Chapter One #2
"You heard me." I gripped the wheel tighter, not quite believing the words coming out of my mouth. "Five grand to be your date for one weekend. Otherwise, I'm sure you can find someone else cheaper."
He studied me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling he saw right through me—saw the desperation I tried to hide, the calculations before bed every night, the fear that one unexpected expense would bring everything crashing down.
"Five thousand," he repeated slowly. "For one weekend. You'd have to come to all the wedding events—rehearsal dinner, ceremony, reception, Sunday brunch. And you'd have to act like we're actually dating. Convince my family this is real."
"I can be very convincing." Not entirely a lie. I'd been acting like everything was fine for two years now. What was one more weekend of performance?
"My family's not easy. My mother will ask invasive questions. My father will assess your suitability. And the wedding's going to be over-the-top ridiculous. My future sister-in-law's been planning this since she was six years old."
"I can handle ridiculous."
"Can you handle acting like you're in love with a guy you just met? Because that's what I'm asking."
"For five thousand dollars? I can act like I'm in love with a cactus."
That startled a real laugh out of him, and the sound transformed his whole face. He looked younger, less burdened. Almost boyish.
"You're something else."
"I'm practical." I turned into the long driveway leading to Massey Ranch, gravel crunching under my tires. "And I'm guessing you're going to wake up tomorrow, realize you offered your Uber driver five grand to be your fake wedding date, and pretend this never happened."
"Or," he said, leaning forward, "I'm going to wake up tomorrow and realize I found the solution to my problem."
"Big talk from someone who can barely walk straight."
"I'm more sober than you think." His gaze found mine again, holding it. "Give me your number. I'll call you tomorrow when I'm not drunk off my ass."
I rattled off my number, watching him type it into his contacts with the exaggerated care of the plastered. When he looked up, his expression had gone serious.
"I'm actually going to call. This isn't just drunk talk."
"We'll see." I stopped in front of a smaller house set back from the other ranch buildings, warm light glowing from the windows. "This you?"
"Home sweet home." He stuck his hand between the seats. "Deal?"
I looked at his outstretched palm, callused despite the obvious wealth. This was insane. Getting involved with a rich cowboy, even for one weekend, felt dangerous. Handsome guys making promises—I'd believed those before. But this was different. This was business, not romance.
"Deal." I shook his hand, his grip warm and stronger than I'd expected. "But I don't even know your last name."
"Hunter Massey." He smiled that dangerous dimple smile. "And you are?"
"Dixie Lane."
"Well, Dixie Lane." He climbed out with only slightly more grace than he'd gotten in, then leaned down to look at me through the window. "Five thousand dollars. One weekend. You really going to do this?"
"If you call." My voice stayed steady even though my hands were shaking. "Big if."
"Oh, I'll call." He straightened, swaying slightly. "This is either the best idea I've had all year or the worst. But it'll definitely be interesting."
I waited until he made it safely inside—stumbling only once on the porch steps—before driving away.
Five thousand dollars.
I checked the app. He'd rated me five stars and left a twenty-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar fare. Definitely plastered.
The number kept looping through my head as I drove.
Five grand would change everything. Pay off the credit card I'd been carrying since Daisy was born.
Buy her the winter coat she required instead of making do with last year's too-small one.
Maybe—finally—stop living paycheck to paycheck with nothing left over at the end of the month.
Maybe even start saving for that culinary program I'd looked at online late at night when sleep wouldn't come.
The one that specialized in pastry arts.
Baking—I'd always loved it. Before Houston, before everything went sideways, I used to help my grandmother make pies every Sunday.
She'd had hands that transformed flour and butter into magic, and she'd been patient with me when I'd inevitably make a mess of her kitchen.
She'd died while I was in Houston, and I hadn't made it back for the funeral.
Some mistakes you just had to live with.
But the cautious voice in my head whispered warnings. Handsome guys making promises—yeah, I'd seen how that movie ended. Different city, different name, but same bad-decision energy.
Hunter wasn't my ex. My ex had been all charm and good times in Houston until I got pregnant. Then he was all gone. Hunter was asking me to play a role at a wedding—smile pretty, collect my money, walk away clean. No feelings, no complications. Just business.
This—I had to do this.
I pulled into Mom's driveway. The porch light glowed—she always left it on when Daisy stayed over.
On nights when I drove for the rideshare, my daughter slept here.
Easier than waking her up past midnight, and Mom never complained.
But every time, guilt twisted in my stomach.
Mom was getting older, already stretched thin running her in-home daycare.
She shouldn't have to handle overnight duty too.
That's why I'd gotten my own place six months ago. Why I was determined to make it on my own. I wouldn't be another burden on her.
I let myself in quietly. The house was dark except for the nightlight in the hallway. I tiptoed to the small bedroom where Daisy slept when she stayed over.
My three-year-old daughter lay sprawled across the twin bed, her curly blonde hair spread across the pillow like a halo, clutching Mr. Bun-Bun, the stuffed rabbit she'd had since birth.
His left ear was nearly loved off, and one of his button eyes barely held on, but she'd scream if I tried to replace him.
She looked so peaceful. So innocent.
So worth everything.
I kissed her forehead, breathing in the sweet smell of her baby shampoo, and whispered, "Mama loves you."
I left a note on the kitchen table—"Picking her up at 8 AM, thank you"—and slipped back out into the cold night.
The drive to my apartment took ten minutes.
The complex was nothing special—a 1970s two-story building with peeling paint and a flickering vacancy sign.
But it was mine. Unit 2C. One bedroom, one bath, a kitchenette barely big enough to turn around in.
Daisy's bed took up half my bedroom, her toys overflowed from a plastic bin in the corner, but I was making it work.
Inside, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the secondhand couch that sagged in the middle. My phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark. Would he call? Part of me hoped he would. Part of me hoped he wouldn't.
Because if Hunter Massey actually followed through, if he really offered me five thousand dollars to be his fake wedding date, I already knew what my answer would be.
I'd say yes.
For Daisy, I'd say yes to almost anything.
Even this.