11. A Proposition
11
A Proposition
CARLY
S itting in my car in front of my building, I closed my eyes. I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, trying to savor the boneless feeling our spa day had given me.
Instead of tormenting myself by checking my (silent) phone, instead of scouring the fashion blogs to spot the latest trends for my (imaginary) clients, instead of obsessing over each (desperate) pixel of my website, I’d lounge on my couch watching…whatever people watched on TV these days. Or I’d read a book. Not one of the business books stacked on my bedside table. One of the romance novels Savannah had loaned me.
Nope. Scratch that.
Romance novels were highly unrealistic and pointless. I’d read the thriller Lucie had recommended at the salon. A story about terrible things happening to an innocent woman was much more realistic.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and did a double take.
Andrew Jones was leaning against the side of my building with his hands shoved into the pockets of a charcoal wool car coat, staring intently at me.
I gathered my purse and clambered out of my car. I hit the lock on the fob, making the car beep, and slowly trudged toward the entrance. My shoulders hunched at my ears, and all my indulgent relaxation evaporated.
He held open the outer door.
I glanced around to see if any of my neighbors were nearby. Fortunately, no. But when I passed him, I caught a whiff of his clean, middle-of-the-ocean scent that had been so intoxicating in Monterey. I breathed out through my nose to clear it.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I need to speak with you, privately, if I may. I have a proposition.”
Despite the flutter in my sad little heart, I wrangled enough control of my brain to say, “I’m not interested in another proposition like Monterey.”
He ducked his head. “This is a business proposition. Nothing more.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Does that mean you’re finally ready to ditch the Brooks Brothers?”
“I could be convinced.”
I narrowed my eyes but saw nothing to fear in his open expression. I unlocked the inner door and climbed the stairs to my second-floor apartment. Letting him into my private space felt strangely intimate, but I’d had clients here before, which was all Andrew was claiming to be.
Pointing him to my sofa, I asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.” He settled into the corner of the sofa, looking like he belonged there.
I shook it off as a fault in my decorating. I needed to spice it up with reds or pinks, colors that didn’t belong in a menswear shop. Walking to the kitchen and flipping on the kettle, I said, “I’m having a cup of chamomile tea.”
“Um, no thanks, then. I’m good.”
Keeping my back to him, I smiled at my cupboards. Without a drink, maybe he’d make his proposal and take his tempting presence and expensive cologne elsewhere.
A few minutes later, I brought my mug into the living room, which was too grand a name for my one-bedroom condo’s open-plan main room. I’d used a rug to visually separate it from the adjoining dining area with its table and four chairs. Only a peninsula divided it from the kitchen. It must look small and shabby to someone accustomed to wealth since birth. At least I had a humble upbringing to ground me, though it had been a challenging adjustment after living in a mansion on a private street for twenty years.
I’d expected him to be engrossed with his phone like most men of my acquaintance, but he was holding the photo of Mom and me at the Miss Texas pageant. Mom wore her winner’s sash, and I wore the Miss Dallas Teen sash.
“This is you?” He turned it around to show me like I didn’t have it memorized. “And your mother?”
“It is. A couple years before we moved to LA. I was into pageants,” I said. “It’s kind of a family legacy.”
He stared at it for another moment before carefully setting it back on the table. “You were both beautiful. And you’re even more beautiful now.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t stand the thought of sipping my tea. My cheeks burned.
“Are you still close with your mother?”
“She passed a while ago.” I didn’t want to talk about it. Not with Andrew. “You said you had a business proposal for me?”
Clearing the frown from his face, he straightened on the sofa. When he rubbed his hands on his thighs, I tried not to think about those big hands spanning my skin.
“At the spa, I mentioned needing a fake girlfriend for a client dinner.”
“I remember.” I chuckled, low. “I still can’t believe you haven’t found someone to take. A nice, handsome guy like you…” I looked away. That was getting into dangerous territory.
“I’m up for a promotion at work,” he said. “But they think I’m not serious enough, not settled enough to be a VP. So, I told my new boss I have a steady girlfriend.”
“And he asked you to bring her to your client dinner?”
“That and”—his Adam’s apple bobbed—“the bank’s holiday party on New Year’s Eve. I need a girlfriend until I get the promotion. And I’m asking you to pretend to be her.”
“Why do you need a fake girlfriend? Why don’t you have a real one?”
The tops of his cheeks turned pink. “I never met the right woman?”
“I’m not the right one either. I’m…” The reasons tripped over each other.
I’m too old.
It would look bad to your mother and her friends.
I spent the last twenty years being someone’s arm candy, and the last thing I want is to reprise the role.
