Sure, to wear to Duane Reade to buy shampoo. I mentally eyerolled myself. I didn’t have a designer life.
Felicia was the practical one of our bunch, and the queen of the hustle. She could make money appear like the internet was her personal sofa cushion. She just lifted and loose change was there, mingling with crumbs and hair. She scoured online auctions and real-life thrift shops and turned around and resold them for a profit. It was a time-consuming occupation but she seemed to revel in it. She’d once described it akin to gambling, the thrill of watching numbers.
“I will never do that,” I said. “You know me. They’ll be in my closet for years before I have the ambition to put them online.”
“I’ll do it for you for a ten percent commission.”
“Sold.” When I thought about what the clothes had cost it was kind of staggering to think I could wind up with thousands more from this job. Besides, we lived in the same apartment so I could just walk the clothes four feet to Felicia’s room.
“That’s so gross,” Savannah complained. “Those were gifts. You can’t sell gifts.”
Felicia, who was more up on the latest fashion trends and designers was on her phone. “I’m looking at Chanel’s social media. Are any of these pieces what you got?” She started to turn the screen for me to see, then said, “Oh my God, Leah, this is you! On this woman’s page. She tagged you. I think she’s a sales consultant.”
“What? Let me see!”
We all jumped off our stools and huddled around her, staring at the screen over Felicia’s shoulder. “It’s me singing,” I said, stunned. “I knew she was recording and she asked if she could post it, but I didn’t actually think she would.”
“You sound fantastic,” Dakota said. “You don’t sing as often as you should.”
I gave her a look. Sometimes the obvious eluded Dakota. “Are you kidding me? I sing at work every day, you just don’t see it.”
“Oh, right.” Dakota laughed.
Felicia played it again. “Look at how many views, Leah. A couple thousand. That’s awesome.”
“My fifteen seconds of fame. Literally.” I was proud of the way I sounded without any sort of warmup. The designer outfit made me look different than I did in real life. My expression was serene, the mirror to the sides of me casting an intriguing reflective light over the whole scene. It felt staged instead of spontaneous.
“She tagged Grant too.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It would serve his purpose to let it be known we were together, but did I really want the world at large to think we were a couple? What would that mean for my personal life? Especially given that it wasn’t even true. “That seems presumptuous of her.”
“Why? You’re ‘dating.’” Isla made air quotes. “It seems natural she would tag him too. Especially given he was footing the bill for the clothes. Does it matter?”
No. “It doesn’t. I don’t know. Sorry, I don’t mean to be weird.”
Fortunately for me, Savannah changed the subject when she spotted a guy. “Oh my God, Isla, that guy is totally checking you out. Don’t look.”
Isla, predictably, turned around with zero subtlety. “That guy? He’s wearing a wedding ring.”
“Oh, never mind. Wait. Unless he’s a widow and he’s still healing from his loss. I mean, that’s a tricky issue. When do you take the ring off?” Savannah gazed thoughtfully at the man who was wearing far too predatory a look to be a grieving widow.
“The amazing thing is, she’s serious,” Dakota said.
“Do you think statistically the number of widows is higher than cheating men?” Isla asked. “Because I don’t. I think it’s like ten thousand to one.”
We were in a bar that had popped up in the East Village a few months earlier. It was close to the theater and catered more to New Yorkers in service than the rich or famous. Or even tourists. It wasn’t what I would call a dive, but it was tucked away and the prices were reasonable. We’d been a few times and we’d liked the atmosphere because it wasn’t one of pickups and general douchery.
“Look,” Felicia said, showing me her phone again. “I found your boss online.”
I was surprised to see that Grant had a social media account though I wasn’t sure why that surprised me. I reached out and scrolled through the posts. They were rare and were usually alcohol or vacation vistas. Several shots of him with gorgeous women on his arm. He always looked mildly irritated. “Wait, these are just times he was tagged, right? He’s never actually posted.”
“It looks like he had an account and he deleted it. But yes, these are tags. Oh, look, there’s a story with him in it right now.” She tapped and we saw Grant at a bar, leaning on the counter, his arm around a woman who weighed three pounds and had blonde extensions that went to her ass. She somehow managed to be kissing his cheek, while simultaneously looking at the camera. “Who is that?” Felicia asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, as jealousy stabbed me in the gut like Satan’s pitchfork. “Seems kind of stupid to pay me all this money to be his girlfriend when he’s running around with Miss Blonde Isn’t My Natural Color.”
Dakota made a cat meowing sound. “Settle down, geez. It’s not exactly a crime to dye your hair and he’s just your boss. Remember?”
The story disappeared when Felicia let go of the image and I sipped my wine, a lump in my throat. “You’re right,” I said, even though inside I was picturing murdering Dakota for her insufferable logic. Nothing was logical when you had a crush, even at the age of twenty-six.
And I did have a crush. I’d maintained that all along and it wasn’t going away. If anything, it was getting worse because Grant looked sexy as hell, kissed like a savant, and got me slippers.
Slippers I was still wearing, which had mortified Felicia, but whatever. My ankle hurt like a motherfucker. Too much pretend runway walking.
Trying to keep my phone under the table so no one could see what I was doing, I texted Grant.
