Lottie: OMG, KELSEY!!!
Kelsey: What? Did Mom and Jeff find out? I swear I haven’t said anything.
Lottie: No, I found a rich man.
Kelsey: Uh . . . what?
Lottie: I don’t have a lot of time. My phone is charging and I’m meeting him in about twenty-five minutes at the Chipotle down the street. But, yeah, I found a rich man.
Kelsey: Hold on. What do you mean you found a rich man? What were you doing?
Lottie: **Puffs chest** While on my walk. I got lost, and then BAM, rich man to save the day. Told you I could find one walking through The Flats.
Kelsey: You’re fucking with me.
Lottie: I’m not, I swear. I’m putting on some mascara right now and I’m trying to decide if I go in casual or if I put on a sundress. Honestly, I have no need to impress him. He’s the one who wants to discuss things.
Kelsey: Discuss things? What does that even mean? Why aren’t you answering your phone when I call you? I need to know what the hell is going on.
Lottie: I can’t talk. I don’t want Mom and Jeff hearing me. And this guy is looking for a fake fiancée. It works out great.
Kelsey: WHAT? Lottie, are you hearing yourself right now? Do you really think this is safe? You found a random man on a sidewalk and he just so happens to be looking for a fake fiancée? Do you not see how . . . coincidental that is?
Lottie: Lucky, right?
Kelsey: Oh my God . . . you’re going to be murdered.
Lottie: No way. The dude is meeting me at Chipotle. He’s not going to murder me at a place where you have to pay extra for guac.
Kelsey: What does guac have to do with any of this?
Lottie: Nothing, but I want it to be known that I believe charging extra for guac is outrageous. Anyway, I have to get going. I’m walking there and I don’t want to show up as a sweaty mess, I want to take my time. I’ll text you when I’m done.
Kelsey: Lottie! I know you’re desperate, but this is not better than telling Mom and Jeff. Suck up your pride and just tell them. Meeting a random stranger for food isn’t the way to go.
Lottie: People meet up with strangers all the time to share food. That’s what dating is all about.
Kelsey: You’re not dating him!
Lottie: Not yet. Text you later, sis. Love you.
YEAH, this is stupid.
I’ll admit it.
Kelsey has every reason to fret, because this situation screams bad decisions, but I like to think I’m a good judge of character, and this guy wasn’t giving me murder vibes. Instead, his eyes reflected the same desperation as mine. He needs me, just like I need him. And that right there is exactly what one needs in order to follow through with such a farce—mutual neediness.
Now, my mother didn’t raise a fool, and of course I’ll play hard to get, because, yes, getting out of Jeff and Mom’s house is the end goal here, as well as finding a new job and bringing a hot piece of ass to the reunion, but I’m also going to see what this guy has to say. I’m going to feel him out, and if the offer or story isn’t good enough, see ya, buddy.
I’m all about saving face, but not in exchange for my soul.
I round the corner and find the Chipotle across the street. My stomach growls just from the sight of the crisp white building and burnt red pepper logo. If anything, this will be a free meal. Burrito bowl, here I come.
Once I got home, I quickly showered, tossed my hair into a tight bun, and then put on a pair of jean shorts and a simple Aerosmith T-shirt. I paired that with some bracelets and my favorite pair of comfortable Birkenstocks—found them at the Thrifty Shopper, which around here has rich people’s used clothing for super cheap—and I headed out.
I charged my phone just long enough to be able to make a phone call if I need a quick out or if I was abducted. Now that I’m crossing the street, almost here, a small bout of nerves is in the pit of my stomach.
For the most part, I have strong bravado, but there are times when that bravado falters and my vulnerability comes out. I’m experiencing flashes of that right now.
When I make it to the other side of the road, I take a deep breath and head into the restaurant, and I spot Huxley immediately. It’s hard not to.
I’ll admit, the man is extremely attractive. A tall man, he must be at least six foot two, his skin has a golden tan to it, his hair is a beautiful chestnut brown—yes, I said beautiful—and he has those dark, penetrating eyes that seem like they could cut any human in half, in the boardroom or on the streets. Currently, he’s staring down at his phone, one leg pressed up against the wall he’s leaning onto, and he’s wearing dark grey chino shorts and a light blue button-down shirt that hugs him in all the right places. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and—hello, man chest—the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off a little man cleavage. Not too much to be douchey, but just enough to pique my interest. Not that I’m here to actually see him as a potential date, but the hot factor needs to be considered for this . . . transaction. And . . .
