Fake Date

by Monica Murphy

  My sister’s gaze is imploring, as was her tone. I find it hard to believe Kevin actually gives a shit whether I’m there or not. He has lots of friends who would stand by his side, I’m sure.

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally say, making her clap in delight. I roll my eyes and glower at her, but it doesn’t faze her in the least. “Just don’t pressure me about it. The more you ask, the more inclined I’ll be to say no.”

  “Jared, you can’t say no to family. It’s not the proper thing to do,” Candice says primly as she rises to her feet. “Let’s go have lunch.”

  I check the time on my computer screen. “It’s not even eleven.”

  “Let’s have an early lunch then.” She smiles, clutching her Gucci bag in front of her with both hands. “Come on. You need to get out of here. I think this blank office is permanently ruining your mood.”

  Without a word I stand, grabbing my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I don’t have the heart to tell her that my mood was ruined years ago.

  And I’m afraid I’ll never be in a good mood again.

  Seven

  Sarah

  I haven’t given Mr. Gaines his gift back—yet. Today got away from me, and blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard the excuses before. I woke up late and rushed to get ready, leaving me no extra time to do…whatever. Work was busy. Of course. Once I was off, I had to go straight home to make dinner because Andie was having her friends over to study for their big chemistry test and she somehow conned me into actually making them a homecooked meal.

  Okay, fine, rushing home to fix dinner was the perfect excuse as to why I couldn’t stop by Mr. Gaines’ office and throw that box straight at his too smug, too handsome face. That and maybe I want to actually…

  Keep the gift?

  I’m probably going to hell for even thinking this, but deep down, I want to keep it. The sexy little gift from Jared feels like flirtation in materialistic form. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a gift, with the exception of my brother and sister or my friends. They don’t count.

  Listen, I’m not whining and saying, oh please pamper me, but seriously. I never treat myself. I can’t afford to beyond the occasional nice bra or pair of panties because I got it on major discount thanks to Marlo. Otherwise, all my extra money goes toward my sister and brother or household items. Or food.

  You know, the necessities.

  Currently, I’m puttering around the kitchen making chicken enchiladas like the domestic goddess I am most assuredly not. Which is probably some sort of metaphor or something because hey, I’m not only cooking chicken, I’m a total chicken.

  That’s probably not a metaphor. I have no idea what I’m talking about, clearly.

  Putting together the enchiladas allows for a lot of thinking time. And if I’m being completely truthful with myself, the mere idea of going to his office and confronting him with the gift, makes me a little woozy.

  Instead of dealing with it, I shoved that stupid Bliss box full of sexy lingerie onto the top shelf of my very small, extra messy closet and tried my best to forget it existed.

  But it’s hard, forgetting about the box, and the contents inside. That bra was pretty cute. And the panties—while completely impractical—were also super cute. Not that I have anyone to wear the set for. Maybe I could wear it for Jared?

  Oh boy. Here comes that woozy feeling again.

  I’m hopelessly single. There’s no time to date, what with work and taking care of my sister and the household duties that pile up whether I’m around or not. With our parents gone and me being the oldest, all that stuff lands squarely on me. My brother does what he can to help pay the bills, and Brent has a pretty good job as a server at a very busy restaurant on the wharf in Monterey. He also goes to college part time, and somehow he’s still pretty social. Always out drinking with his friends, or banging plenty of babes.

  Those last few words come from him, not me. Sometimes, he is the absolute worst. And when he is, I call him out on it.

  I’m rolling tortillas, knuckle-deep in cheese, olives and enchilada sauce when my phone starts ringing, indicating someone is trying to FaceTime me. It’s Stella.

  With the least stickiest finger I’ve got, I answer the call, and a few seconds later Stella and Caroline’s faces fill the screen. Both of them are smiling, their eyes wide as they start calling my name.

  “What?” I ask irritably as I make my way to the sink and quickly wash my hands. “I’m in the middle of making dinner.”

