by Lila Monroe
“Jules Robinson,” I answer, trying to sound as professional as possible. Please be an interview. Please be an interview!
“Jules,” says a woman’s warm, smooth voice. “It’s Olivia Danvers.”
“Oh!” I say, my heart sinking. “Hi.”
I met Olivia through Hallie last spring: she runs a high-end dating service for wealthy clients who need someone to take to weddings and business events, that kind of thing. “So, escorts?” I asked, the first time Hallie explained it to me. She insisted it wasn’t like that—and, to my surprise, it actually wasn’t. In fact, that dreamy boyfriend Hallie left to go live with? The same publishing heir who hired her to be his date to his grandfather’s birthday.
Olivia and I exchange pleasantries for a moment before she explains why she’s calling: “I’m sure you’re busy, but is there any way I could get you into my office this afternoon?” she asks. “I’m sorry for the short notice—I’ve got some urgent business, and I think you might be able to help.”
“Sure thing,” I reply. I can only imagine what kind of demented legal problems Olivia bumps up against in her line of work. Besides, there’s literally nothing on my calendar for the rest of the afternoon besides watching a gaggle of good-natured Brits perfect their Victoria sponges.
I glance down at my grubby sweatpants and NYU Law tee. “Give me an hour? I can be uptown by three.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Jules.”
I rush into the bedroom and change. I know some women hate business-casual, but for me, a good suit always feels like my superhero costume: ready for anything. And pulling on a chic little black pencil skirt and silk blouse, it feels like a little piece of my old self is clicking back into place. So what if this is just a quick consult for a friend? I haven’t been out of elasticated waistbands all week, so I add a fierce pair of raspberry-pink suede heels and a vintage scarf I picked up in Soho before heading for the subway. Look out, legal problems: here I come!
Olivia’s office is in a chic brownstone on the Upper East Side, all plush antique carpets and tasteful stained-glass lighting fixtures. I climb the polished wood staircase to the third floor, where a pretty assistant in a neat black dress promises me Olivia will be right out. “Can I get you anything?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks.” I take a seat on the buttery brown chesterfield sofa to wait, startling a bit as I catch a scruffy-looking cat eyeing me from the top of a filing cabinet.
“Here, pussy,” I beckon, but it just gives me a haughty look and stays put.
After a few minutes, a door at one end of the lobby opens. “Jules,” Olivia says warmly, stepping out of her office. She’s as elegant as a Hitchcock blonde in a sleek-looking pencil skirt and navy-blue silk blouse. “Thanks so much for coming in.”
She leads me into her office, a cozy, light-filled space outfitted with a fireplace and a well-loved antique desk, a fiddle-leaf fig soaking up the spring sunshine beside the window. “How have you been?” she asks, pouring me some tea from the china set on the table. “We didn’t get to chat much at Hallie’s engagement party.”
“No, I wasn’t there long. I got called back to the office on a case,” I tell her, remembering that particular last-minute drama. “But I should let you know I’m between jobs right now. But I can definitely freelance on whatever you need,” I add quickly. “I’m in good standing with the New York State Bar and I’m covered by malpractice insurance, so I’m all yours!”
Olivia looks surprised. Then she smiles. “I didn’t call you for legal advice, Jules.”
I blink. “You didn’t?”
She shakes her head. “Hallie mentioned your . . . troubles at your last job,” she tells me, “and I’ve got a last-minute assignment I thought you might be interested in.”
“An assignment?” I repeat. Then the penny drops. “You mean, like . . . ?”
“I’ve got a client in Boston,” Olivia explains, sliding a folder embossed with the agency’s logo across the wide desk. “He’s the CEO of McAdams Automotive.”
“The race-car company?”
“You know it, then.” Olivia nods with satisfaction. “That’s good. The client is Caleb McAdams. He’s the legal guardian of his godchildren, a seven-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl. Their parents passed away in a car accident a few months ago. He was out of the country at the time, so their aunt moved into the family home to take care of them, but, well, she’s refusing to leave. She’s suing for full custody, and it’s turned into a whole mess.”
