Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I take a sip of my cocktail as I think this over.
His situation sucks, and his life needs fixing. That’s what I do. I’m actually not all that surprised he showed up, though I sort of imagined his request for help would be along the lines of getting the WSJ to issue a retraction.
At this rate, though, even if I could achieve that, I don’t know what good it would do. This city, this life, is all about reputation. Once it’s smeared, you can’t undo the smear. You simply have to smear it with something else. Something better.
Like a girlfriend.
Much as I hate to admit it, the plan has merit. Nothing takes the steam out of a playboy scandal like a ball and chain.
“You want my help.”
He takes a sip of his drink and stays silent.
I push him. “C’mon, Cannon, admit it. You never come here. We never do drinks just the two of us, unless it’s after . . . you know.”
His eyebrows go up. “Sex?”
“Right. Which is absolutely not on the agenda.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Figured that from your attire.”
I glance down. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“Nothing. I just didn’t know you owned a sweatshirt, much less purple socks.”
“Do you live in your suit?”
“No.” Another sip of his cocktail. “Sometimes I’m naked.”
The picture of exactly what his perfect body looks like flits through my mind, and I push it aside. “You’re changing the subject,” I say, setting my glass on the table. No coaster. “What do you want?”
“Shit, Sabrina, you already know what I want. I want to hire you.”
“You need a girlfriend. A fake one,” I say, making sure I understand the request.
“Yup. For the next month or so, I need to be completely enamored with a woman. And I need her to pretend to be devoted to me.”
“Vegas warts and all,” I murmur as I contemplate his bosses’ ultimatum.
“You think the plan is crap?” he asks.
I feel a jolt of pleasure—of pride—when I realize he’s really asking. That he really wants my opinion on something this important to him.
“Actually . . . no,” I say slowly, chewing an olive. “I’ve discovered that a man can get away with just about anything so long as the same woman appears on his arm at the right society events.”
He sighs. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me the plan was total shit so I wouldn’t have to go through with it.”
“Not excited about having a little lady in your life?” I keep my voice light and joking, carefully hiding the relief that he’s in no hurry to settle down, even just for pretend. It helps ease the sting of what he’s about to ask me to do:
Find him his fake girlfriend.
Even knowing it won’t be real, the thought of finding some perfect woman to be his ally for the next month . . .
I shove the regret aside. “Okay, so, your fake girlfriend. How long do I have to find her?”
“Ah . . .”
I frown at his discomfort. “You just said you need to hire me. You need me to fix this, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .” He drags a hand down his face.
“What am I missing?” I ask, my heart pounding just a little in anticipation of something coming my way that I’m not going to like. “You need a girlfriend; I’ll find you a girlfriend.”
“I don’t want a girlfriend. I mean, I do, but . . .” He lifts his head and locks his gaze with mine. “I want you.”
“What?”
“I want you to play the part, Sabrina. No, that’s not right.” He looks down quickly, then meets my eyes again. “I need you.”
My breath goes out on a whoosh.
I’ve heard him wrong. Surely I’ve heard him wrong.
The air seems to go still, as though we’re in some weird alternate-universe vortex. Because an alternate universe is the only scenario in which he’d ask me that. Or that I’d consider saying yes.
“No,” I say. “No freaking way.”
He sighs, as though I’m being unreasonable. “I’m not asking you to go steady, Sabrina, just . . . pretend.”
“Doesn’t matter. Not interested.” I snatch up both our glasses and head to the kitchen. Conversation over.
“Double your rate. I can afford it.”
“I don’t doubt it, but this isn’t about money.”
“Then what is it about?” he asks, following me into the kitchen.
“We’d destroy each other,” I say, whirling around to face him. “Surely you realize that.”
He runs a hand down his face again. “I do realize that, but I’m short on options.”
I snort. “Please. I could come up with a dozen women who’d die for the part. Most of them we wouldn’t even have to pay.”
He and I both stiffen a bit at my words, recalling a night years ago, the night that started us on our path to destruction.
Matt touches my arm. “Sabrina.”