  Ooh, I sound rude. But I’m grumpy. Tired. Hungry.

  “Did you go by you-know-who’s office today?” Stella asks, sounding coy.

  I go to my phone so I can look at them while shaking my head as my answer. The immediate disappointment on their faces is obvious.

  “But you said you would,” Caroline whines, a little pout on her face.

  “Work kept me busy.” That isn’t a lie. “And I had to make dinner for Andie and her friends.” That’s not a lie either.

  “Please, you could’ve ordered them a pizza,” Caroline says, and deep down, I know she’s right. “You purposely avoided him.”

  “Nope.” I grab a pile of grated cheese and sprinkle it over the prepped enchiladas. I still need to add a few olives on top of the dish as well, and then I can pop the pan into the oven and bake it for twenty minutes. “It’s been a crazy day.”

  “And tomorrow will be crazy, and so will the next day,” Stella says. “A week will pass and then you’ll miss your chance.”

  Yay. Maybe that’s my plan.

  “Until he comes into the store again,” Caroline points out.

  My stomach bottoms out at the thought of him coming in so soon after I just saw him. “He usually only pops in once a month.” Lately it’s been about every two to three weeks, but I don’t want to think about that.

  “He might come in sooner, especially if he gets no response about his present,” Caroline says with a knowing smile. “Watch out. I bet he’ll show up.”

  “No way.” I wipe the excess cheese bits off my hands and grab a handful of chopped olives, scattering them across the thick layer of cheese. “He probably had a twenty-four-hour deadline on me and since I didn’t make it, he’s moved on to the next woman.”

  Hmm. That sounds like something he might do, doesn’t it?

  “So you do think he’s interested in you then,” Stella says, sounding smug.

  I pause, letting her words sink in. Letting my own words sink in as well. “I didn’t mean it like that. He’s just—he has no time for bullshit. If that lingerie gift was some sort of message or test for me, then I’m fairly certain I just failed it.”

  Which is a good thing, right? Then he’ll move on. Leave me alone. Maybe he’ll even stop coming to Bliss.

  When I realize I’m frowning, that I actually feel sad at the idea of him not coming into Bliss anymore, I tell myself to get over it.

  “This is so disappointing,” Caroline says, and I can actually detect a hint of sadness to her voice. “I was hoping you’d tell us a sordid tale of you showing up at his office and him stripping you naked right there on his desk.”

  The visual instantly pops into my head. Me. Completely naked and sprawled across Jared Gaines’ massive desk. He’s standing in front of me in one of those impeccable suits, his expression unreadable as he drinks me in. He’d reach out, his hand resting gently on the inside of my thigh just before he pushed it to the side and he—

  I close my eyes for the briefest moment, fighting the image. Ignoring how hard my heart is pounding and that my skin’s grown uncomfortably warm. The warmth isn’t from our old oven that tends to blast the kitchen with heat either.

  No, I’m warm from my overactive imagination.

  “I don’t plan on being naked on Jared Gaines’ desk any time soon,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I mean—ever.”

  “Uh huh. You should head over there tomorrow,” Caroline says, Stella looming behind her and wagging her index finger right at m
e. “Give him a piece of your mind. We think he likes it when you’re mean to him.”

  They laugh. I pretend to laugh too.

  Then I end the call before they can say another word.

  Wiping my forehead with the inside of my arm, I blow out a harsh breath. Survey the mess that I made in the kitchen thanks to the rigorous prep that comes with making enchiladas. I’m using our mom’s old recipe, and while I’ve been making them for years, tweaking them and trying my best to have them turn out just like the ones she used to make, I can never get it quite right.

  Much to the disappointment of my brother and sister.

  Andie suddenly bursts into the kitchen, like she knew I was thinking about her, stopping short when her gaze lands on me. “Sarah. Are you okay?”

  I nod, trying my best to smile as I grab the baking dish crammed full of enchiladas and head for the oven. “Of course. Just cooking dinner. Everything all right?”