He’s incredibly good-looking.
He would make Angela drool, for sure.
His eyes lift from his phone briefly, and when they spot me, I feel them dangerously rake over my frame, taking me in, every last inch of me. When they finally meet my eyes, he pushes away from the wall and walks up to me while stuffing his phone in his pocket.
“You’re here,” he says.
“Worried I was going to stand you up?”
“A little,” he admits, but that confidence he exudes doesn’t falter, as if he had a bout of worry, but knew I was going to come all along. He nods toward the counter. “Want to order and then get down to business?”
“That would be ideal for my stomach.”
We get in line, and he lets me go first—point for him being gentlemanly—and I order my typical burrito bowl with chicken, black beans, and fajita veggies. And since lover boy is paying, I have them pile the guac on. Huxley sweeps in behind me with a steak burrito, pinto beans, no rice and tons of lettuce and salsa. No guac. Does he not like guac or is he not willing to pay the extra money? A question for the ages.
When we get to the register, he grabs a beer for both of us, as well as chips and salsa, and then pays. When I see him pull out his Amex Black Card to swipe it, my anxiety over him claiming he’s rich no longer exists. Uh, yeah . . . the man wasn’t lying about being rich. Good to know.
With food and drinks in hand, Huxley finds a high-top table near the window that offers us enough privacy from the rest of the restaurant that I feel comfortable enough to have the type of conversation we’re about to have.
Once we’re seated, I say, “From the lack of guac on your burrito, I’m going to assume you don’t like it very much.”
He shakes his head. “Too slimy. Can’t handle the texture of it.”
“Are you a California native?”
He nods. “Yup, born in Santa Monica.”
“Fascinating,” I say, giving him a smooth once-over. “I don’t think I’ve ever found a native Californian who doesn’t like guacamole.”
“I’m an anomaly. My brothers think I’m weird, so you’re not alone in the opinion you probably have about me.”
“I don’t think you’re weird, just . . . interesting. You also didn’t get rice.”
“Not a big rice fan.” He glances at me while he unwraps his burrito. “Care to analyze anything else about my order?”
“You got beer instead of a soda. You’re either extremely nervous or you’re the type of person who has no shame in ordering an alcoholic beverage at a quick-serve restaurant.”
“I don’t know what it feels like to be nervous,” he says in such a straight, monotone voice that I actually believe him. I’m not sure he knows that emotion based on that quick and abrupt answer. “I also don’t carry around shame. It’s a waste of my mental energy.”
I pick up my fork and move it around my burrito bowl as he takes his first bite. “Ahh, I see how you are.”
He finishes chewing and swallows, following up with a swipe of his napkin across his mouth before he asks, “Oh, you do? Please, educate me on myself.”
“You’re one of those power men.”
“Power men?” he asks, brow raised.
“You know, the ones you read about, the successful ones that have a crazy regimen. They read a self-help book a week, work out every day, are brutal in the boardroom, and drink so much water that their bladder doesn’t know what yellow pee is.”
His burrito is halfway to his mouth as he says, “Takes me a week and a half to get through a self-help book when a new season of The Challenge comes out.”
Then he takes a bite of his burrito, and honestly, from the lack of facial expressions, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Might as well test his knowledge.
“You watch The Challenge?”
He nods slowly. “CT for life.”
Okay, okay, don’t freak out.
Gah . . . but CT!
“He’s my dream man,” I say before I can stop myself. “Heavy Boston accent, troubled past, buff—even in his dad-bod era—and just a fine piece of ass. Love him so much. Is that why you like him?”
He wipes his mouth, and in a dry tone, he says, “Yes. Can’t get enough of that tight ass of his.”
Look at that, we have a funny man in our midst. I like that. Makes me feel comfortable.
“I knew you were an ass man.”
“How do you figure?”
“You just have that type of intense glare in your eyes. Screams ass man.”
“Wasn’t aware you could tell by someone’s glare that they’re an ass man,” he says while lifting his beer to his lips.
“Easily.”
“Funny.” He swallows some more beer, sets it down, and says, “Because asses are sexy and all, but I’m all about the neck.”
“The neck?” I ask, my loaded fork halfway to my mouth. “You, uh, you like to choke people?”
“No, but there’s something so sexy, so possessive, about being able to hold your girl at the nape of her neck.”
