My eyes narrowed, and I took a scalding sip of coffee. “Did I miss the memo? Is something happening today? Because I got your text. The seventeenth is two weeks away.” The caffeine was revitalizing and I was thinking more quickly.
“I had some business in the area.”
“Not in this area,” I mumbled, but I don’t think he heard me. What business could he possibly have had in this rundown neighborhood?
He perched delicately between an upturned toolbox and a stack of past-due library books. “And while the seventeenth is two weeks away, the Los Angeles Diabetes Fundraiser Gala is tonight.”
I hopped onto the counter and pulled my knees to my chest with a frown. “I’m not following.” Spotting a hair tie, I quickly restrained my mane into a messy ballerina bun, wishing for what was sure to be the first of many times, that when I lifted my arms anywhere above my chin, my junior high tee-shirt didn’t crawl up past my navel.
His eyes lingered on me for a moment, before he cleared his throat. “I’m here to make sure you dress in something appropriate. Something that doesn’t reflect the weird Flintstones aesthetic you have going on here.”
I squinted suspiciously. “You’ve never seen the Flintstones.”
“That’s right,” he answered sarcastically. “I spent most of my youth selecting Afghans and teething on books.”
“At least he admits it...”
“Listen, Rebecca.” He stepped in front of the counter, placing his hands on either side of my knees. “we need to keep up the façade until we get to the island. Otherwise, there’s no point.”
I pursed my lips. “That seems fraudulent.”
“Of course it’s fraudulent, that’s the whole point. But there’s no reason why we can’t both get what we want.”
“Not fraudulent in general.” I slid off the counter, forcing him to take a step back, “I meant fraudulent to me. I thought we would spend one weekend together for cash—that’s it. And if you think I don’t know how prostitute-y that sounds, you’ve got another think coming.”
He ran his hands through his hair and chuckled. “It’s not prostitute-y if there’s no sex.”
“You know what I mean, Marcus.”
For some reason, he perked up when I said his name. “I need this, Rebecca. I need to keep this client. If it’s a question of wanting more money to see the whole thing through—”
“I don’t want more money—there’s only so much my Popsicles can hide.”
He cocked his head curiously, and I rubbed my temples, praying for the mocha to kick in.
“Look,” I continued, “I’ll do this for you. It’s a very generous offer of money, and despite the painstaking efforts you take to appear otherwise, I think deep down you might not be a total douche.”
Okay, so I shouldn’t have called him a douche. But he dated three women at one time.
“Well, thanks—”
“Not finished.” I held up my hand. “But you’re going to have to be straight with me. I’m not going to be jerked around like some prize pony. I want to know exactly what we’re doing and exactly what we’re both getting out of it.”
He nodded slowly. “All right. Well, I’m going to need you to make off and on appearances with me for the next two weeks until we leave for the Caribbean. This town is swarming with paparazzi at every street corner—we’re going to have to commit if we want to sell it.” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to object, but when I stayed quiet, he rushed on. “In exchange, I give you the money. And cover all expenses.”
“Off and on appearances...” I glanced in the mirror and saw a wilted ballerina dressed like a twelve-year-old staring back. “...if you think it will help.”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll commit and help sell the girlfriend ploy for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Just remember. You can’t fix all your problems by writing a check.”
“I know that. And I’ll never do this again. I’m just so thankful you’re taking this job.”
“It’s an easy job. And I’m broke right now.” I downed the rest of the coffee, engine revving up as I recapped the game plan. “So you trick people into thinking you’re a half-decent human being, and I get a wad of cash. Sounds reasonable to me.” He shot me a comical look and I shrugged. “I watch a lot of television.”