apparent recent break up between he and his supermodel girlfriend. So famous, she certainly hadn't had a clue about it, and – what the ever-loving Hell, journos? – why did it have to be her, the only woman alive who would rather skewer him with one of her fancy silver forks, than be anywhere near him now, let alone some imaginary "love interest"?

The story had come with the headline "Not-So-Secret Heart-To-Heart" spanning the width of her phone screen that morning.

"I'd like some coffee," Luke answered her coolly. "And to know when your break is."

Rachel stared at him as if he was crazy – which, of course, he must have been. Why else would a superfluously aesthetically gorgeous man of international boyband and solo-artist mega-fame be asking her that?

"My break?" she demanded indignantly. "Why?"

Dark eyes snapped on hers intently as he held up the huge iPad in his hands with that very same headline written all over it. "That's why."

Rachel flinched, cringing at being faced with it once more, by him, no less. On a screen that big, it felt and looked even worse.

"So, one coffee is it, then?" Rachel said, trying to ignore him and that infernal iPad, left face-up on the headline-screaming screen. "Would that be a café au lait or café noir? For you, an Americano perhaps?"

"Come on. Five minutes and I'll leave you alone."

She gave him a scathing look from over her order pad. "Why can't you leave me alone now?"

The Luke Heartlett placed both hands on the table cupping them together in front of him. His hands were covered in multiple silver rings, which seemed out of place with the rest of his traditional good-boy male model aesthetic. The rest of his attire certainly lived up to it, from the casual black t-shirt with a more formal and expensive black jacket over it, black jeans and what were probably quite expensive boots underneath.

"I'd like to discuss something with you." Luke's voice sounded controlled and measured, but the hyper-focus of his eyes on her gave her the impression he was trying to force her into agreeing with him.

Instead of readily agreeing – as if she would - Rachel looked back at him sharply. What on earth could he want with her?

"I'm the waitress here, and the only thing you need to discuss with me is your order. Sir."

This was ridiculous and unbelievably weird and wasn't supposed to happen at all. He was obviously a little out of his head. All that celebrity dope, probably. Actually, after his behaviour last night, he probably was the celebrity dope. The stuff itself didn't get itself called dope for nothing, either.

"It's not my order that I wish to discuss."

"Then what?" Rachel demanded, suspicious and sceptical. She looked around to check Jean-Pierre wasn't going to descend on her for talking while she was working, and waited for Luke to answer.

"You'll find out when I can speak to you," he respond ed infuriatingly, looking inanely smug about it.

Jean-Pierre floated past them and gave Rachel a suspicious glance and she looked down at her order pad.

"And would you like anything else with that coffee?" she quickly asked Luke, ducking her eyes from the stern maître d'.

"A conversation, if you don't mind."

"Oh… Fine then," Rachel grumbled. She gave up. If this got the American celebrity out of her hair, she would do it. "My break's at eleven. I'll go to the hotel's lobby. Don't expect me to hang around for you."

"Don't worry. I'll be there," he assured her, and she wandered off to get his coffee. He was still there when she came back with it, and there he stayed, until he finally vanished.

Keeping her word – reluctantly – Rachel took her over-tired brain and heavy legs over to the hotel lobby and, unfortunately, there he was. At ten past eleven, she had gone for her break – leaving for her break a little later than usual, in the hope he would be gone by then. It was usually spent on a short walk to the nearest Starbucks, and she passed through the front entrance, just in case the famous nutter had been serious and was still there. Dear God, why did these things happen to her?

She saw him standing by the reception desk and she attempted a calming breath as she approached him. It was only now, in the daylight streaming in, that couldn't help noticing how ethereally stunning he looked, especially this close and in person. Damn.

"Yes?" she prompted him, using a hard tone she could barely muster, but somehow managed to pull off. Being that annoyed obviously helped a lot.

"Ah. Hi," Luke replied, giving her an expression that vaguely looked like a smile. She did not smile back. "I think that by now you know who I am. But I still don't know your name."

"And why do you need to know?"

"Please?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's Rachel. Rachel Adams. You want my National Insurance and passport numbers, too?"

"Hello, Ms Adams," Luke greeted pointedly, holding out his hand. She reluctantly shook it, and wondered how bizarre this was. She never thought she would be holding The Luke Heartlett's hand, even if it was just for a handshake.

"Can we make this quick, please," Rachel grumbled at him, covering how flustered she felt about this. "I'd still like to make it to my Triple-Shot Caramel Latte."

"Oh, of course. By all means, lead the way. I'll walk you to them."

It was not what she was going for, but it looked like she wasn't about to make him give this up at all. Sighing defeat, Rachel let him walk with her to Starbucks, where they sat to discuss whatever he wanted to talk about. There was no point arguing with him. He was obviously a seriously stubborn git when he wanted to be.

"So, are you going to tell me what all this is about?" Rachel finally asked when he didn't immediately offer an explanation for his bizarre behaviour. She watched him wearily, noticing the odd, interested looks from other people and inwardly cringed.

"Actually, I was wondering if you would perhaps do me a… favour."

