The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  “Our…arrangement?” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.

  “Yes, dear. Don’t worry. I’m the only one aware of the truth, other than Reed, of course. It was my idea, after all, although my motivation may not have been completely innocent.”

  I square my shoulders as I face her. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been on the household staff longer than you’ve been alive, dear.” She smiles. “Even longer than Julian’s been alive.”

  There’s a familial affection in her tone as she caresses his name, like a mother would her child. It’s the first time she’s referred to him as Julian instead of Mr. Gage. I can’t help wondering if their relationship is more than employer and employee.

  “I see things. I hear things. Mr. Price’s children are still around, and they like to make things difficult for him, unduly influencing people who can help him. It’s been several years since Mr. Price’s passing, but no thanks to his children, who like to perpetuate the rumor that Mr. Gage took advantage of an old man, people still view him as a billionaire playboy, a passing fad who will end up blowing his fortune. Regardless, being around so long, you hear things. Many people’s biggest criticism is that he’s thirty-eight and isn’t married. So I suggested he finally date someone.”

  “Well, I guess he must really look up to you since he took your suggestion.”

  She bursts out laughing as she leads me back into the room. “He certainly did not. Much to my dismay, he shot me down right away at the mere mention of him dating anyone. So I suggested he purport to date someone instead. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually figured it was worth a shot. At the very least, it would get the social clingers off his back for a summer.”

  “Camille?” I ask as I follow her past the four-poster bed, the sheer material draped over the sides billowing with our movement. Everything about this room is peaceful and serene. I’m not going to want to leave at the end of the weekend.

  “Yes?”

  “What is this project he’s working on that appears to be so important to him?” I lower my eyes. “Or at least important enough to ask a complete stranger to pretend to be his girlfriend?”

  She avoids my eyes as she continues toward a door just past the sitting area. “Oh, he never discusses his business plans with me.” Her response comes fast and shaky. “They’d go right over my head anyway. Dana, Mr. Gage’s stylist, has already been by to organize all the clothing she’s selected for you. It’s all here in the closet.” She doesn’t even pause to take a breath as she changes the topic, opening another door along the far wall.

  I want to push and find out what the big secret is, but I’m rendered speechless at what she referred to as a closet. I have to stop myself from laughing. If Chloe and Nora could see me now, they’d piss their pants. This “closet” is bigger than my old apartment. Instead of only a handful of items for me to choose from over the course of the next few months, the walls are lined with a wardrobe suitable for any occasion imaginable, along with several dozen cubbies filled with shoes.

  “Mr. Gage provided Dana with a copy of your itinerary for the summer,” Camille explains. “She’s taken the guesswork out of everything.” She heads toward a table in the center of the room and opens a binder. “Each article of clothing is labeled with a number that corresponds to an event in here.” She points to the first page in the binder. I see today’s date, the event, followed by a list of numbers, indicating what I’m to wear. “Sometimes things come up, so in the back are a handful of outfits in case of an emergency.” She closes the binder as she faces me, her stare harsh and direct. “Under no circumstances are you to wear the same outfit twice. Do you understand?”

  I’m overwhelmed as I take in everything. The house. The staff. The clothes. When I’d agreed to be Julian Gage’s fake girlfriend, never in a million years did I expect it to be like this. Rules about what to wear and when. But the planner in me appreciates it. There are no surprises. I find comfort in that fact.

  “Perfectly.”

  “Wonderful.” She clasps her hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you to get situated. Can I bring you anything? I’m sure you’re hungry after the long drive.”

  I place my hand over my stomach, which is in knots. “Actually, I had a big breakfast,” I lie.

  “Okay, dear. Just dial 2111 on the house phone if you change your mind. I’ll be back to check on you a bit later.” She begins to retreat.

  “Camille?”

  “Yes?”

  I pinch my lips together, unsure what I even want to ask. Perhaps I’m feeling a little out of my element and want someone to tell me I didn’t make a colossal mistake in agreeing to this.

  “Never mind,” I say quickly.

  “Certainly.” She continues toward the door. When she’s about to close it behind her, she catches my eyes and speaks again.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Mr. Gage wouldn’t have asked you to do this if he didn’t think you could handle it. It may seem overwhelming right now, but once you get settled in, you’ll forget what life was like before you came to the Hamptons.” She gives me an encouraging smile, then closes the door, leaving me alone to absorb this strange life I’ve been thrust into.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I sigh.

  This would be most women’s dream come true. A gorgeous bedroom overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, complete with palatial walk-in closet, which is stocked with designer clothes and shoes. So why am I having such a hard time with this?

  Restless and unnerved by the unusual silence, particularly compared to Manhattan, I head back into the elaborate closet, flipping the binder open. I scan the first page to find the pre-selected outfit for today’s event — a pool party beginning at three o’clock. Turning my attention to the clothes, I locate the items Dana indicated and place them on a railing by a 180-degree mirror, scowling at the navy-and-white polka-dot two-piece bathing suit. At least she chose more of a vintage, pinup style with a high waist and full coverage for my girls.

  “Well, I guess I should shave my legs,” I say to myself, spinning around and going in search of the bathroom. Thankfully, it’s right next to the closet.

