Chapter Eight

Vale

I grunt, muscles trembling as I stretch on my tiptoes. The scent neutralizer feels like it weighs a ton after installing nine others today. Its sharp chemical odor burns my nostrils, making me crinkle my nose. It’s been over a week since Coco and I made our compromise, and she’s been a task master, wringing out every last volunteer hour out of me to make changes to the office. You’d think I’d resent being micromanaged, but somewhere along the way, she’s adopted this authoritative voice when she’s telling me what to do. Bossy lady, demanding and inflexible. It shoots straight to my groin every time. Regardless of the new—and very annoying—sexual tension, I did all the work of brainstorming ideas to make her clinic more demon friendly. Why am I the one having to put all those changes into place ?

"There," I say to Coco standing behind me, my eyes fixed on the device. My arms quivering from the strain. "High enough for you now? Any higher and it'll be on the ceiling."

Silence. I peek over my shoulder to find Coco frowning at the instructions, a small furrow creasing her brow. From this angle, I can see the slight cowlick on top of her head. It's oddly endearing.

"Actually," she begins, "it needs to be within one to nine inches from the ceiling. That looks about ten inches from here."

I roll my eyes. “You wouldn't know nine inches if it bit you in the ass.” I catch the snort, but when I glance over my shoulder at her, her face is impassive. “I’m beginning to think you're using the position of the neutralizers to punish me.” Her lip twitches, but she doesn’t look up. “Or stare at my ass.” I needle her further. Still not getting anything but micro-reactions. I want to get under her skin the way she gets under mine. There's one surefire way. "Instructions aren't going to matter if no one shows up," I mutter under my breath, and finally she shoots me a glare. I hide my triumphant grin by turning to line up the hammer to the nail. I pound it into the wall with probably more force than necessary, sending a small shower of plaster dust raining down.

"What was that?" Coco asks, brushing plaster dust off her shoulder .

I hop off the stool, plastering on a smile. I said, 'You’re right, Boss Lady.' Your attention to detail is something else."

Slipping out of the room before Coco can ask me to readjust the neutralizer for the millionth time, I retreat to my desk to check my phone. Iggy's been MIA for almost a week now, and my worry grows heavier with every passing day. I've been obsessively refreshing my messages, hoping to see her name pop up. Nothing today. With a sigh, I fire off another text to Rex.

Still radio silence from Iggy.

Rex

Same here, bro. You know her. She’s probably licking her wounds somewhere. Even if we did find her, she'd probably be furious that we're bothering her.

True. Keep me posted if you hear anything. How's the ranch?

Rex

Busy, but in a good way.

Thanks again for getting your team to hold the press event here. Birdie has been stressed about finances. The extra income helps.

Glad something good came from this probation nightmare. I should be schmoozing with the LA elite right now, but I guess your stinky farm will do.

Rex

Don't worry, pretty boy. You'll still get to brag about yourself. Maybe I should crash the interview, tell them some REAL Vale stories.

You wouldn't dare. I have no problem kicking your ass, press tour or not.

Rex

Ha! You wish, tiny horns.

Tiny horns may be my Achilles Knee, or however the human expression goes, but I can’t help but crack a smile at his joke.

"Vale?" Coco's voice startles me. I whirl around to find her standing behind me, arms crossed. How did she sneak up so quietly? "What did I say about phones at the front desk?" There's that tone again. Fuck. Why does it have to send shivers all the way down my spine and make me want to fall to my knees?

I shake my head to clear the thought. "Yeah, yeah. No cell phones up front. Got it."

She sighs, gesturing to my phone. "Nymphstagram again?"

My jaw clenches. Right under my skin again. “I'm entitled to my breaks. Mind giving me some privacy?”

She shakes her head. “You’ve used up all your breaks today. Put it down.” The sternness is in her voice again making me semi-hard. I grind my teeth, trying to ignore it. Her gaze sweeps the clinic, taking in my handiwork. “But I have to admit, this place looks impressive. My clinic will have to share its slogan with Las Vegas—what happens here, stays here.” She runs her hand along the fabric of the new privacy screen positioned near the reception’s desk.