“So he needs a lawyer?” I ask, frowning. I don’t want to talk myself out of a job, but my background is in corporate law, which is a world away from family courts and custody.
“No, he has lawyers.” Olivia smiles. “What he needs is a wife.”
I spit my tea out in surprise.
“Shit. Sorry.”
Olivia already has a napkin out, dabbing the mess, and I’m comforted by the fact she’s probably seen a few spit-takes in this office. “A wife?” I repeat, hoping I heard her wrong.
“Caleb is a playboy,” Olivia explains, “or at least, he used to be. He grew up on the Formula One racing circuit. Fast cars, extravagant parties, pretty girls . . . you get the picture.” Olivia sits down again. “He’s grown up now and cleaned up his act, but his reputation is still pretty wild. He’s worried that the other side will try and use it against him in the custody hearing, and he needs to show he can be a stable parent for these kids. Which is where you come in.”
“Pretending to be a stable family?” I frown. “I don’t know about that. Is it actually in the best interest of these kids to live with this guy?”
“Their parents thought so,” she points out. “They’re the ones who made him guardian. He’s just trying to make sure their wishes are kept.”
OK, maybe she has a point there. I pause, thinking it over despite myself.
“There’s another thing,” Olivia continues, “according to the will, whoever raises the children also takes control of the family’s multi-million dollar estate. Caleb says this aunt barely paid the kids attention until she found out about the money.”
“And now she’s running for relative of the year?”
“Exactly.” Olivia smiles. “You have experience with kids, don’t you? Hallie mentioned you came from a big family.”
“Three brothers and sisters, seven nieces and nephews,” I admit before I can think better of it. “I can sing Moana with the best of them.”
“I have no idea what that is, but I trust you.” Olivia slides a file across the desk to me. “Here’s the contract outlining the Agency’s policies and procedures, along with the compensation package. I’d love to give you more time to think it over, but like I said, this is all very last-minute.”
“How last-minute?” I ask, already flipping through.
“The first hearing is tomorrow afternoon in Boston, so I need an answer tonight.”
“Oh.”
God, I’m not actually considering saying yes to this, am I? Of course I’m not. Still, I take a peek at the bottom line, just out of curiosity.
It’s a good thing I don’t have a refill, because I would be spit-taking all over again.
“A hundred thousand dollars?” I read faintly, not sure there isn’t a typo.
“Along with any travel and wardrobe necessities, of course.”
“Of course.” I try to keep my face neutral.
“So,” Olivia says. “What do you think? If you agree to the assignment, we can get you on the early train tomorrow morning, so you’ll have time to get acquainted with Caleb before you go to court.”
I hesitate, glancing from the paperwork to Olivia and back again. I never thought I’d be tempted by something like this, but wasn’t I just telling Kelly how boring and predictable my life has been?
Besides, it’s not just about the money. There are two kids’ futures on the line, and after spending the past few years grinding away so a few corporate bigwigs can buy out some other cor
porate bigwigs, I kind of like the idea of doing something good.
What the hell.
I take a deep breath, set the folder back on the desktop. “Where do I sign?”
Which is how I wind up in a business-class seat on the train to Boston the following morning, watching the Northeast Corridor hurtle by outside the grimy window. I’m twisting the fake diamond engagement ring Olivia gave me—“Fake engagement, real diamond,” she promised—around on my finger when my phone pings with a text: Hey, it’s Caleb McAdams. Hearing time got bumped forward, so I’ll send a car and you can just come straight to the courthouse when you get off the train.
I swallow, wondering for the millionth time in the last twelve hours what exactly I’m getting myself into. Olivia’s file didn’t include a picture, and despite my above-average skills as an internet detective, Google didn’t deliver anything where he wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a racing helmet. I wonder if he’s hiding some kind of gruesome facial tattoos or a botched nose job. Not that it matters. After all, this is a business transaction, and after Penisgate, I’m not looking to get up close and personal with any more co-workers’ junk.
No problem, I text back, my thumb moving quickly over the keypad. See you soon.