  “We’re all starving, and I was sent in here to see when dinner would be ready.” Andie tilts her head, watching me closely as I shove the baking dish into the oven and slam the door shut with a loud thwap. “You’re all flushed. Your cheeks are red. So is your chest.”

  God, did imagining Jared touching my naked body really make me flush that hard? This is ridiculous.

  “It’s hot in here,” I point out, which isn’t a lie. The room is so steamy I go to the small window above the sink and push it open, then wash my hands for what feels like the fiftieth time in the past hour. Making enchiladas is messy business.

  “True.” Her face brightens when Brent enters the kitchen. “Hey! I didn’t know you’d be home tonight.”

  “I didn’t either, but I won’t be here long,” he says as he drops a box he was carrying on the kitchen counter. He glances at me. “This was outside on the doorstep.”

  “Thanks.” I pull a pan out and set it on the stove, then go to our small pantry and grab a box from the shelf. Any other night, I’d make my—excuse me, our mother’s—homemade Mexican rice, but that takes too long. So tonight, it’s Rice-A-Roni. “Are you eating dinner with us?”

  I seriously hope he doesn’t want dinner. I don’t think I made enough for him to eat too.

  “Nah, going out with the boys.” He smiles at me as he opens the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of water and then slams the fridge door shut. “I’ll be out late.”

  Nothing new there. “Don’t you ever have homework or essays to write or tests to study for?”

  “I got that under control. Trust me.” He presses a kiss to Andie’s cheek and gives me a quick side hug. “Don’t wait up. See you chicas later.”

  And with that, he’s gone as fast as he entered the kitchen. I hear Andie’s friends all call out his name in greeting as he walks into the living room, then dissolve into giggles when he makes his way down the wall toward his room. They all probably have a crush on him. Why, I’m not exactly sure, but then again he’s my brother so I don’t think about him in that way.

  “He’s never home.” The disappointment on Andie’s face is obvious. She loves Brent so much, but he barely makes time for her. He’s the fun sibling. The one who takes her cool places and buys her junk food.

  I’m the boring sister who makes sure she eats her vegetables, cleans the bathroom and does her homework. Most of the time, I’m fairly certain Andie doesn’t really like me.

  That sort of breaks my heart.

  “I know. But he’s busy with work and school.” I sound like I’m making excuses, so I clamp my lips shut. “You should ask him to go to the movies with you this weekend. Like you guys used to do.”

  Like we all used to do.

  “Every time I ask him to do anything, he says yes, then has something else come up and he can’t make it,” she says bitterly, shaking her head. “He’s always breaking his promises. I’m tired of being turned down.”

  Welcome to the real world, little sister.

  “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” I tell her, and she smiles, ready to say something—what I’m not sure—but then one of her friends calls her name and she’s gone. Back out in the living room and so she can supposedly study for the chemistry test.

  Honestly, I think they’re just gossiping. But whatever.

  I’ve just set the rice to simmer when I remember Brent brought in a package for me. Curious, I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and stare at the medium-sized, plain brown box. I can tell from the label that it came via Fed Ex. My name and address is printed out, and there’s a return address from Monterey, but I don’t recognize it.

  Plus there’s no name included with the address. No business name either.

  Weird.

  Suspicious, I grab a pair of scissors and cut the tape open, then carefully pry the box open. Inside is another plain brown box, with white lettering scrawled across the top.

  The lettering actually says Christian Louboutin.

  I suck in a breath when I realize what this means. Shoes. And not just any shoes. Louboutins are expensive. No way could I ever afford these. Who the hell is sending me such a pricey gift?

  Hmm. I have a sneaking suspicion.

  Slowly I pull the lid off the box, gazing at the thick white tissue paper that hides what’s inside. Before I burn the rice, I go to the pan and give it a quick stir, wipe my hands on the dishtowel, and then return to the box, where I peel back the tissue paper to reveal the shoes.

