The Yacht Builder's Fake Girlfriend

Chapter 1

LIZA

Istood over my kitchen sink, eating croutons straight from the bag. Not the fancy kind with herbs and garlic. Just the regular, cardboard-flavored kind that came in a plastic bag from the discount grocery store three blocks away.

They weren’t rock hard, but they weren’t exactly buttery soft either. I wasn’t afraid of breaking a tooth, but there were a couple that certainly tested the strength of my molars.

I mourned the absence of salad. Hell, I mourned the absence of any vegetable matter whatsoever.

My last head of lettuce had turned into brown sludge a week ago.

The croutons had outlasted everything else in my pathetic excuse for a pantry, probably because they were composed of materials designed to survive a nuclear apocalypse.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Each bite echoed in the tiny studio apartment, bouncing off walls that were close enough together that I could practically touch both sides if I stood in the middle and stretched.

Not that I would ever try that. The last thing I needed was to acknowledge just how claustrophobic this place really was.

My eyes kept sliding toward the stack of bills on the counter. I’d been avoiding them for three days now, like if I didn’t look directly at them, they might cease to exist.

Who was I kidding? The bills were definitely there, and I was definitely broke.

My stomach churned. That could have been the croutons—dry bread really wasn’t meant to be consumed as a meal—or it could have been the crushing weight of financial ruin pressing down on my intestines. Or just hunger in general.

I looked at the bottle of ranch dressing in my refrigerator. Would adding that make this sad excuse for dinner better or worse?

I knew getting my PhD would be hard. Everyone had warned me that unless you had a rich family to support you or were independently wealthy, it was next to impossible. But I went for it anyway.

And now I’m eating croutons for dinner.

My last tiny little check from tutoring had covered my back rent and I was officially going to be late again seven days from now. I was so screwed. Walking dogs didn’t cover the rent and put food on the table and keep the lights on.

I reached for the bottle of ranch, hoping the fat content would keep me going for a bit longer.

My phone started ringing. Another luxury that I would have to give up soon if I couldn’t scratch together a few pennies. It was probably a bill collector. Someone that wanted money I didn’t have.

I recognized the name on the screen. Della.

“Oh shit,” I murmured.

Della. From Faux. The “company” I had signed up with six weeks ago in what could only be described as a moment of pure desperation.

I had seen a flyer on campus and checked into it.

Some of the other students were doing it.

They were much younger than my thirty-year-old self, but desperation and hunger would make people do some crazy things.

I told myself it wasn’t an escort service. Della had assured me it wasn’t an escort service. I had filled out the application at two in the morning after receiving my third past-due notice on my student loans. There may have been a bottle of very cheap wine involved.

I had been very clear in my application. I would not sleep with anyone. I would hang out with people, attend events, make polite conversation, smile for photographs. That was it.

When I went for my interview, because apparently you have to interview to be an escort, the eccentric woman seemed genuinely offended I thought her girls had sex for money.

She explained the Faux agency was a legitimate domestic partnership agency, and that plenty of clients just needed companionship for social events.

I assumed she was lying. Or at least stretching the truth for legal reasons.

Now she was calling me. Which meant either I was about to be propositioned for something that would make me feel like I needed three showers, or a consulting gig.

Considering I was eating stale croutons, could I really get all high and mighty about consulting? I grabbed my glass of water, washed down the last of the dust, and answered the phone.

“Liza! Thank goodness. I was worried you wouldn’t pick up.” Della’s voice was bright and professional, like she was calling to schedule a dental appointment rather than potentially changing my entire life.

“Hi, Della. What’s going on?”

“I have a job that I think would be perfect for you.”

My mouth dropped open. “A job?”

The words sounded like a frog speaking—not that frogs spoke, but if they did.

“Yes! One of our premium clients is looking for a domestic partnership consultant. It’s a bit last minute, but the compensation is substantial, and when I saw the details, I immediately thought of you.”

Domestic partnership consultant. I rolled the phrase around in my head, trying to decode it. Was that better or worse than escort?

And if it was what I thought it was, could I do it?

“What exactly is a domestic partnership consultant?” I asked.

“A fake girlfriend.”

I blinked. At least she was direct.

“The client needs someone to pose as his partner for about a month. There would be some public appearances, some private family time, very straightforward. Nothing physical or romantic required.”

Nothing physical or romantic. I clung to those words like a life raft. “So I’d just be hanging out with someone? Pretending to date them?”

“Exactly. And the reason I thought of you—well, one of many reasons I thought of you—is that the assignment would be based in Maine. On the coast. I remembered from your application that you’re studying whale migration patterns for your PhD. I thought the location might be appealing.”

I moved toward my tiny window that faced a brick wall and wrestled it open.

Late spring air, thick with city smells and the distant sound of sirens, rushed into the apartment.

At least it was fresh air, relatively speaking.

When one lived in the city you just kind of overlooked the smell of exhaust and urine.

“I am studying whale migration patterns,” I confirmed. “Humpback whales, right whales, fin whales along the New England shoreline. That’s actually why I need money.”

Or I’ll starve.

I kept that last bit to myself, but it was the cold, hard truth.