It's not much: scent-neutralizers in every room to prevent demons detecting others’ emotions, white noise machines scattered about to mask conversation, and dim lighting to create an atmosphere of privacy. The heavy-duty stuff like the extra door for discreet entry and exit won't be installed until next week. But it's a start. When I first told her what the clinic needed to be more demon friendly, she thought I was trying to trick her again. But as she thought about it; she realized how much the clinic really was lacking. Although she’d pushed for extra safeguard technology when the clinic first opened, it was not up to demon standards.

"That's kind of the point," I drawl, leaning forward on the desk. "But you do realize that just because you've Vegas-ed the place doesn't mean your problems are solved, right? This isn't exactly a 'if you build it, they will come' situation."

She nods, unfazed. "I've been thinking about that. I 'm planning to send letters to all my previous patients, letting them know about the changes. And I've signed us up for some community events to help spread the word."

I groan dramatically, but she ignores me. Whatever, it'll count towards my volunteer hours.

"But if you have any other ideas on how to improve engagement, I'm all ears.”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Honestly, it doesn't really matter. Even if by some miracle you get your clients to come back, it's not going to change anything. The treatments don't work for demons."

She gives me a look of pure determination. "That's what you think."

I snort. "No, that's what I know."

She walks away, her stride practically oozing smugness.

At exactly 3:59 PM, a minute before my volunteer hours end, I saunter into her office. She barely looks up from her laptop as I step inside.

This is my first time seeing her private workspace, and it's a stark contrast to the rest of the clinic. While the other rooms feel sterile and impersonal, Coco's office is the perfect blend of professional mixed with personal touches. The walls are a soothing shade of deep blue, adorned with framed diplomas and a few personal pictures of her family and Mariah. Bookshelves line the wall behind her desk, filled with psychology textbooks and journals. I spot a few demon-specific titles mixed in; their spines barely cracked. A fainting couch sits across the room, and I feel the urge to lay across it and act out one of those dramatic therapy scenes I always see on TV. Next to the therapy couch is a plush armchair that looks even more inviting. I can easily picture Coco curled up there, poring over patient files.

I stop short when I spot the small alien bobblehead on her desk. Nylara. I glance at Coco, but her eyes remain fixed on the screen. I knew she was a nerd, but a sci-fi nerd? And with good taste? Damn, this makes it harder to pick on her.

Resisting the urge to grab the Nylara figurine or geek out about the show—I was a fan long before I had the privilege to play Thraxxius—I clear my throat. "How can you be so sure?"

She looks up, confused. "Sure about what?"

"The treatments. Why are you so insistent they’ll work? Demons have thrown mountains of cash at this issue—training camps, specialists, you name it, but nothing seems to stick. And your suggestion is . . . what, therapy?" I think of Iggy, of all the money her family wasted on those high-pressure camps. It only made her more miserable. Sometimes you're dealt a bad hand by fate, but you don't have to make yourself more miserable trying to change it.

She leans back, rubbing her eyes. "It's not that simple. Yes, therapy is part of it. Research shows that more often than not, the block is mental. But it's more complex than that. Some treatments are quite intense, I mean, you've seen the immolation machine, right? I literally set patients on fire." A small smile spreads across her face, her eyes lighting up. I've only peeked at the machine, but it looks expensive and terrifying.

"Why magical dysfunction, though?" I ask, browsing her bookshelf. The science titles alone are putting me to sleep. Leave it to Coco to take something as cool as magic and make it boring. "I don't see why a human would—" I cut myself off, wincing at my own insensitivity.

"Why would a powerless human be interested in magic?" She finishes, her tone even. "It's okay, Vale. My mom asked the same thing when I told her which field I wanted to pursue in grad school. You're right, it's rare for humans to pursue this field. And most who do end up switching specialties within the first year. It's difficult connecting with patients over something you have no experience with." She pauses, her eyes distant. "I don't know. I went into psychology because it's what my mother expected. I spent my whole life on autopilot, only doing things that made my parents happy. But that first class on magical dysfunction? It was like being struck by lightning. Suddenly, I was wide awake, seeing the world in vivid colors. And as cliche as it sounds, I felt an unstoppable fire in my belly I couldn't ignore. I had no choice but to pursue it."