There’s a black SUV waiting at the station, just like Caleb promised; the driver loads my suitcases into the trunk, then weaves expertly through city traffic without—thankfully—asking a single question about what I’m doing in Boston. I can feel my heart pulsing in my throat. There’s a part of me that still can’t believe I’m doing this, but it’s too late to turn back now.
The driver slows to a stop right in front of the courthouse, setting my bags on the sidewalk and washing me luck. “Thanks,” I say with a watery smile, then take a deep breath and climb the wide marble steps. Inside, I navigate to the right courtroom. McAdams vs. DuPuis. There’s a cluster of women standing in the hallway outside the judge’s chamber, and only one man among them. He looks about the right age, and he’s short, with a receding hairline and a tweed jacket.
I pause. It could be Caleb McAdams . . . or it could be the lawyer for the opposing side, who might be pretty interested if Caleb’s supposed fiancée greets him with a hug. One wrong move and I could blow this whole job before it even starts.
Shit, what do I do now?
I pull out my phone and quickly send another text. I’m here. Brunette, navy jacket.
The man doesn’t check his phone, but a voice comes from behind me.
“Jules?”
I turn—and freeze. The man striding towards me definitely doesn’t have a receding hairline: he’s tall and broad-shouldered in a designer suit, with smiling blue eyes and a full, tempting mouth.
Wait. I know that mouth. And I know that person.
Like, in the biblical sense.
Because Caleb McAdams, CEO of McAdams Automotive—and my brand new fake fiancé—is actually . . .
“Cal?”
He stops dead. For one horrifying second, I can’t decide if it’ll be worse if he remembers me or if he doesn’t, but even from this far down the hall his expression is full of recognition. “Holy shit,” he says, arriving in front of me. “It’s you.”
3
Las Vegas, Three Years Earlier
So,” Kelly says, sitting back on her barstool and surveying her surroundings. “This . . . is Vegas.”
“Uh-oh,” I tease. We’ve scored a couple of seats at a crowded bar inside the Cosmopolitan, all red leather banquettes and gilded light fixtures, the kind of thumping EDM I can feel in the base of my skull. “Not living up to your expectations?”
“No, it’s not that,” Kelly says. “I mean, okay, I guess it’s kind of that.” She tips her head at a group of bros hooting loudly as their friend downs what I can only assume is equal parts sugar and tequila out of a three-foot-tall plastic cup. “I guess I just imagined, like, more George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven, and less . . .”
“Zach Galifianakis in The Hangover?” I supply.
Kelly grimaces. “Exactly.”
“Speaking of questionable vacation decisions,” I say, plucking at the plunging neckline of my short black dress, a last-minute impulse buy that felt like a much better idea back in the dressing room, “am I all boobs in this getup? I feel like I am one hundred percent boobs.”
Kelly looks at me, assessing. “You’re, like, seventy-nine percent boobs.” She grins then, her cherubic farm-girl face going wicked. “Relax, Jules,” she says. “You look amazing. You look, in fact, like a super-hot girl who just graduated from fucking law school, so should probably stop worrying and order another cocktail.”
“I’m trying,” I promise, taking a generous swig of my paloma to demonstrate. “I feel like the last three years have genetically reprogrammed me to be uptight. Did you know that Mean Sarah Lowell was going to start her bar prep this weekend?”
“We’re not talking about Mean Sarah Lowell!” Kelly chides me. “We’ll start our sad life of practice test drudgery on Monday. The whole point of this weekend is supposed to be forgetting about all that. And, you know.” She gazes around. “Objectifying men.”
“Right, obviously,” I agree with a grin. “Can’t forget about that.”
She tilts her chin at a group of hipster-y guys drinking bourbon in the corner. “He’s cute,” she says thoughtfully. “Plaid shirt and beard, ten o’clock.”
I peer through the crowd. “I mean, sure, if you’re into mountain men.”
“I am into mountain men!” Kelly declares, with such conviction that I can’t help but giggle. “Tonight, anyway. I want to be, like, the Meriwether Lewis of vacation hookups. Exploring unknown territory. Mapping uncharted terrain.”
