I don’t really get nervous on first dates anymore; the first fifty or so sort of beat that out of me. But there’s something spine-tingling about knowing I could potentially cross paths with my future fake fiancé tonight. Carmen was right—I feel like the Bachelorette. There could be a simple way out of this mess.
Carmen’s first match appears in the well-worn wooden doorway. He looks like a walking human khaki and introduces himself as Keith. He runs a hand through his dark blond hair.
“I hear you need a plus-one for your cousin’s wedding this weekend?” he asks.
“She does,” Carmen purrs. “Why don’t you tell her a little about yourself?”
He pivots toward me as Carmen whispers in my ear, “I’m going to go round up more troops,” and slips past me.
“Well, uh, I’m getting my MBA right now,” he offers up.
“Cool,” I say, nodding. I do not think this is cool. I studied marketing and entrepreneurship at NYU’s undergrad business school, and the students fell into two clear categories: the first, like Keith, wanted to get MBAs, launch management careers, and speak in corporate buzzwords for the rest of their lives; the second, like me, wanted to gain just enough business sense to launch a company, then get the eff out.
“Yeah, it’s good,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You ever think about getting your MBA?”
I am just about to flee back to Carmen when she returns, this time flanked by two guys in Nantucket red shorts. They introduce themselves as Jordan and Kyle. Soon, I’m fielding three offers to buy me drinks, and trying desperately to remember which nearly identical jawline matches up with which guy’s name. It’s not the worst way I’ve ever spent a Thursday night.
“You’re beautiful,” Jordan says, leaning in two inches closer than a stranger ever should. “You know, I know a thing or two about beauty. My grandfather was a pretty serious art collector back in the day.”
Kyle wilts ever so slightly by his side, as if he’s heard this line before. He dips his head and fiddles with the straw in his gin and tonic.
“Like, he was really tight with Jackson Pollock before anyone looked at his stuff,” Jordan continues, not waiting for me to respond or nod or react in any way. “I could take you over to the Met sometime, show you some of my family’s contributions.”
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.
There’s something very sad about a dude who believes his best chance to land a date is to brag about his grandfather’s accomplishments more than a half century earlier.
Kyle works up the courage to jump in. “When did you say this wedding was?”
“Uh . . . Saturday? Saturday night,” I say.
“In the city?” he asks.
“Greenpoint,” I say, just to test how they’d respond to the suggestion of visiting Brooklyn.
To get there from here, you’d have to transfer from the 6 train to the L to the G—it’s basically impossible.
Jordan wrinkles his nose. “Far.”
“We’ll be out east by Saturday,” Kyle adds.
“We could always double back in your uncle’s jet,” Jordan counters.
“Not if it’s raining,” Kyle says.
At this, Jordan and Kyle both nod their heads heavily and sip their gin and tonics in silence.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to . . .” I trail off. They don’t seem to notice that I don’t complete the sentence. Carmen is talking to two guys by the door, and I pull her away from them.
“Excuse us for one sec, gentlemen,” she says.
“Okay, Chris Harrison, let’s talk. These dudes are duds, and you know it.”
“They’re all suuuuper eligible bachelors who would look amazing on Instagram and are dumb enough to not question whatever scheme you’re cooking up,” she counters. “Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”
“They’re just so . . . boring,” I whine. “Keith, Jordan, and Kyle do not get roses.”
“Right, because your whole ‘tortured artist who hasn’t showered in three days’ thing has been working out really well for you.” She raises one smug eyebrow.
I mentally review my last few dates. There was the guy who left me with the bill the other night. There was the guitarist who ghosted me after I downed espresso shots at 10 p.m. to stay awake for his midnight gig in Bushwick. There was the cute, floppy-haired movie critic who took me to the dive bar on his block for dollar-beers night, then asked me to cover the $4 check. I still have the crick in my neck from hooking up with the photographer who slept on a twin-sized mattress in a crawl space lofted above his microscopic studio.