No one is going to believe I’m your girlfriend if you are out with other women.
I hovered over the up arrow and then changed my mind. I couldn’t send that. It sounded bitchy. It was none of my business. Besides, he would know I looked him up on social media and that was embarrassing. Though I could claim it was for research purposes, to better prepare for my role as fake girlfriend.
Still. The text sounded bitchy.
I used the back arrow to start deleting what I had typed.
“What are you doing?” Isla asked. She reached over Dakota and grabbed my phone. “No one texts under the table unless they’re being shady and we’re all sitting here so you are not texting any of us. That leaves only one likely person you could be texting.”
“Okay, Detective Parker, yes, I am texting Grant. But I changed my mind,” I said, feeling grumpy about the whole thing. Obviously, Grant hadn’t enjoyed our day together as much as I had if he was out with another woman. “I started to delete it.”
“I’m deleting the rest of it.” She tapped on my phone. “And I’m keeping your phone.”
“No, you’re not. I swear I won’t text him.” Unless he texted me first.
Isla put my phone in her bra.
“That’s stealing,” I told her. “And I will dig in your bra to get it back.” I stood up so I could get closer to Isla.
She laughed and tossed my phone back on the table. “As much as I’d love to have you feel my boob, here. I didn’t know it was that important to you.”
“You’re wearing the bracelet he gave you!” Dakota said, with her usual booming voice. She could knock pigeons out of nests with her pitch. She also pointed to my wrist, just in case anyone in the tri-state area had missed what she meant.
I winced. I was wearing the bracelet. “I’m a mermaid in the show. The bracelet is sparkly. It seemed fitting.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Savannah said, rubbing her hand over mine. “You’re in love with your boss. That never ends well.”
That sobered me up. “
I’m not in love with him. Relax. I barely know him. But yes, fine, I like Grant. I’ve never denied that.”
“He texted you,” Felicia said. “It says, ‘Can you talk later? How did the show go?’”
“Can you not read my texts!” I said, snatching my phone off the table. “I thought we were here to celebrate my show, not troll me.”
“We’re just teasing you,” Isla said. “Sorry, Leah. I didn’t know it would upset you that much.”
I actually felt like my cheeks were burning. Grant Caldwell made me blush, oh my God, how ridiculous.
I texted Grant back.
Out with friends but I should be home soon. Are you at home? The show went great, thanks!
There. That was casual, right?
Out with my cousin Victoria and her boyfriend but I’ll be home soon too.
The relief I felt that the blonde was his cousin was inappropriate and embarrassing and I would walk over a path of burning Legos before I would admit it out loud.
Now what? I didn’t want to sound too eager to talk to him.
So I took a picture of my feet with the slippers on and held my wine glass in front of them. I sent it to Grant.
That’s my girl.
His response went straight to my inner thighs.
So much so that I slapped my phone down on the table and took a sip of wine, hoping to cool myself down. It didn’t work.
I realized no one was speaking. All four of my friends were staring at me with various expressions. Isla looked thoughtful. Savannah looked hopeful. Felicia worried. Dakota amused. “What?” I asked defensively.
“I just want to remember this moment,” Savannah said. “This is the day your destiny changed. I just know it.”
Why did I feel this tiny seed of panic that she might be right? That this job might have consequences I couldn’t even fathom at this point. That I mentally checked myself. Like what? A newfound appreciation for slippers? An obsession with maple syrup?
It might spoil me a little with the awesome clothes and the excellent kissing, but the only life-changing aspect would be the seriously fat paycheck.
“This is like the movie Serendipity,” Savannah said.
“It’s not even close to that,” Isla protested.
“Let me have my rom-coms!” Savannah said, her voice rising dramatically.
I was taking a sip of wine when she said that and it was so over-the-top I choked on my wine from laughter. “Isla is a dream crusher. Don’t worry, Savannah. I believe heavily in the rom-com. After all, Overboard is what brought me and Grant together.”
“Oooh, you said together!” Savannah pointed a finger at me.
“That’s not what I meant! You know what I meant! It brought me to this job. That’s what I meant.”
I was over explaining and over protesting.
Overboard. That’s what I was.
I drained the rest of my wine and reminded myself I was an actress.
This was a role. Don’t confuse art with reality.
The server came by. “Another glass of wine.”
I nodded emphatically.
Bourbon, bacon, and Bali. Your turn.
Bacardi, bread, and Buffalo.
That made me laugh. Of course Leah would say Buffalo. She had started texting me at night with three “favorites” with a random letter and then I would respond in kind. It was part of getting to know me, she’d said.
It was mostly a game, a glimpse into her sense of humor.
But yes, we were learning about each other.
Tonight she hadn’t texted me yet, so I had started the thread because it amused me. She amused me.
So it was favorite cocktail, food, and place.
I had just entered my apartment and was in the kitchen, chopping up some vegetables to throw in a stir-fry. I don’t love to cook but sometimes it’s just easier than constantly ordering takeout or wasting a couple of hours in a restaurant. We were leaving for my parents’ house in the morning and I had a lot to do, including packing. My living room was filled with the packages of clothing for Leah and her new set of luggage.