“Possessive, are we?” I ask, trying to feel this man out.
“I prefer to claim what’s mine.”
“Interesting. If that’s the case, why are you looking for a fake fiancée? Claiming what’s yours seems like an intense reaction, something you wouldn’t take lightly.”
“I don’t take it lightly. It’s why I haven’t been able to find the right person, because I take my dating life, or lack thereof, seriously. I’m not going to waste my time on someone if I don’t feel an innate demand in my body to claim them.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I study him. “So, then, why the fake fiancée? I told you I need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a reunion. What’s your reasoning?”
“We’ll get to that,” he says. “I want to know more about you first. I need to be comfortable with you before I tell you what I need.”
“Okay, as long as I can ask you questions, too.”
“A question for a question. That work for you?”
Easy to compromise—I’m surprised. He doesn’t necessarily give off that vibe, especially with all the possessive talk. I’m just going to make it known, that detail about him is a total turn-on. Not that I’m looking to actually date this guy or anything.
“That works for me. You ask first.”
“What do you do?” He takes a large bite of his burrito, and for being a man of “class,” he’s really munching down on that burrito.
“Currently in between jobs—”
“So, unemployed,” he cuts in, and I grow defensive.
“Not by my choice.”
“So, you were fired?” He lifts his brow in question.
I puff up my chest. “As a matter of fact, I was fired, and not because I wasn’t doing my job, but because my idiot boss believes she can get someone else to do my job for less pay.” With a sinister smile, I say, “I hope her business burns up in flames.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Seems like poor management to me.”
“You could say that. My boss was one of my best friends growing up. A volatile friendship, very toxic. I could love her and hate her all in the span of one minute. She told me my firing wasn’t personal, and then the next day, she asked if I’d help her with our high school reunion she’s planning, you know, now that I have time on my hands.”
He winces. “Brutal.”
“Yes. So, she’s Satan’s daughter.”
“Seems like she did you a favor.”
I shake my head. “She screwed me over.” I smile. “But we can talk about that later. My turn to ask a question. What do you do?”
“Real estate,” he answers simply.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
He sips from his beer and then says, “Sorry, don’t have a tragic story to tell you about losing my job.”
“Are you mocking me?”
He levels with me, his eyes connecting directly with mine. “I’m trying to get you to agree to be my fake fiancée. Do you really think I’d mock you?”
“I guess not.”
“Next question. Are you attached to anyone romantically in any way?” he asks.
“If I were, I wouldn’t be trying to find someone to take to the reunion, now would I?” I take another bite of my burrito bowl and wish I wasn’t trying to be all dainty around this guy, because the chicken is on fire today and I want to shovel it in my mouth.
“So that’s a no. I need to hear you say it.”
What a formal fuck. “That’s a no. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.” I motion to my body and say in the voice of the old lady from Titanic, “It’s been eighty-four years since these breasts have been touched.”
He smirks and nods. “Good.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Seems like a stupid question since you’re looking for a fake fiancée, but who knows. Maybe you got yourself involved in some sort of drug deal gone sideways and you need a fake fiancée to get you out of the situation instead of throwing your wife to the wolves, so you find an innocent walker in the neighborhood to use as a decoy. Lure her in with promises of extra guac and good-smelling cologne.”
Seeming amused, he wipes his mouth and leans back in his chair before tossing his napkin on the table. “I fear what else is going on in that head of yours.”
“Trust me, it’s a place you don’t want to get lost in.” I grin and then shove some more chicken in my mouth. Sweet Chipotle gods, you outdid yourself today. Chef’s kiss.
“Apparently. And to answer your question, no, I’m not romantically involved with anyone. Don’t have time.”
“Ooo, workaholic, huh? A man who’s married to his work, always a catch for a single lady.”
“Haven’t found anyone to take me away from my work.” He finishes up his burrito, and if this guy were my bro right now, I’d offer up a high five for the annihilation of his meal. Color me impressed.
“So, you’re saying if you found the right woman . . . or man—”
“Woman,” he says, sipping his beer.
“Just double-checking. Can never be too sure. If you found the right woman, you would come home early?”
“If I found the right woman, I’d be far more interested in fucking her against every surface of my house rather than answering monotonous emails or buying a business partner a drink.”
Well . . . okay.
That’s . . . well, that’s information.
“So, you like fucking. That’s good to know,” I say awkwardly while nodding.