I feel my body soften, a sigh escaping my lips. Shit. I guess the nerd and I have something in common after all. Two things, if you count my favorite show. I felt the same bolt of lightning the first time I watched Quantum. "I felt the same about acting," I admit quietly.

She swivels in her chair to face me fully. She's wearing a tight skirt and button-down shirt today. From this angle, I can see down the neckline to the small swell of cleavage. My eyes follow the elegant slope from her face to her neck and lower, wondering if I’ll find more freckles if I keep searching. It takes considerable effort to drag my eyes back to the bookshelf.

"Were you always interested in acting?" she asks. "It must have been challenging, performing with a stutter."

I tense immediately. "I don't stutter . . . anymore." Especially if I don’t use words that have the letter ‘m’. On stage is actually the only place I don’t stutter. My speech therapist suggested it when I was younger, and I took a drama class, just to prove how wrong she was. I’ve been hooked ever since.

But I don’t tell Coco this because, well, I don’t trust her.

"I could teach you some techniques to help with that. It seems like it might be anxiety related."

I give her an incredulous look. Speaking of scent neutralizers, she should wear some as earrings. A demon in the mountains could probably scent her all the way down here when she’s feeling insecure.

She returns my look with one of her own. "Just because I know relaxation techniques doesn't mean I know how to control my hormones."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not your patient, Coco. Is there anything else you need me to do, or am I free to go?"

"You can go. Good work today," she sighs, standing to sync her bracelet with my monitor.

As she reaches up, we lock eyes. The air between us feels charged, tense. When the monitor beeps, signaling my freedom, I find myself lingering.

"So, do you need me to walk the rat when I get home?" I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets. Might as well make nice with the furry pest. She's less likely to gnaw off my toe in the middle of the night if I keep her happy. Maybe Coco will be so grateful, she'll let me sleep in her bed again.

She smiles, sitting back down. "Mariah would love it if you took her for a walk. And she's not a rat, Vale."

"Don't forget about the press event tomorrow. Have you been memorizing your cards?"

She groans, waving the cards by her keyboard. "How could I forget? Don't worry, I know how to study. It's the execution I'm not so sure about."

I check my phone one last time as I linger by the door. Still no Iggy. "You'll be fine. Besides, they're not really there to ask you questions. They're just interested in me." I take a step, then backtrack. My eyes focus on the Nylara figurine before sliding to Coco’s face illuminated by the blue light of her screen. "Those letters you're sending? You might want to include the new privacy policy addendum to your client contract. They’re going to like seeing the stiff financial penalties on your side if you breach them. That'll motivate a lot of demons to give you another shot."

As I leave, I can't shake the nagging feeling that tomorrow's press event is going to be a disaster. Coco's a wild card, and despite all our preparations, she could still mess this up for me. Even by accident. But hey, at least it’ll be interesting for the fans.

T he trailer door swings open abruptly, inviting a gust of crisp autumn air. My publicist strides in, her olive skin luminous even under the harsh fluorescent lights. She's focused intently on her phone, typing away. She and the rest of the crew arrived at the crack of dawn this morning, and it’s been a whirlwind since. We haven’t even started the actual press event, and I’m already exhausted.

"I heard you had questions about the talking points?" she says in a monotone voice, not looking up from her screen.

I start to swivel in my chair, but the makeup artist applying my fake silicone horns to hide my monitor gives me a look like she wants to hit me upside the head with her paint brush. I offer her an apologetic smile, all charm and teeth. "Yeah, about the statue we destroyed," I say. Her acrylic nails tap loudly on her phone screen right behind my ear. "The new cards I got this morning say if I'm asked about it, to say it was a gas leak—"

The typing stops abruptly. "Not if you're asked. When ."

I roll my eyes. So much for the daemon tribunal, the word got out after all. I don’t know how, but I suspect Beck had something to do with it. "I don't like it. It could hurt local businesses if people think there are gas leaks."

"What do you suggest? That it magically exploded?" She walks around the chair to face me directly. Her phone is now in her pocket, her full attention locked on me. The artist applies more paint to my horn, the strong chemical smell making my eyes sting.

I hold my publicist’s gaze. "How about the truth? The statue glorifies our founder, who was a sleazeball and a snake oil salesman. Winter Bliss shouldn't have a monument dedicated to that jackass. I got drunk and took matters into my own hands." I lean back in the makeup chair, careful not to bother my makeup artist’s work. "Am I a hero? Let the fans decide." The artist snorts quietly, shaking her head at me.