The dreaded trip that had felt like punishment now was something I was looking forward to. I both felt like I was besting my father and getting to spend time with Leah.
Whiskey, waffles, Warsaw.
Washington apple, walnuts, Westminster. W is hard. Pick a better letter. And you don’t like waffles.
I popped a raw sliced pepper into my mouth. Water chestnuts.
Really? No one likes those.
And no one lives in Buffalo.
I knew that would annoy her. I was kidding of course. I didn’t really believe Buffalo was a myth. It just was bizarre to me that in all my years in business I had never actually met someone who was from Buffalo. Leah was the first.
Point made. Buffalo has a population of 248,000 people. Maybe one or two like water chestnuts.
I wanted to use the letter L but I was struggling to come up with an L cocktail I actually liked. I decided it didn’t matter if that one was a stretching of the truth.
Long Island Iced Tea, lentils, Leah’s bed.
Haha. Cute.
Lemon Drop, lasagna, Los Angeles.
I was going to hand her an opening and I hoped she would take it.
Gin, garbanzo beans, Geneva.
Grasshopper (not really, but I can’t think of another G drink), guacamole, Grant’s pants.
I laughed. She came through exactly the way I wanted her to.
So come and watch me eat water chestnuts. You can eat the rest of the stir-fry and then get in my pants.
I sent her a picture of the cutting board with all the vegetables laid out.
We’re supposed to leave tomorrow. That seems like a lot of back and forth for me.
Bring your toiletries bag and spend the night. We can leave from here.
There was a bubble on my phone like she was typing. It disappeared and no text was sent. She was clearly thinking. Probably how to politely tell me to fuck off.
I texted her again.
Sazerac, stir-fry, sex?
I thought this weekend was supposed to be sex free.
It’s not the weekend yet.
Sangria, stir-fry, sex.
I’m not going to say I did a fist pump but I’m not going to say I didn’t do a fist pump.
I was used to getting what I wanted but this felt like a serious win. I wanted Leah in my bed. I wanted to taste her skin and sink inside her body.
White or red wine? I can send a car for you.
Red. I can take the train. What’s your address?
I sent her the information and then looked around my kitchen. Time to double up the serving size and whip up some sangria. I went into my room and changed out of my suit and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
By the time I had the sangria made and more vegetables ready to hit the wok, Leah texted.
I’m in the lobby.
I’ll be right down.
Just tell me what floor.
I want to come down and get you.
Leah called me on FaceTime. “Why?” she asked the second her face appeared. “It will be faster if I just come up.”
I went to my front door and opened it as I talked to her. “Because I’m a fucking gentleman,” I told her mildly.
After stepping into my sandals I kept in the foyer to my apartment, I walked into the hallway and closed my door behind me but didn’t lock it. It was a safe building.
Leah raised her eyebrows. “You’re a true romantic, Grant Caldwell. The third.”
Hardly. “No one has ever accused me of that, but I do like to think I have manners. I’m getting on the elevator now. I’ll see you in a minute.”
When I got downstairs Leah was standing there in leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and the purple slippers. There was a backpack slung over her shoulder. She looked like she had wandered down the hall of her dorm to talk to a friend.
“Hi,” I said, kissing her impulsively and taking h
er backpack. “Let me carry that for you. Thanks for coming over.”
“This is what you get on short notice,” she said, gesturing to her outfit.
Her hair was on her head in a messy bun. I didn’t mind. This casual look was more reminiscent of the way she looked at the diner. “You always look beautiful. And very kissable.”
“Just a warning. I’m keeping these slippers on all night.” She gave me a grin. “For everything.”
“You can wear whatever you want on your feet as long as you’re naked everywhere else.” I hit the elevator up button.
“If you can keep a straight face while these fuzzy slippers are propped on your shoulders, I am going to be very impressed with your focus.”
I raised my eyebrows as the elevator door opened. The thought of her legs spread up on either side of me made my cock hard and my mouth water. I wasn’t going to give a shit what she was encasing her feet in at that point. “Challenge accepted. My focus is legendary.”
“For sure. I’ve seen you eat pancakes.” Leah made a stabbing gesture as we stepped into the elevator that was more Psycho shower scene than breakfast consumption.
“I don’t do that,” I protested. “You can’t just stab it to eat it.”
“You do.”
“I do not.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation.”
“You started it.”
“I don’t think that I did, actually,” I told her. “But I’m willing to change the subject. That’s a small backpack. Do you have everything in there you need for the weekend?” The door opened on my floor and I put my arm across it so Leah could exit first.
“I hope so. I have toiletries, makeup, a bra for that cocktail dress, and three thongs.”
“No pajamas?” If she intended to sleep naked, that was both amazing and brutal. But I’d made a promise not to touch her. I opened my apartment door for her.
She gestured to her current outfit. “I can sleep in this.”
That was fucking disappointing. “You’re going to get hot in that sweatshirt.”
“Nah. I don’t sweat.” She looked around my living room. “Oh my God, is this the clothes you got for me to wear? It’s like twenty-five boxes!”
Weekend Wife: A Fake Fiancée Romantic Comedy Standalone Page 10