“Well, this job would certainly keep you afloat. More than afloat, actually. The client is offering one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for one month of work.”

I inhaled and sucked remnants of crouton dust down my throat. That sent me into a coughing fit that left me wheezing and my eyes watering. I was really selling myself. Who wouldn’t want to pretend to date me?

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say fifteen thousand?”

“One hundred and fifty thousand.”

The room tilted slightly.

“That’s… that can’t be real.” I pulled my phone away to make sure I was actually talking to Della. If it was a prank call, it was just mean.

“I assure you it’s real. The client is very motivated to find someone quickly, and money isn’t really a concern for him. Faux caters to a particular clientele—billionaires. For them, this kind of investment is negligible.”

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I could pay off my student loans.

All of them. I could eat salad. Real salad, with lettuce and tomatoes and maybe even those fancy nuts that cost twelve dollars a bag.

I could stop calculating whether I could afford toilet paper or if I should just steal extra napkins from the coffee shop on the corner.

But still.

“Nothing physical,” I said firmly. “I need you to understand that I absolutely cannot and will not agree to anything physical. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Nothing physical or romantic,” Della repeated, and I heard the rustle of papers on her end.

“The client simply needs someone to help rehabilitate his public image. He’s going through some personal challenges, and having a stable partner would help with optics.

It’s actually a very common reason people use our services.

” She paused and I could see the woman’s bright red lips in my mind.

She had a very close relationship with makeup.

Like roller girl meets disco meets the eighties.

“We’re not an escort service, Liza. I know that’s what you’re worried about.

But if these men wanted to pay for sex, they’d go elsewhere.

What they want from Faux is discretion, professionalism, and a clean exit strategy.

I do not run a brothel or prostitute women.

If my clients and my girls decide to move a relationship into that category, that’s their business. Not mine. No one is paying for sex.”

A clean exit strategy. That phrase was exactly what I wanted.

“So I’d just be acting like his girlfriend for a month,” I said slowly. “With zero benefits.”

“Exactly. The client will provide all the specific details when you meet with him. He’ll explain the situation, what he needs, and you two can decide together whether you want to move forward with the arrangement.

No pressure. If you meet him and decide it’s not for you, you can walk away. No harm, no foul.”

I looked at the stack of bills on my counter. Then at the bag of croutons. I didn’t have to open my cupboard to know it was empty.

“I’ll meet with him,” I heard myself say.

“Wonderful!” Della’s enthusiasm practically burst through the phone. “He’ll fly in tomorrow to meet with you. I’m thinking a coffee shop? Something public and casual where you can both feel comfortable. I’ll send you the details within the hour.”

“He’s flying in to meet me?”

“He’s very motivated,” Della said again, like that explained everything. “From what I understand, this is a very urgent situation. He would need you to step into the role right away. You indicated your classes were over?”

“They are.”

“And you’re available?”

“I am.”

After we hung up, I stood there for several seconds just processing everything. The late spring breeze pushed through the window, carrying the smell of someone’s cooking from another apartment. Something with garlic and onions. Something that wasn’t croutons.

I should have felt excited. Or scared. Or something.

Instead, I felt numb. Like I was watching myself from outside my body, observing some other Liza Jefferies make increasingly questionable life choices in a shitty studio apartment in New York City.

I put the croutons away. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

The next day, I stood in front of my closet, which was nothing but a pipe attached to the wall.

I was trying to figure out what one wears to meet a potential fake boyfriend billionaire.

I was a student up until about a week ago.

Dressing up meant putting on clothes that had only been worn once before and didn’t have icky stains.

I settled on jeans and a blouse that wasn’t too wrinkled. Professional but casual. The kind of thing that wouldn’t look weird in a coffee shop but also suggested I had my life together. Which was a lie, but that was what interviews were for, right? Professional lying.

I did my makeup in the cloudy mirror above my sink, my hands shaking slightly. This was insane. I was insane. I was about to meet a stranger who wanted to pay me an obscene amount of money to pretend to date him. Part of my brain kept screaming that this was how horror movies started.

But another part of my brain—the part that had eaten croutons for dinner three nights in a row—told the first part to shut up and get to the subway.

The coffee shop was in Midtown, nice but not too nice. The kind of place where you could get a latte with oat milk but also a regular cup of coffee without anyone judging you. I walked in five minutes early, my heart hammering against my ribs.

And then I saw him. I knew it was him because Della had told me he would have a single white rose—because that wasn’t creepy.

He sat at a corner table, and the first thing I thought was, Oh no.

He was hot. Not just regular attractive, but the kind of hot that made you forget how to form sentences. Dirty blond hair starting to gray at the temples. Strong jaw. Broad shoulders. Forearms that were tanned and corded with muscle.

I almost swallowed my tongue.

And then his eyes met mine. Blue. Not regular blue. Like the sea before a storm. That stormy, dark shade that warned of big waves that would pull you under.

Standing there just inside the doorway I had my first ever premonition—the man was dangerous. Not kill me and dispose of my body dangerous, but the other kind. The kind that meant devastation of the mind, body, and soul.