“Look, you are a successful, badass entrepreneur. You can do way better than the unwashed schmucks you dig up from god knows where.” She holds up my phone hopefully. “The best ones are still on their way, I promise. Give me twenty more minutes and then we can head out if it’s a disaster. Deal?”
I tilt my neck to the right and revel in the satisfying crack. “Deal.”
I make a promise to give Carmen’s plan a chance, and soon, the night gets better. I wouldn’t necessarily call it great, but at least I’m entertained. I meet a producer who has a podcast about podcasts; a redhead who only identifies himself as an equestrian; a model who appears to be under the impression that this is a casting call; and an anesthesiologist who immediately places his hand on the small of my back and explains, “This is where I’d put the epidural when you go into labor with our children.”
I head to the quiet end of the bar to collect my thoughts. I wouldn’t date any of these guys on my own terms. But for the sake of my current situation, I could see myself not totally hating the podcast producer, Isaac, or the equestrian, Finn. They’re the most interesting, least creepy of the bunch, and they certainly have the right amount of square-jawed magic to reel in likes on Instagram, should our relationship ultimately progress to that level.
“Can I ask you a question?”
To my left, there’s a man leaning against the bar, holding a gin and tonic. He’s dressed sharply in a navy suit and lilac shirt, open at the collar. His cheekbones jut out at swoony angles and his wavy dark hair makes his brown eyes pop. He looks like a Disney prince who got lost at Ralph Lauren.
“Is this some kind of casting call?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I say.
I don’t recognize him; he’s not one of Carmen’s recruits.
“What are they auditioning for?” he asks, gesturing to the crowd of men sprawled across the middle of the bar.
I hesitate. “To be my boyfriend.”
He laughs out loud, then stops. “Oh, you’re serious, aren’t you?” He falters and stares down at his shoes to hide his grin. In any other circumstances, my cheeks would’ve flushed. But today has been intense—I feel beyond embarrassment at this point. He composes himself and extends his hand.
“I’m Blake,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Eliza.” I give him my sturdiest handshake, the one I give to my wholesale suppliers who try to jack up their prices.
“So, Eliza, tell me about yourself. I might want to be in the running.”
I straighten up and flip my hair over my shoulder. “I run a jewelry business with my sister. We have a store in Williamsburg.”
“Jewelry? Me, too,” he says.
“No way, what do you do?” I ask. The industry is on the smaller side; I’d expect to run into people I know in the Diamond District on 47th Street, but not necessarily uptown at this preppy dive bar.
“I founded Bond and Time,” he says simply, like that’s not a big deal or anything. “It’s like—”
“Rent the Runway for high-end watches,” I finish, cheeks flushing.
“So you’ve heard of me,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
I make a sound that’s probably not so ladylike out of the corner of my mouth. “I mean, I’ve heard of your company. Probably at an industry thing. Or maybe I follow your company on Instagram, I can’t remember.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have anything to do with that. Social media isn’t my thing. I don’t even have my own account. I outsourced that to a PR agency. Do you think they’re doing a good job?”
“You could increase your followers and engagement,” I say.
Once, a few years back, when Mercury must have gone retrograde and life got topsy-turvy, I briefly dated a string of guys like Blake—the kind who wear dry-clean-only suits regularly and have a signature cologne. I learned that they secretly enjoy being called out on their shit. So I hold my gaze and wait for his response.
He nods deeply. “Noted. So, why exactly are you holding a casting call to find a boyfriend?”
I consider telling him the truth. Blake doesn’t seem like one of the dopey men in khakis across the bar. Plus, as a fellow entrepreneur, I’m sure he’d go to any length possible to ensure his business will succeed. I’m on the verge of explaining the scheme Carmen and I cooked up, but then I lose my nerve. He’s too cute to mess things up with.
“I need a date to bring as a plus-one to a friend’s wedding this weekend,” I offer.
“It’s a shame, then. I’m out of town this weekend,” he says. He takes a sip of his drink, and when the glass leaves his lips, I see a grin lingering there. “I’m around other weekends, though. I hope that doesn’t take me out of the running.”