“Do you not enjoy fucking?” he asks, and I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like him. Bold, brash, domineering, but also equipped with a playful side if you can pull it out of him.
“Well, you know . . . since it’s been eighty-four years, I can’t quite draw up any experiences that would remind me what a pleasurable event fucking is.”
He slowly nods but doesn’t say anything after that. Instead, he studies me, and under that strong gaze, I feel naked, as if he’s stripping me down to nothing with every breath I take.
Good God.
“So, is it my turn for a question? I kind of lost track,” I say.
“Sure. Ask away.”
I nod, but my mind goes blank, because all I can think about is the way he’s staring at me with those take-no-prisoners’ eyes. They’re controlling, almost a mindfuck. Steadfast, unwavering, he speaks truth with his gaze, he destroys with his glare. The faint dusting of dark scruff on his jaw makes him exponentially more intimidating, and the way he has one hand casually draped on the table, almost as if he’s claiming this space, throws me off, and I can’t think of a damn thing to ask him.
“Why don’t you ask a question?” I ask, right before I shove a huge forkful of food into my mouth.
“Are you comfortable around me?”
Wasn’t expecting that question, even though I should have, since he seems to say what’s on his mind. There’s no skirting the truth with him.
I finish chewing, swallow, and then say, “I know I shouldn’t feel comfortable around you. You’re everything my mother has warned me about. Alpha workaholic who seems to get everything he wants. Dominant, holds nothing back, intimidating. You don’t scream family man, nor do you have ‘attentive boyfriend’ written across your forehead, but there’s also this air about you that makes you seem trustworthy, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He leans forward across the table and eats a chip for the first time. Neither of us have touched them, too engrossed in our conversation. “I’m going to need you to feel comfortable with me, Lottie. I’m going to need your trust.”
“You realize trust is earned, right?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, but I’m going to need you to be open to it. My intentions are pure, although askew, but they’re pure. Going into this meeting, I knew I was going to be asking a lot, but I need to make sure you’re open to it first, before I lay it all out on the table.”
Huh.
Now I’m really intrigued. I mean, I was intrigued before—and of course a free meal—but he almost seems to be showing a slight hint of vulnerability, something I’m not sure a man like Huxley shows very often.
“Are you open to it, Lottie?”
I set my fork down and pat my mouth with my napkin. “I’m unemployed, I live with my mom, and I have nothing going for me at the moment. Pretty sure I’m open to whatever comes my way.”
He nods and then leans even farther forward. “I fucked up big time, and now I’m trying to cover my ass.”
“Ooo, a man who knows when he’s wrong. Be still my heart.”
He doesn’t smirk, but he grows more serious. “This fuckup could cost me my reputation, and not only my reputation, but my brothers’ as well, and everything we’ve built together.”
“What did you do?” I ask, leaning forward too. Going into this dinner, I didn’t think I was going to gobble up some gossip, but I’m here for it.
“Short story is I was trying to land a deal. The guy who I was trying to work with wasn’t biting, and my brothers said it’s because he couldn’t connect with me on a personal level. I ran into him on the street after the meeting. I met his fiancée, and before I knew it, I was telling him I was engaged as well.”
I wince. “Your mouth spoke before your brain could think.”
“Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, he invited me and my fiancée to dinner, and it’s the first in I’ve had with this guy. The problem is, the dinner is Saturday.”
“Well, that really puts you in a spot, doesn’t it?”
“You could say that.” His eyes bore into mine. “That’s where you come in.”
“You want me to go to this dinner with you, and pretend to be your fiancée?”
“Yes, but I also need you to play out the farce until the deal is done.”
“How long will it take for the deal to go through?”
He shrugs. “Could take a week, could take longer.”
I slowly nod, thinking this over. “What would the farce entail? Am I going to be required to play Julia Roberts for you?”
“Julia Roberts?” he asks, confused.
“You know. Pretty Woman. Richard Gere hires Julia Roberts to be at his beck and call for all of his important business meetings. Have you never seen the movie?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Well, basically she moves into his hotel with him and shows up wherever he needs her.”
“You wouldn’t need to move in with me,” he says.
Damn, there goes getting out of Mom and Jeff’s house. Not that I’d actually move in with a complete stranger. I’m not that insane.
“But I’d need you to be available when I need you.”
“I see.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And you think I could just do that given how I’ve no job?”
“I have connections. I could get you a job.”