  Like the rest of the house, it’s impressive and extravagant. Marble tile. Spacious shower with several showerheads. Tempered glass behind an enormous claw-foot tub overlooking the ocean. I can’t remember the last time I’ve lived somewhere with a tub, so I opt for a bath.

  I turn on the faucet, spying a canister of bath salts sitting on a shelf above the tub. After sprinkling some into the steaming water, the fragrant aroma of lavender fills the air. I twist my hair into a knot on top of my head, then rid myself of my clothes.

  Once I step into the bath and lean against the porcelain, tension rolls off me as all my worries about what this afternoon may bring evaporate. So what if these people don’t think I fit in? That’s never bothered me before. It’s just a few months. After that, I’ll never have to see any of them again.

  Basking in the serenity of my luxurious bath and surroundings, I all but lose track of time until I notice the water’s gone tepid and my skin’s begun to prune. I shave quickly and grudgingly step out of the tub. After toweling myself off, I set about readying myself for my first event of the summer. I’m surprised how well the bathing suit Dana selected fits. Then again, she was rather meticulous in measuring me. I expected nothing less.

  After applying copious amounts of sunscreen to my fair skin, I accentuate my natural peachy hue with a hint of blush. Then, as per Dana’s instructions, I smooth my signature red lipstick on my lips. It brings together the vintage look. I tie a band around my head, knotting it at my nape, allowing the excess material to fall in front of my chest. I complete the look by draping a sheer white, floor-length coverup dress over my body.

  When I step in front of the mirror in the closet, I gawk at my reflection. I still look like myself, but I don’t feel like myself. Normally, I loathe wearing bathing suits. That’s the benefit of living in the
city — there’s no real reason to wear one. But Dana chose one that accents what I consider my best assets — my hips and chest — without revealing too much skin. If she was able to work her magic on selecting the perfect two-piece, I can only imagine the gown she chose for tomorrow night’s gala.

  Curious, I spin from the mirror and head to the binder, about to turn the page to see exactly what I’ll be wearing, when there’s a knock on the door. Assuming it’s Camille to check on me, I simply call out, “Come on in.”

  As I round the corner into the bedroom to meet her, I stop in my tracks when Julian stands in front of me. All six-foot-four of pure Julian Gage. Sinewy muscles. Consuming stare. Perfect lips turned into a subtle hint of a smile. He wears a white, short-sleeved, button-down shirt paired with blue checkered swim trunks. Yet again, it’s another new look for him. Is there anything this man can’t wear and make absolutely delicious? I doubt it. His skin appears darker than a few days ago, the ends of his hair lighter, kissed by the sun.

  “Remind me to give Dana a raise,” he murmurs as he circles me.

  If anyone else regarded me in such a way, I’d probably feel like a prize pig on display during the annual county fair. That’s not the case with Julian. He makes me feel coveted, admired…beautiful, something I never thought I would by wearing a two-piece bathing suit.

  “A very large raise.” Instantly, his hand clutches my hip and he drags my body against his. I gasp, taken aback by the gesture, particularly after our phone call Saturday.

  “We’re back to playing nice, are we?”

  “Playing nice? What do you mean?”

  I lower my head, feeling more exposed than I already am. “Nothing.”

  His thumb and forefinger grip my chin, forcing my eyes back to his, his deep pools of blue piercing me. “I don’t keep secrets and don’t expect you to, either. It’s important we’re both honest with each other about this arrangement. It’s the only way it will work.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say once more, pushing away from him. I fold my arms over my chest.

  “Guinevere…” His voice is a warning.

  “You were…different when you called on Saturday. I guess I wasn’t sure which version of Julian Gage I’d see today.” I shrug half-heartedly, not wanting him to think his demeanor was a big deal, and turn from him.

  “Which Julian Gage? You don’t mean…” He trails off. I glance over my shoulder as he closes his eyes, dragging his fingers through his hair. When he looks up, he catches my gaze, his expression apologetic. “You thought I was short with you because I’d gotten you to agree to my proposition and no longer had to pretend to like you?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.” I face him, placing my hands on my hips.

  He approaches me and tilts my head back. There’s a power and earnestness as he stares deeply into my eyes. Unwavering. Determined. Honest.

  “Listen to me, Guinevere. Everything I told you Friday is true. I am profoundly attracted to you. I was the instant I laid eyes on you. And I’ve only become more so with each second I spend in your presence. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you’re anything but the beautiful, charming, witty woman I’m thrilled to spend the next few months with.” He holds my gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, releasing his hold on me. “I was working Saturday. We all have our faults, and one of mine is being unable to switch from business mode to…pleasure mode.”

  I laugh slightly as the stress about the situation rolls off me. “And what exactly is ‘pleasure mode’?” I smirk, chewing on my bottom lip.

  He leans toward me, his voice a low growl. “Keep sucking on that lip and you’ll find out.”

  Bringing my hand to his chest, I gently push him away. “I thought you said kissing’s for amateurs.”

  “Who said anything about kissing you?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but snap it shut. He’s certainly got me there.

