She's a disgraced socialite; he's a rodeo star on the rise. When they're forced to fake a relationship, what happens when the sparks feel a little too real?
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Sophia Huntington is a socialite. She likes rooftop cocktails, perusing copies of Vogue...
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Later, Sophia would regret the red lipstick.
She didn't mind the shade of crimson; with her dark hair, it gave her a sort of sultry, vampire-esque look. What Sophia did mind was the endless parade of puns that the tabloids made after her picture went viral. The Toronto Star went with "Sophia's caught red-handed!" The Mirror ran a feature called "She's red-dy to party; inside Sophia's messy night out in Toronto."
It was, to say the least, unfortunate.
Sophia wasn't even planning on wearing the lipstick in the first place. She'd been unboxing some PR stuff before she went out for the evening, and she had swiped it on unthinkingly. Just to try it.
Two hours later, Sophia was drinking gingerbread martinis in a ritzy club on King Street West, the red lipstick still firmly in place.
"What do you think?" she asked, shouting to be heard over the music.
Sophia struck a ridiculous pose under the strobe lights, and her cousin sipped her soda water, studying her thoughtfully.
"I'm not sure," Ophelia said slowly.
"About what?"
"Well, it's just... it's very..." Ophelia bit her lip. "Well, it's very bright, isn't it?"
Sophia cracked a grin. Ophelia considered anything more than a pale shade of pink lipstick to be the equivalent of dancing on the rooftop naked at midday. Possibly while singing a Scottish folk song.
"Well, I like it," Sophia declared. "It's fun." She signaled to the bartender for another martini. "You know what fun is, right, Fi?"
Ophelia shot her cousin a very rude gesture, and Sophia's grin widened. They had been at the Estrella perfume launch for a grand total of thirty minutes, and Ophelia had already mixed-up Moschino and Miu Miu, mistaken the CEO for a waiter, and knocked over a bottle of limited-edition $500 perfume.
But, hey, at least Ophelia had changed out of her neon green sweatpants.
Small mercies.
Speaking of which.
"I told you that dress would look amazing," Sophia told her cousin smugly. "You should borrow my clothes more often."
Ophelia tugged at the stretchy black fabric. "I've seen children's t-shirts with more fabric than this."
"It's designer."
"It's ridiculous."
"You know," Sophia said wryly, accepting her martini from a waiter, "some people would be excited to be at a perfume launch."
Ophelia sighed. "Yeah, well, some people get excited about reading Bill Clinton fanfiction. There's no accounting for taste. Wait!" She lunged for the waiter, plucking a glass of champagne neatly off his tray. "I've changed my mind; I need this."