My stomach flip-flops. “Not necessarily.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket; it’s buzzing. He gives it an annoyed glance and sends the call to voicemail.
“Unfortunately, I have to head out,” he says. “But I’d love to be considered for, you know, the position. Could I take you out sometime?”
His smile is just as genuine as one could hope for in this ridiculous scenario. I get that sensation that every girl who’s ever felt beautiful and valuable and important has ever felt: like you’re zooming over the top of a roller coaster, untouchable, winning, perfect.
I grab his phone and enter in my number. I don’t leave a last name—too traceable. For now, I’m just Eliza. I return his phone when he closes his hand around it, the gleaming face of his watch winking back at me.
“It’s been a pleasure, Eliza,” he says.
For a split second, I wonder if he’s moving toward me for a hug or a kiss, but then he slips past me into the crowd. If I need a fake fiancé who won’t ever question why I look engaged on Instagram, Blake might be my jackpot. All I need to do now is convince him.
• Chapter 4 •
Click. A flashbulb pops. Click. Another one. Click.
I clench my left butt cheek to give myself a better grip on the metal stool I’m leaning against, precariously balancing in silver stiletto booties. Unbelievably, those emails I sent actually panned out. My story was picked up by jewelry blogs and wedding websites right away, and then I caught a big fish: a women’s magazine. It was an easier reel than I ever could have dreamed. Elle’s digital director apparently follows Brooklyn Jewels on Instagram and was eager to assign a piece about my business and, yes, my engagement. Now, less than a week later, it’s happening.
It’s my first time ever doing a magazine photo shoot, and to be honest, it’s not what I imagined. I know that magazines aren’t exactly thriving at the moment—I didn’t expect to share a private plane to a secluded beach in the Maldives with Pat McGrath as she did my makeup—but I expected a tiny bit more than this. The photographer, reporter, and I are stuffed into what probably used to be a storage room. There are scuff marks on the walls and a mishmash of camera equipment and clothes strewn about. My hair and makeup were done by a woman summoned from the beauty editor’s phone via Glamsquad. My outfit is sweet, though—the fashion editor was waiting with a rack of clothes for me when I arrived, and I got to choose. I asked why everything was white, gray, and silver, and she shrugged like it was obvious: “To play up your engagement ring, you know?” I slipped into charcoal gray leather leggings, a whisper-thin white camisole, and a white jacket dripping in silver zippers. This morning, I had spent a half hour debating which accessories to bring. Ultimately, I went with my signature bangles, hammered silver hoops, and a simple diamond pendant on a silver chain, all from Brooklyn Jewels: they create a pretty effect without stealing focus from my ring.
The photographer, a petite woman with an intricate floral tattoo snaking up one arm, looks up from her camera. “Can you adjust your hand? Move it onto your thigh again?”
Oh. Right. She had suggested that I casually rest my left hand on my thigh so that my engagement ring is visible in photos. I move my hand. The photographer smiles. Click.
I am not a model; I never dreamed of being a model; I never even fantasized for a moment during a particularly juicy rerun of America’s Next Top Model, I swear. And yet, something about this whole ordeal—the photo shoot, the interview, the office outside full of editors who can create a trend or launch a brand’s success with a single story—feels inevitable.
People always ask how a girl like me who grew up around boats in the most picturesque seaside city wound up moving to New York City. The subtext: Who would give that up? Back in middle school and high school, Mom, Dad, and Sophie would go out on our boat on the weekends when the weather allowed for it. It was their passion. But the thing is, I get seasick. Not just a little bit queasy, but debilitatingly nauseous. So, while the rest of my family was gone, I hung around Helen’s boutique with a stack of glossy magazines, poring over each page carefully. I liked the fashion spreads and the celebrity interviews, but that’s not what drew me in. No, I couldn’t get enough of the profiles of women to watch—chic women with booming careers in cities like New York and Los Angeles. It’s like Diane von Furstenberg said after marrying a prince and building a multimillion-dollar company well before turning thirty: “I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, but I knew the woman I wanted to become.”