  They’re black. Patent leather. Peep toe with the slightest platform. And that famous red sole that lets everyone know exactly what—or who—you’re wearing. They are gorgeous. Like, “stuff my fist against my mouth to contain the squeal that wants to escape me” gorgeous.

  I don’t even want to touch them. I’m afraid I’ll get them dirty since I’ve been cooking all evening. But come on. I must touch them. Try them on. See how they look before I shove them back into their box and send them back to you-know-who. Because we know who sent these shoes to me.

  I’m not stupid.

  No way can I keep them, but I’m definitely trying them on. This might be my only chance to wear authentic Louboutins, even for just a few minutes. I kick off my old Victoria’s Secret slippers that I got for five bucks last Christmas—don’t tell Marlo I wear them!—and then I slip on one of the shoes.

  It fits perfectly. Of course it does. I turn my foot this way and that, admiring how the shoe looks, a little sigh of pure happiness escaping me. My head is filled with images of the many outfits I could wear with these shoes for work. Marlo has Louboutins. So does one of the other sales associates I work with—but she’s currently dating a very wealthy, much older man who enjoys showering her with very expensive gifts.

  Looks like you’ve found an admirer who enjoys showering you with very expensive gifts too.

  Ugh. I hate that the knowing voice in my brain sound suspiciously like Caroline.

  Deciding to hell with it, I slip on the other shoe, then take a few tentative steps around the kitchen. I don’t even wobble, because I wear heels at work every day. Plus, I feel so freaking tall, thanks to the five-inch heels. These shoes fit like a dream. They look like a dream. They are a dream.

  I feel like I’m dreaming, like I’m freaking Cinderella. But Jared Gaines is not my Prince Charming.

  With a sigh, I take the shoes off and set them into the box, careful not to scuff them against each other. I drape the tissue paper over them, place the lid back on, and I’m about to put the shoebox into the shipping box when I notice the small notecard.

  Nerves clamoring inside of me, I pick the card up and flip it over to see that now familiar, bold handwriting.

  * * *

  You’re ignoring me. What will it take to get a response?

  JG

  * * *

  My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as I reread the words he’s written. I’m ignoring him? He’s right. I am. Realization dawns and I want to smack my forehead.

  He wants me to respond. He wants me to come to his office or call him—I do hav
e access to his phone number, we have it on record at Bliss.

  Huh. So what will it take to get a response from me?

  Definitely not a pair of Louboutins.

  Eight

  Behaving like a woman who doesn’t have a single care in the world—or one who gives zero fucks, according to Stella—I show up at Bliss the next morning in my favorite black pencil skirt, my black shirt with the white lace collar and pearl buttons down the front, and the new Louboutins on my feet. I know, I know, I said I’d return them, but screw it. He gave them to me, after all.

  These shoes give me power. Who knew a pair of shoes could make a woman feel this way? It’s freaking amazing. I feel like a goddamn queen as I stride into the back room of Bliss, heading straight for the timeclock so I can punch in.

  “Nice shoes.”

  I turn to see Bethany watching me. Arms crossed, thin eyebrows lifted. I don’t dislike Bethany per se, but she’s not what I would call my cup of tea. We’ve never gone beyond surface conversations when we’re together. It’s always been that way. We get along fine at work, but I couldn’t imagine her being a close friend. Certainly couldn’t see her in my girl gang.

  Which is fine. I know Bethany has her own girl gang. Plus, I’m pretty sure she has a tiny crush on a certain Bliss client. Jared, cough-cough, Gaines.

  Wouldn’t she just die if she knew who gave me these shoes?

  “Thanks,” I finally tell her, offering a quick smile as I stash my bag in a desk drawer. I hope she doesn’t ask where I got them.

  “Where’d you get them?”

  Damn it.

  “Um.” My brain scrambles. “A gift from a friend.”

  Not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie either.