My publicist’s expression doesn't change. "No, Vale. That might work for a bad boy image, but you're supposed to be the clean-cut, small-town hero. That's what the focus group responded to."

"I know, but—"

She sighs heavily. "I don't get paid enough for this," she mutters, then speaks up. "Stick to the cards, Vale. Or else."

The trailer door creaks again as Coco's makeup artist enters. She pulls my makeup artist aside, whispering urgently. The publicist has her phone out again, likely typing an angry email to Erin about me. Despite the noise in the room, I overhear something whispered in the background about Coco still missing.

I stand up quickly, my chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, I walk out of the trailer, ignoring my publicist’s protests. The paper bib is still tucked into my shirt as I leave.

I t only takes a few minutes to find my errant wife. I'd like to say I used my extra demon senses to sniff her out, following her trail of insecurity like a hound dog, but as soon as I see the red barn in the distance, I know immediately where she is. Of course Coco couldn't resist the appeal of cute barnyard animals, especially if she’s nervous about our first on-camera appearance.

The crisp October air nips at my cheeks as I approach. The scent of hay and livestock mingles with the earthy aroma of fall. I find her leaning against the goat pen, her slender fingers running through the animal's fur. She doesn't startle when she sees me, just lifts her gaze briefly before returning her attention to the goat. I frown at the pen, imagining the stylist's meltdown if Coco gets her carefully chosen outfit dirty before the interview.

"I'm fine. I just need a minute," she says, her back towards me. She's keeping her voice even, but I can sense the growing panic underneath, like a kettle about to boil over. She's wearing a green dress with floral patterns that wraps around her waist, softening her athletic build, a denim jacket, and cognac-colored cowboy boots. From this angle, with the animals in the background, she looks like the heroine in a cowboy movie. Which I'm sure is the exact angle our team was going for. That's why they dressed me in flannel, ripped jeans, and work boots. Even though neither of us have worked a day on a farm in our lives. If Rex saw me now, he'd probably burst out laughing. I'm glad I kicked him out of the trailer before the stylists got to work.

I hesitate, aware of the tension that's been simmering between us. I don't want to make her feel worse but leaving her alone doesn't seem right either. Maybe I should ask one of the makeup artists to come comfort her?

After a moment, I take the spot next to her, leaning against the fence. The worn wood creaks under my weight. "What happened to the relaxation techniques?" A goat ambles up, its soft bleat loud in the quiet morning. I let it lick my fingers begrudgingly, its rough tongue tickling my skin.

"This goes beyond coping mechanisms," she mumbles. She shifts her position to look at me, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. Her boyish pixie cut has been styled with a few soft waves on top, and her makeup has been kept natural; the shimmer on her eyelids making her eyes look as blue as the crisp October sky above us right now. The only thing I would change is the amount of makeup on her face. They've covered up her freckles, and I don't like those being hidden. It feels like they're trying to erase a part of her.

“It'll be on the internet forever. What if my family sees?” she asks.

It takes me a second before I can find my words, my throat suddenly dry. "I doubt it. These are small media outlets. These interviews are going to be buried in the depths of the internet where only the most desperate celebrity gossip hounds go."

She sighs, motioning to our matching metal airstreams in the distance. They gleam in the morning sun, looking more like spaceships than trailers. "This doesn't feel small. How do you manage to keep it together?"

I shrug, leaning against the fence. The rough wood scrapes against my palms. "I just pretend to be someone else."

She gives me a strange look, her brow furrowing.

I chuckle, turning towards her. "It's a lot easier than it sounds. The real Valefor checks out while a better, more confident version of myself takes over." And his name is Khastor Duskfyre. Before that, his name was Thraxxius.

She arches a brow. "That sounds freakishly similar to split personality disorder." Her tone is serious, but there's a small note of sarcasm that makes the corner of my mouth twitch.

My lips wobble, holding back a smile. "It gets the job done. Or should I say he gets the job done—" Her eyes widen. Her breathing hitches, quick and shallow. "Hey, it's alright. I have something else we can try. Ever heard of Sylvia Stardust?"