I hold up my hand to stop him right there. “I don’t need your charity job. I’d prefer to earn my own career.”
“I can respect that.” His jaw tightens. “If I can’t hook you up with a job, what can I give you in return? This would be a business transaction, after all.”
Shelter would be preferred.
Money to pay off my student loans would be amazing, but I’d never ask that.
The reunion is the only thing he can really offer me, but is that enough? That doesn’t really solve much. Just gives me a superficial upper hand. It doesn’t solve my money problem or the need to move out of Mom’s house.
Honestly, what was I thinking, looking for a rich husband? What was the end goal?
The more I think about it, the more I realize there was no end goal. This was . . . hell, this was a distraction.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“I can go to your reunion, act as though we’re in love, whatever you need.” Desperation slips into his voice.
“I’m not even sure I’m going to that,” I say. “You know, I’m not sure this is really for me. I have student loans I have to pay off, so I don’t think I can be at someone’s beck and call when I should be finding a job.” I lean back in my chair and stare down at the table. “Jesus, what was I even thinking, coming to this meeting? A job, that’s what I need to be doing, finding a job, not worrying about what I look like at a stupid high school reunion.” I look at Huxley, whose brow is pinched together in consternation. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
I stand from the table, and Huxley says, “Wait. We can come up with something that benefits both of us.”
I shake my head. Ultimately, this is another situation where a rich person gets what they want by using a poor person. Even though I’m currently lying to my mom and Jeff, I hate lying. You have the intellect to be more, to find a job that utilizes your skills. “I know this is going to sound prideful, but I’m not sure I should be taking handouts right now. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life.” I look at the bag of chips and snag them from the table. “But I’m not too proud to take free food.” I pat the bag. “Thanks for these and thanks for your time. Good day, sir.”
And then I turn on my heel and take off. I last only until I reach the crosswalk before I dip my hand inside the bag and pop a chip into my mouth. Lime salt is my only comfort right now.
LOTTIE: I’m alive.
Kelsey: Well, thank Jesus. Do I dare ask, are you engaged?
Lottie: No. It was tempting, but I really need to focus on my career. That’s what’s going to move me along from this nightmare, not some stupid fake fiancée bullshit.
Kelsey: You know . . . maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Lottie: You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Have you lost your mind?
Kelsey: I was thinking while you were eating dinner—maybe you could do this fake fiancée thing and work for me at the same time. I’m so close to expanding, I could really use your help on the business side. I’d be able to pay you soon, and you could live with me for a few weeks. We could make it work. And he could help you.
Lottie: You’ve lost it. It’s okay, sweetie. Get a good night’s rest and then call me in the morning. I love you.
Kelsey: I’m serious.
Lottie: Night night.
“HEY, HONEY, HOW WAS WORK?” Mom asks from the kitchen, where she’s preparing dinner.
Pretending to be whupped from a tough day of dealing with Angela, I say, “Same old, same old.”
“Still no news on the promotion?”
I swallow hard. “No news.” I take a seat at the island in the kitchen and watch my mom stir the pot of spaghetti sauce she claims is homemade, though I know isn’t. She says she adds her own spices, which makes it homemade, but the empty Prego jars next to the sink suggest otherwise.
“Well, I’m sure it’s coming soon. What about the apartment hunting? How’s that going?”
Yup, I get it, Mom. You want me out.
“Found a cute place near Kelsey. Thinking about it.” The lie slips past my lips flawlessly.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, you two living close to each other.”
“Yeah,” I mutter as Jeff comes through the front door from where he’d once again been tending to the landscaping in the front yard.
“Lottie, care to explain these?” he asks, holding a large bouquet of red roses.
What the actual hell?
“Are those for me?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, they have your name on them.”
“Oh, maybe it’s Angela promoting you.”
Jesus, one-track mind, anyone?
I hop off my stool, take the bouquet from Jeff, and set it on the table. I remove the tiny white envelope from the holder and take out the card. Written in very manly handwriting—slanted, almost illegible—it says “Please reconsider. H” and then there’s a phone number beneath it.
How on earth did he know where I live?
I know rich people have access to things us peasants don’t, but the man doesn’t even know my last name, nor enough information about me to put together who I am.
“Who are they from?” Mom asks, coming up behind me.
I clutch the envelope to my chest. “No one,” I say quickly, and then I grab the flowers and run to my room. I shut the door and, once again, slide to the ground, flowers in hand.
What the actual hell?