She choked on her coffee. Now she was really confused, as well as annoyed.

"What?"

What. The. Actual. Hell...?

Rachel stared blankly for a moment, processing words that technically made sense – but not from him. Or the fact he'd waited in her restaurant to see her about who knows what.

Luke seemed to hesitate a moment before seemingly blurting out, "I was wondering if you would help me out by pretending to be my girlfriend."

"Yuh – eh… What?" Rachel stammered out. She stared at him in bewildered, stunned and incredulous astonishment. "Why?"

"OK, let me tell you what's going on."

"You think?" she snapped back at him in incredulous horror. Oh, God… this was not happening.

Luke leaned forward in his seat, and glanced around him surreptitiously, to check no one was listening.

"I think by now, thanks to the wonderful world of the damned world media, Social Media, and every gossip publication known to the planet, everyone and his dead dog knows about Tara and me braking up." Rachel shrugged. She didn't really know, and she certainly really didn't care. "So, now I need someone to pretend to be my girlfriend, so they'll get off my back about it."

Rachel actually snorted – out loud. How old was he? Twelve? "You are joking?"

Luke, bless him, held her gaze earnestly and shook his head. Rachel stared incredulously and emphatically shook her own.

"Nuh-huh! Not on your life," she insisted with a dry laugh. "That's so pathetic."

"You'll be getting something for it," Luke added quickly, "including a trip to Paris. I can give you a cheque right now, or a contract of payment due, if you prefer?"

Rachel stared at him dumbly in very incensed shock and disdain. "You're trying to buy me?"

"Or… you could see it as a gesture of goodwill to make up for any earnings you lose from your job while you're away with me?"

"I'm sorry – you want me to drop my life for God-knows how long and go to France with a perfect stranger for money? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's only a week, and I'll make it worth your while."

Nausea rose in Rachel's throat at the mere thought. Not just of the insinuation, but that she's even capable of falling for such a blatantly obvious insinuation as that.

"Seriously?" she explained indignantly. "I am not sleeping with you, and you certainly can't entice me with your celebrity nonsense."

"What? That's so not what I meant!" Luke looked horrified and a little pale, so she'd give him that. But still…

"And what makes you think I'll possibly do anything of the sort, anyway?"

"Nothing! I'm just asking."

Rachel rubbed her head in confusion. This was giving her a bigger headache than she already had. "Why me?"

"Because you're the genius who decided to chew my ear off in front of the world media. And frankly, everyone's already got it in their heads we're seeing each other, after that huge banner across the entire gossip world," he grumbled. "Will you at least think about it?"

"The only thing I'm thinking of is that you're crazy," Rachel remarked dryly. She pulled uneasily at the dickie-bow and closed shirt collar of her uniform, which was now suddenly starting to feel very constricting under his intense expectant gaze. "I don't care who the hell you are, I'm not going anywhere with a stranger who is obviously stranger than most."

Luke Heartless' expression fell into disappointment. It was obvious he had been waiting for some star-struck mutterings and squeaks, ending in her throwing herself at him for the chance of spending a few days in his company. His whole approach had been based on the thought of that since he was The Luke Heartlett, there was no way any girl was going to pass it up. What a shame he had chosen the one girl who would.

"You won't even consider it? I really can make it worth your while."

"No! I don't even know you! I'm not going to Paris with you. And the only place you should be going is away."

Luke looked like he had never considered it was going to be even difficult, and Rachel took great satisfaction in making it as hard as possible for him. He had, after all, managed to publicly humiliate her in the national press.

"What can I do to change your mind?"

"Leave me alone," Rachel snapped grumpily. "I could always go to the papers with this and tell the world what you're trying to do if you don't."

"Would you?" He looked rather genuinely startled by that, looking intently at her with evocative deep brown eyes. "I could give you more money than they would."

Rachel looked straight back at him; arms crossed. "I don't want the money. And no, I wouldn't really, you moose!"

"Just… think about it as a free trip to Paris? Real French restaurants instead of Park Lane splendour?" Luke sighed exasperatedly at her scowl and rubbed his head. "Look, seriously, just think it over. At least let me take you to dinner and show you I'm not some psycho axe murderer, or whatever it is you're thinking. It's just two weeks of pretending, we 'break up' and then I'm out of your life. And the damned media and Tara's out of mine."

With only five minutes of her break left, and out of sheer morbid curiosity, Rachel decided on the spur of the moment to at least consider this insanity. Because there was nothing else interesting going on in her life right now, and this man was certainly enamoured with the idea of causing as much fracas as possible, so why not at least let the egomaniac pop star continue to make at least some real entertainment for her?

"You take me to a nice restaurant somewhere and try and win me over, then I might think about it," she offered, deciding she may as well get something decent out of the crazy, rich bugger. "And I mean a nice, expensive place with real food, not that continental crap they spew out that you need a microscope to find, like L'hôtel D'amour."

"Why do I somehow get the feeling I'm being taken for a ride?" Luke gave her a wry smile and eventually agreed. "OK. You've got yourself a deal."

Oh.

Well. Shit.