"N-no—" She leans over the fence, supporting herself, as her body trembles. The goat bleats softly, as if sensing her distress.

"The most famous acting coach in LA? The Stardust Method? Really?"

"Vale!" she practically shouts. "Please save your Hollywood snobbery for another time!"

"Right, sorry. When I took Sylvia's class, she taught us a relaxation technique that has a 100% efficacy rate." Or it did. Right now I'd say that's more 99.99%, considering last time I used it to calm myself before Beck's interview, I ended up stuttering like I was a kid again. But since I wasn't expecting my principal to crash the interview, unearthing a load of bad childhood memories, it doesn’t really count.

She exhales a deep breath, steadying herself. Her knuckles are white where she grips the fence. "How is this different from what I've tried?"

"Remember when you asked if acting was hard with a stutter? It is. It's really hard. But after learning Slyvia's technique, I've never stuttered on camera or on a set."

She studies my face, searching my eyes. Her brows push together in concern. Even though we've found some sort of common ground, I can see she still doesn't trust me. Fair. I haven't given her a lot of reasons to believe me up until now.

I roll up my sleeve, baring my forearm to her. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. "I believe in this technique so much, I'm willing to make a bargain with you. If you try this and still mess up, I'll walk Mariah every day while I'm here."

Her body, starting with her tensed shoulders, relaxes as she lets out a happy sigh. She smiles at me, and for a moment, I forget about the cameras, the interview, everything. "You finally called her by her name." She straightens, holding out her arm. "Make that twice a day, before and after work, and a deal is a deal."

Oh fuck. That's hot. Why am I so turned on right now? The way she leans into the bargain, her intelligent eyes sparkling with a mix of challenge and amusement.

I'm in trouble, aren't I?

I t takes me about five minutes to teach Coco the Stardust method. It would have taken less time if she had stopped laughing at me. I had to remind her multiple times that Sylvia was a highly esteemed, sought-after teacher.

As we make our way to the outdoor interview setup, the scent of hay and manure mingles with Coco's light floral perfume. I take a quick taste of the air. No underlying off-scenting of insecurity from her, which I take as a good sign—the Stardust method is working already.

When my publicist finds us, she sighs and shakes her head like we're two teenagers that were caught making out behind the bleachers. They position us in front of one of the pastures, where a few horses lazily graze, oblivious to the media circus around them.

"One more interview while we set up for photos. You're in the home stretch, guys. Keep it up," my publicist says during one of the water breaks, after an eternity of interviews, her voice strained. I’ve been talking so much, the inside of my mouth feels like cotton. On the bright side, Coco hasn’t been given a chance to mess up because all the questions have been directed towards me. No questions about the statue so far either. As the makeup artists powder our faces, I catch Coco's eye. She looks as exhausted as I feel, twiddling with the fake wedding ring the stylist lent her. Part of me feels guilty for dragging her into this, but then I remember the multiple five hundred dollar fines she cost me—Nevermind, I don’t feel bad at all.

The last interviewer, a middle-aged woman with observant eyes, settles into her chair. I notice the markings of a shifter on her hands when she adjusts her sleeves. "Vale, congratulations on your first leading role," she says, her smile sharp. "How does it feel to be the star of your own movie? "

I flash her a practiced grin and lean back, my arm casually draped behind Coco. "It's surreal, honestly. Khastor is such a complex character and bringing him to life has been both challenging and incredibly rewarding. The whole experience has been transformative."

She leans forward, her eyes gleaming. "Speaking of transformative experiences, congratulations on your nuptials as well." She motions to Coco, who straightens in her seat. I feel her shoulders tense underneath my arm. "It seems you've done a good job keeping your relationship under wraps. Your movie's plot sounds eerily similar to your real life. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

I laugh, but my heart races. "What can I say? Life imitates art." I wink at Coco, who gives me a hesitant smile in return. Her eyes widen slightly, and I realize I've pulled her closer without thinking. "Or maybe it's the other way around? We met and got married in secret while I was filming. Never imagined I'd settle down so quickly, but Khastor inspired me in more ways than one."

The interviewer's gaze sharpens. "How romantic. I'd love to hear from you as well, Dr. Sullivan. How did you and Vale meet? Was it love at first sight?"