I knew the woman I wanted to become. I knew I wanted to do something big, something that would land me on this stool, in front of a photographer, waiting to be interviewed for one of the publications that I read as a seasick teen back in Portland.
As I get more comfortable, the photographer comes closer, moving from full-body shots to close-ups. I take a deep breath, flip my hair, and flash my biggest smile. Click, click, click, click, click. I offer what I hope is a glamorously coy, close-lipped gaze. Click. I rest my bejeweled hand on my chin and look flirtatiously off to the side. Click. The woman I wanted to become. Click. The woman I’m becoming. Click.
Once the shoot wraps up, I slip into a stall in the bathroom to change out of the fashion editor’s clothes into the ones I arrived in: a short black skirt and the most Elle garment I own, a delicately embroidered white blouse with a high collar. I knew they’d give me clothes to wear for the shoot, but I wanted to arrive in style, like I belonged here. Standing barefoot on the cold tile floor, I miss my glittering skyscraper booties from the shoot. I wish my regular black ankle boots gave me a little bit more lift. But when I see my reflection in the mirror, I regain my confidence: I look like I’ve been FaceTuned. Somehow the makeup artist carved out cheekbones and made my eyes sparkle. My hair bounces.
Taylor, the reporter, is waiting for me in the hall. She’s wearing a chic outfit—vintage Levi’s, leopard-print pumps—and box braids that cascade halfway down her back. I check her hand when she holds the door to the elevator bank open for me: no ring. That’s a good sign. It means that, hopefully, she won’t ask gushing questions about my fiancé. Maybe it’ll be strictly focused on the company.
She takes me downstairs to grab coffee. I follow Taylor through the cream-colored granite cafeteria with soaring, double-height ceilings, we each pour ourselves a cup, and we take a seat at a round table.
When we sit, she asks for permission to record our conversation. I feel a rush of nerves. For the first time, it’s possible that the story about my “engagement” will be in someone else’s hands. I can only control what I say—I’ll have to
choose my words carefully.
“Of course, you can record,” I tell her.
To my delight, Taylor runs through the questions I’ve always imagined a reporter would ask. I tell her that Sophie and I grew up underfoot at my parents’ store, watching them run a business. I tell her about everything Helen gave us: inspiration, an education, a vision for my career. I explain that after Nana and Pops passed away, we were left with a sizable chunk of money that we’d each gain access to upon turning twenty-five. So we hatched a plan—we’d go into business together.
That fall, I enrolled at NYU to study entrepreneurship and marketing. When I graduated, I landed a well-paying but criminally boring sales job. I could leave the office at five on the dot to read books on startups, attend lectures by entrepreneurs, and study the hell out of the jewelry industry. I wrote a business plan and submitted it to competitions that offered seed funding for startups. Meanwhile, Sophie had been working as a graphic designer in Portland and living at home to save money. She moved to New York to study diamonds and jewelry design at GIA (the Gemological Institute of America). By the time we were twenty-five and thirty, respectively, we were ready: Sophie knew how to create beautiful pieces, we had two years’ worth of funding locked in, and we signed a lease on a storefront in Brooklyn.
Taylor asks thoughtful questions—about the challenges of launching a business, about Sophie’s design process, about how we grew such a loyal fan base in Hollywood and on Instagram so quickly. I tell her my favorite story, about how Meghan Markle happened to wear one of our necklaces a month after we launched. Like many politicians and royal figures, she uses fashion as a tool for diplomacy; whenever she and Prince Harry travel, she wears designers local to that country. A Brooklyn Jewels necklace sat atop a Calvin Klein dress and a Michael Kors coat. The minute our brand was identified and named by fashion reporters around the globe, our business skyrocketed to success. Life hasn’t been the same since.
“So, your fiancé. What’s his name?” Taylor asks.
She drops the question so smoothly into the conversation that I would’ve blurted out a name if there was one.
Love at First Like Page 3