“Spelunking into the pants of every outlaw in the west? Speaking of which,” I tell her, tilting my head in a way that probably isn’t that subtle: we’ve attracted the attention of the mountain man in question, who nods at Kelly with a wry smile that’s all invitation. “Go say hi.”
Kelly bites her lip. “Are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to just abandon you here.”
“Oh, please.” I raise my glass, touching it to hers with a quiet clink. “Go forth.”
Once she’s disappeared into the crowd I settle back on my barstool and scroll idly through Instagram, liking shots of my cousin’s gummy baby and some law school classmates at a wedding and what feels like roughly a hundred artfully arranged acai bowls. I’ve only been at it for a couple of minutes when I’m enveloped by an overwhelming cloud of cheap drugstore cologne. “Buy you a drink?” a man’s voice drawls.
I glance up. He’s at least twenty years my senior, with pleated khakis and an obvious combover. I shake my head and smile tightly, holding mine up as evidence. “Got one, thanks.”
“Aw, come on now,” he says, ignoring the fact that I’m staring intently at my phone and plunking himself down in the empty seat beside me. “You in town for the conference?” Then, in spite of the fact that I haven’t asked: “Medical devices.”
His name is Greg, he continues; he sells surgical equipment for a manufacturer outside of Cleveland and is on track to make a seven-percent raise this year. He’s got a hundred-dollar per diem he hasn’t blown through yet today, if I want to rethink that drink offer. “I’ll spring for nachos, too,” he says magnanimously. “I’m a generous guy.”
I’m sweeping the room for the closest exit, contemplating an escape worthy of Danny Ocean himself, when a hand lands on the back of my barstool. “Hey, babe,” a deep voice says casually. “Making friends?”
I whip around. Now this guy would look right at home with Clooney and Pitt. He’s tall and dark-haired and smoking hot, wearing a starchy striped shirt with sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows and an expression that clearly communicates, Just go with it. “I got my ass beat at roulette,” he continues with a sheepish grin. “There goes private school for the kids, right?” He sticks his hand out to medical device guy. “Cal. The husband.”
I almost choke on my paloma
. Still, something about the sheer ballsyness of this particular play—and, okay, how hot this guy is—has me playing along. “Hey, hon,” I say, laying a hand on his pleasantly solid bicep. “Greg here was just telling me all about the free swag at the medical device conference in town.”
“Sounds neat,” Cal says brightly. He lifts his pint glass in a salute, then slides a pointed arm around my shoulders. “Cheers, dude.”
Greg’s gaze darts from me to Cal, then back again. “Cheers,” he echoes, sounding slightly uneasy, like he suspects we’re getting something over on him but isn’t sure exactly how. “I guess I’ll leave y’all to it, then.”
“Good to meet you,” I lie, smiling my cheeriest smile. Probably I should be annoyed that Cal’s brush-off was enough to get rid of this guy when mine blatantly wasn’t. Instead I just feel relieved.
Once he’s gone I turn around in my seat to gape at Cal, who’s looking back at me with open amusement. “So, on a scale of, like, one to Disney Princess, how badly did I look like I needed rescuing?”
Cal tilts his head to the side, considering. “I mean, your undisguised expression of misery kind of gave it away.”
“Maybe that’s just how my face is!” I protest, laughing in spite of myself. “Resting miserable face.”
“Eh. Maybe.” Cal shrugs, all confidence as he settles himself onto Greg’s recently vacated barstool. “You don’t look so miserable now.”
Right away I feel my cheeks flush, pink and obvious. It’s been a long time since I flirted—or, more accurately, since I was competently flirted with. “So how many kids do we have, exactly?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink to cover my own shyness.
“Not too many,” he reassures me, nodding at the bartender for another beer. “Like six or seven, max.”
“Six or seven!” I snort. “And here you are just gambling their lunch money away like some kind of degenerate.”
Cal nods gravely. “I’m a real scoundrel,” he agrees.
“Clearly.” I’m smiling, I can’t help it. The fact that this guy is a giant player is about as obvious as my boobs in this ridiculous dress, but it’s not like he isn’t charming. And this is vacation, right? I stick my hand out. “Jules Robinson.”