  “That’s what I thought.” He flashes a devious smile before straightening his posture, extending his hand. “So, are you ready to convince the world you’re my girlfriend?”

  I pass him a flirtatious look as I link my fingers with his, his skin rough against mine. “Let the games begin.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So what’s our story?” I turn to Julian as he drives along the streets of Southampton. It’s the first time I’ve seen him behind the wheel. There’s something incredibly sexy about it. The natural confidence he exudes as he shifts from third to fourth, his free hand resting leisurely on the wheel. For most people, driving is a necessity, a way to get from point A to point B in the shortest amount of time. Julian makes it appear like an art form.

  And let’s face it, his car is ridiculously hot, too. I practically had an orgasm when we entered his garage and I feasted my eyes on a fleet of luxury cars — Land Rover, Porsche, Mercedes, Tesla, Bentley, Jaguar. But when Julian clicked a key fob and the lights to a red Ferrari Portofino convertible blinked, I all but had to wipe the drool off my lower lip. When he asked if I wanted to take it for a spin sometime, I offered to give him a blow job in return. Jokingly, of course. But that’s how amazing this car is in the hierarchy of hot cars. It truly is blow-job worthy. The hum of the engine as he revved it to life only solidified my original assessment.

  “What do you mean?” His smile is bright against his tan skin.

  “People are bound to ask how we met. I can’t come out and tell them the truth.”

  “Why not?” He’s so cavalier about it, composed and in control, acting as if we’re not about to walk into a party where we’ll try to convince the Hamptons’ elite we’re an item.

  “For one, we met in a bar. I’m sure you’d rather we make up something, like we met at a Sotheby’s auction or doing something else people with a ridiculous amount of money do.” I squint at him, pinching my lips together. “What is it you people do for fun?”

  He laughs, shaking his head as he shifts into fifth. “We people…” He playfully lifts a brow, “do the same kinds of things you do for fun.”

  “Except you probably smoke better weed and do keg stands on twenty-four karat gold kegs with diamond-encrusted taps.”

  “Actually, the taps are hard to come by this year, but twenty-four karat kegs are a dime a dozen up here.” He winks, his response taking me by surprise. Whenever I’d make a joke like that to Trevor, he’d scold me for being absurd, that I should be more serious. It’s refreshing to be with someone who can appreciate my sense of humor.

  “Thank God, because there is no way I’m drinking Natty Ice out of anything other than a keg that’s plated in gold. A broad’s got her standards.”

  “Of course.”

  It’s silent before I speak again. “But seriously… Shouldn’t we make sure our stories line up?”

  “What’s there to line up? We met in a bar.” He glances at me. “Not at a Sotheby’s auction.”

  “Horseback riding?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Golfing?”

  “Hate the sport.”

  “At the racquetball club?”

  “It’s for men only.”

  “Chauvinistic bastards.”

  “They certainly are. Only men would make a competition out of smacking balls against a wall.”

  I shift my eyes to his, fighting against my smile. “Did the Julian Gage just make yet another joke? I thought the first one was a fluke, but a second one in so many minutes?”

  “Why do you sound surprised?”

  I face forward, allowing the strong rays of the sun to warm my face. I wonder if Dana knew which car Julian would take to the party and that’s why she instructed that I tie a wrap around my hair. It does go with the vintage style of the rest of my wardrobe, but it has also proved to be rather practical.

  “I had this image in my mind of you being so serious, like you were born shitting caviar and pissing Champagne.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I know.” I fidget with the line of my coveru
p, hesitating before blurting out, “I Googled you.”

  “I figured you would.” His voice shifts, no longer playful. Now it’s more serious, cautious. He clears his throat. “Find anything interesting?” He steals a glimpse at me before staring straight ahead, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a hard swallow.

  “No,” I respond thoughtfully. “It simply solidified my opinion of you.”

  “Do I want to hear what that is?”

  “That you’re a good person, despite what some tabloids would lead people to believe.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice his grip on the steering wheel tighten. According to my research, Julian came into his fortune nearly ten years ago now. I can’t believe he’s still dealing with the quiet whispers and upturned noses, even after all this time.

  “I like to believe that karma rewarded your generous spirit.”

  Upon hearing my words, he flicks his gaze toward me as he lifts his hand from the gear shift and grabs onto mine, squeezing.

  “Thank you.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a gentle, heartfelt smile. It’s not the sensual, flirtatious one I’m accustomed to. It’s real, genuine, pure, a peek into who Julian Gage truly is.

  “Of course.”

  He keeps his fingers intertwined with mine for a while as he drives. As we approach an intersection, he withdraws his hand to downshift, causing my shoulders to fall. But once he turns down another street and is back up to speed, he returns it to my thigh.

  I snap my eyes toward his as a fluttering erupts in my stomach. My breathing increases, the skin beneath his fingers tingling.

  “Is this okay?” he inquires in a low, smooth tone.

  “Yes,” I whimper.

  “Good.” His pupils dilate as he steals a glimpse at my exposed leg. Then he looks forward, squaring his shoulders. “Because we’ll need to touch each other quite a bit over the next few weeks. If we’re to make people believe what we have is real, we need our interactions to appear natural.”