I scent Coco's spike of insecurity. It's a subtle tingle on the tip of my tongue, but I notice it since we’re sitting so close to each other. She fidgets with the wedding ring, and I resist the urge to still her hand. "W-we met while he was volunteering at my clinic in LA. Preparing for his role, you know? And, um . . . yes. He's very handsome. Who could resist?" She turns to me, her smile is tense, her eyes pleading for help.

"I asked her out for coffee, claiming I wanted to pick her brain about the medical world," I jump in, squeezing her shoulder lightly. "Really, I just wanted an excuse to spend time with a cute therapist." Without thinking, I take her hand, intertwining our fingers. She squeezes back, and the next time my mouth opens, I note the scent of insecurity has faded. Her long, slender fingers fit perfectly between mine, her palm warm and a little slick with sweat, which I find oddly endearing.

This feels weirdly right—I push away the thought as quickly as it comes.

"Sounds like sparks flew," the interviewer says, glancing down at our hands with a smile. "Now, I have to ask about the statue explosion. Any comment?"

I tense, and Coco's grip on my hand tightens. "That's not really relevant to the movie," I say, fighting to keep my voice even.

"My sources say it was caused by a gas leak. Is that true?" The interviewer leans in, her smile turning wolfish.

I hesitate, then sit forward. "No, it's not.” The combined gasp behind the camera and all the lighting fixtures makes me reconsider. Maybe I should backtrack? Behind the camera, my publicist is already on her phone, tattling on me to Erin. There’s no going back now. “Winter Bliss is structurally sound. There are no gas leaks. We accidentally caused the explosion. It wasn't planned, but . . . Look, growing up here, we always heard whispers about Alaric Infernus, the town's founder. There were rumors that he wasn't the hero everyone made him out to be. Some even said he was a con artist who took advantage of early settlers. His family's still influential in town, and they've worked hard to keep that history quiet. Do I regret how I handled the situation? Yes. Am I glad I get to walk through town without seeing that statue’s smarmy face? Also yes.”

The interviewer stares at me, wide-eyed, and I can practically see the headlines forming in her mind. "I see. You're clearly very passionate about your hometown. Is that what inspired you to open a clinic here?"

I open my mouth and then stop, angling towards Coco. "Actually, why don't I let my wife take this one? She did all the work opening the new clinic. If anyone's passionate, it's her." Coco's eyes widen in panic, and I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile. This may end up backfiring, but I want to hear what Coco has to say.

"Yes, please," the interviewer says, her attention lasering in on Coco. "Tell us about your work."

"Well, I treat magical anxiety disorders in various species, but I came to Winter Bliss because of the unique needs here," Coco starts hesitantly. As she continues, her voice grows stronger, more animated. She leans forward, her free hand gesturing expressively. "Many demons struggle silently with infernal dysfunction—difficulty controlling their innate abilities. There wasn't a specialized clinic in the area for this. The link between a demon's emotions and their fire magic is fascinating. Stress or trauma can affect their powers in unexpected ways. This clinic is a chance to help an underserved community and advance research in the field."

As I watch my fake wife talk, her intelligent eyes gleaming with passion, a genuine smile spreads across my face. I find myself hanging on her every word, impressed by her knowledge and the depth of her care for her patients. The confident, passionate doctor sitting next to me is a far cry from the nervous woman I found earlier near the goat’s pen on the verge of a panic attack.

T he scent of pine hangs heavy in the air as Coco and I stroll through the small Christmas tree farm on the ranch, our hands still entwined. The late afternoon sun filters through the branches, casting long shadows onto the grass between our feet. Coco’s wedding ring presses into my skin, reminding me that despite how good this feels, we’re both just acting.

"Are they still watching?" Coco leans in close and whispers into my collar, her voice low and conspiratorial .

I peek over my shoulder, knowing full well the grassy path behind us is empty. The photographers stopped trailing us a while ago, but the warmth of Coco's hand in mine feels too good to let go. I just need five more minutes, and then I’ll let go. "Yeah. Still there." The lie slips out easily, but the twinge of guilt is hard to ignore.

She nods, seemingly content with the charade. "I take back every rude thought I've ever had about you. Being an actor is a lot harder than I realized.”

