CHAPTER 1. Noah #3
“Uh, yeah,” I say, feeling my ears burn. “Friday through Sunday. My parents rented a place in the Berkshires. There’s, like, a lake. And a hot tub. And, um…horses. It’s nice. I think.”
Connor just nods.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
I go completely still.
For a second, I’m sure I misheard him. I wait for the punchline, for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that would give it away.
It never comes. His expression stays serious.
“Y-you…will?” I blurt, my head suddenly spinning like I might actually black out. Jesus. I need electrolytes. Or a chair.
“Yup,” he says.
I just stare at him.
Hold on. Are we talking about the same thing? What if my memory is completely fried and I asked him to drive me there. Or help me fake my own death. Or something equally unhinged.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, panic creeping in. “I don’t want to sound weird, but just to make sure we’re…aligned—”
Aligned? Who says aligned?
“—could you maybe repeat what you’re agreeing to?”
I swallow when I catch the faint crease between his brows.
“Just so we’re clear,” I add, because apparently I don’t know when to stop talking.
Connor just looks at me.
Great. Fantastic. I’m seconds away from fleeing the building and relocating to another zip code.
Connor lets out a quiet breath, his face giving nothing away.
“I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend,” he says. “To make your ex jealous.”
I stare at him, convinced I’m still drunk or possibly hallucinating.
Connor O’Reilly—my straight neighbor, who I know almost nothing about beyond the fact that he’s from Kilmore Quay, Ireland (which, according to Wikipedia, is roughly twelve houses, a harbor, a church, and a seafood festival they take very seriously), works at St. Vincent Hospital, and plays video games at ungodly hours of the morning (I can hear the relentless click of his keyboard and him yelling at teammates on Discord through the paper-thin walls)—is agreeing to my completely unhinged rom-com fantasy.
“Are you serious?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He shrugs, just a slight shift of his broad shoulders. “Sure. Why not. You seem desperate.”
Heat rushes up my neck.
God. Of course he thinks I’m desperate. Which…fine. I am. But he could’ve been less blunt about it.
“I’ll pay you, obviously,” I say quickly, because throwing money at problems is a very Caldwell reflex—even though I’m currently surviving on a nonprofit, save-stray-animals salary that barely covers rent and my mildly concerning book-buying habit.
“Yeah, you already mentioned that last night,” Connor says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
I blink at him. Did I?
I don’t remember anything from that hazy tequila blur. Still, I nod, because asking would confirm I blacked out.
“Right. Yes,” I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “I did.” I try to remember how generous Drunk Me was feeling. A hundred dollars? Two? My savings account is already stressed. “How…much?” I ask finally. “How much did I offer?”
“Three grand,” Connor says, not missing a beat.
I choke on air. “Three grand?” That’s more than my rent. “I don’t have that kind of money,” I say quickly, heat creeping up my neck again. “But I have two hundred bucks.”
Connor lifts an eyebrow, and I immediately wonder what, exactly, he’s heard about me. Mrs. Horowitz probably told him my family owns half of Manhattan, so now I look like a spectacular cheapskate.
“It’s fine,” Connor says, cutting off my spiral. And now he does smile—a quick flash that vanishes so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. “I’ll do it for free.”
That stops me cold. “What? Really?”
Connor shifts his weight and glances down the hallway before looking back at me. “I could use a weekend away. You said there’s going to be a lake?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, relief hitting so hard I feel a little dizzy. “There’s a lake. Food. Horse riding. And, um…other rich-people stuff.”
“Cool.” He checks his phone. “I’ve got to go. I have a shift in an hour.”
Right. Hospital. He actually has to be somewhere.
I do too. I’m usually annoyingly on top of my work—when I’m not spiraling over my ex.
Thankfully I work remotely, so I’ve got time to shower, hydrate, and make myself look vaguely competent before I hop on Zoom and ask rich people to care about rescue dogs.
“Oh. Yes.” I nod and immediately regret it when my head throbs. “We’ll talk later, then? About…details. Like what I’m telling my family. When we’re leaving. That kind of thing.”
“Sure,” he says, that faint twist at the corner of his mouth again. “See you.”
Then he disappears into his apartment.
I step back into mine, shut the door, and rest my forehead against it for a second.
Connor O’Reilly is coming with me to my father’s birthday weekend as my fake boyfriend. Specifically to piss off my ex.
That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d be thinking at nine in the morning.
It sounds like a rom-com setup. And if rom-coms have taught me anything, this is not going to go smoothly.
I cross the room, drop onto the couch, and exhale into the cushions.
What have I gotten myself into?