While I gathered my thoughts, he continued, “You need a date for Brad’s wedding. Even my mother thinks you should go to show everyone you’ve risen above him. She says it will help everyone see that you’re the better person, and they should hire you.”
“She said that?” Why? That sounded like what my friends said.
“She did. So, I’m proposing a trade. You go with me to my two events, starting Monday night, and I’ll go to Brad’s wedding.”
“No. Absolutely not. Being seen as your date would ruin me.”
“Would it?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll have access to my network. Think of all the styling clients I could introduce you to. An entire holiday party full of bankers who dress like…bankers.” He waved a hand over himself.
The bankers wouldn’t have the same hang-ups as Audrey’s clique. They wouldn’t be offended because I was dating one of their sons. I’d be dating their coworker, which was much more acceptable. I could offer them a friends-and-family discount to appeal to their economical nature.
“To sweeten the deal, I’ll pay your standard rate to style me,” he added.
I grimaced. “You’re terrible at this. You shouldn’t add onto the offer before I’ve responded. Besides, you don’t need to sweeten the deal. Brad’s wedding is multiple days of international travel. It seems I’m getting more out of this bargain than you are.”
“I need this promotion.”
“You have a lot to learn about negotiation.”
“And fashion. So, will you do it?”
“I go to your two parties and style you. For a fee. In exchange, you go with me to Brad’s wedding.”
“I’ll also introduce you to as many potential styling clients as I can.”
I wavered. Maybe I’d ruin my chances with my former friends, but his network of bankers had to be a lucrative bunch. “We’d have to establish new rules.”
He flashed me a boyish grin. “Let’s hear ’em.”
“First, we’re pretend-dating only at your events. At Brad’s wedding, if anyone asks, we’re just friends, nothing more.”
“A corollary,” Andrew added. “I tell my mother the truth about our arrangement.”
“Your mother!” How had I forgotten about her? “She’s not going to Brad’s wedding, is she?”
“No. Too gauche. Anyway, I’ll swear her to secrecy in case there’s any crossover between the groups. I’ll handle her, I promise.”
“Good.” The thought of appearing on her son’s arm, whether or not she knew about our agreement, terrified me. “Second rule: no sex.”
“Got it. No sex, real or simulated.”
Wow. His too-fast agreement hurt a little. Maybe our night together hadn’t been as magical for him. I mentally smacked myself. Of course it hadn’t. I had wrinkles and a saggy butt. And no matter how much yoga I did, my soft stomach would never be as taut as it had been in my modeling days when I’d never let a carb pass my lips.
“Though…” He rubbed his chin. “We’ll need some PDA to sell the relationship at work. So, maybe, hugs and G-rated kisses?”
I could do that. I could hug him and hold his hand during two events without falling into bed with him again. Probably.
“Fine. Third rule,” I said, drawing myself up, “we set an end date. When do you think they’ll give you that promotion?”
“They should decide pretty early in the new year.”
“Does February first seem fair? After you win the promotion, we’ll make up a story about our breakup.”
“You’ll run off with a younger, hotter man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Too much younger, and he wouldn’t be legal.”
“Excuse me.” Andrew set a hand on his chest. “I’m thirty-two. There’s always a twenty-something spin class instructor in these stories.”
“Ugh. Then I’d have to carry on a pretense with my new clients. No, thanks. I’ll say your vice president hours didn’t work for me. I need more of a man’s time and attention.” He’d given me plenty of attention in Monterey. I remembered how dark his gray-blue eyes had gone when he’d stared up at me from between my thighs.
He ran his fingers through his slightly too-long hair. “Shit, Carly. If you say those things and look at me like that, I might forget about rule two.”
“I won’t.” If I fell into bed with Andrew again, I might never want to give him up.
“Do we have a deal?” He held out his right hand.
All the reasons I should say no spun through my head: the optics if my potential styling clients found out about our arrangement, what Audrey might think of it all, and what she might do if she didn’t like Andrew’s “handling” of her.
But one positive reason stood out clearly: I’d show Brad and everyone else at that wedding that I was over him, and that I’d moved past it all and come out a better woman, a woman on her way to success on her terms. And then my phone would ring.
I gripped Andrew’s hand. “Deal.”
He gusted out a relieved sigh. “Fantastic. I’ll text you the details.” He unlocked his phone and passed it to me. “Text yourself so I have your number?”
When I passed back his phone, he stood. “Thanks for this. I won’t let you down. I’ll be the best wedding date ever.”
“Friend-date,” I reminded him. But I needed the reminder too. We could never get out of control again like we’d done before. I had to keep him at arm’s length and refuse to let my emotions back into the driver’s seat.
New rule two would save me.