I smirk, savoring the warmness of her skin against mine. "And that was just the easy part."

“That was pretty gutsy, what you said about the statue. I had no idea about Alaric's history. Your publicist looked like she was about to breathe fire when you said it. Are you going to be in trouble with your manager?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance despite the anxiety building in my gut. "I'll survive. What's she gonna do that Judge Grimshaw hasn't already?"

Coco laughs, the sound happy and genuine. "Fair point." She stops in her tracks, turning to face me. Her blue eyes sparkle with curiosity. "Hey, did I detect an accent change back there? What was that about?"

"What accent? You're the one with the accent, Doc. I'm just a humble firefighter from Blaze Meadows," I drawl in a country twang, slipping easily into Khastor’s persona.

She raises her eyebrows, then bursts into laughter. The sound echoes through the orchard, music to my ears. "You 've got to be kidding. So this is your character . . ." She searches my face, her gaze intense.

In one fluid motion, I grab her hand and spin her, tipping her backwards as if we're on a dance floor. Her cowboy boots stumble over each other, and I tighten my grip to keep her from falling. She may be athletic, but she’s about as graceful as a gravel road, as Khastor would say. "This ain't no character, ma'am. Name's Khastor Duskfyre, at your service." With my free hand, I tip an invisible cowboy hat. One of the reasons I was chosen for the role, despite all the other more qualified demons who auditioned for this role, is because my horns fit perfectly under a ten-gallon hat. The director also didn’t have to worry about my horns being out of frame, like most demons. I wish this fact made me feel less insecure.

Coco braces her hands against my chest, her touch sending a jolt through me. "Hold up. You're a demon who makes fire, but you also play a firefighter? How does that even work?"

I give her a wink, relishing the safety of flirting through Khastor. I can’t help it if he’s a Casanova. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, darlin'."

She rolls her eyes, apparently immune to Khastor's charm. "Okay, can I talk to Vale now? The real Vale? He's a jerk, but I can't believe I'm saying this: I actually prefer him to this pyro country bumpkin." My heart races as she reaches up, her fingers hovering near my face before carefully removing the fake horns. I should stop her in case anyone does capture a photo of my monitor, but I can’t move. Her fingers are delicate as she peels off the adhesive at the base, careful not to rip any of my hair.

"There. Much better." She smiles, her eyes soft.

Without thinking, I pull her closer, our bodies fitting together perfectly. The rapid beating of her heart echoes my own. "Really?" I ask breathlessly, disbelief filling my tone.

She studies my eyes for a moment, then nods. "Yes, shockingly. When you're not being a diva or deliberately ruining my life, I enjoy your company. I wish you'd just be yourself more often."

I wonder if she knew who I used to be—the weird, stuttering, theater kid—if she’d still feel the same way.

I lean in closer instinctively. Her face is so close, I can see the light ring of gray in her irises and admire the elegant slope of her nose. She watches me with equal intensity, her expression growing serious. I wait for her to place her hands on my chest and push me away, but she doesn't. Her breathing hitches, growing fast and shallow, and her heart picks up speed, hammering against her ribcage like a trapped hummingbird.

Then the sweet, floral taste of her attraction fills the tight space between us. I bite back a groan as my body responds, blood rushing to my groin, pressing against her. She feels so warm, so right in my arms. Coco muffles a moan, pressing closer into my hard cock .

Fuck it.

I close the gap and press my lips against hers, probably with more force than necessary, but I'm drunk on her intoxicating cocktail of hormones. Coco tenses for a split second before melting into the kiss, sighing against my mouth as if she needed this as much as I did.

My tongue pushes against her soft lips, eager to explore. Coco moans softly, her fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathless. We both ignore the awkward tent in my pants, pressed between us like a bridge, as we struggle to regain composure.

"Was–was that for the photographers?" she asks, her voice stunned and husky. Her lips are red and swollen. Her mouth looks so sexy, I’m tempted to claim it again.

I slowly shift, blocking her view of the empty path behind me. "Yeah," I say, still breathless, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "They just left. We gave them the shot they wanted."

As we stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, I can't help but wonder where the line between pretend and real life begins and ends. The more time I spend with Coco, the more that line seems to blur, fading faster than her scent in the air as soon as I let her go.