Chapter 23
OLIVIA
CALLIE
Hi! Hope you’re having an AMAZING trip!
Did you know John asked Gracia to come clean our apartment again?
She’s here now.
I love her.
Also, I will waterboard you with delicious cucumber, lime, watermelon, and spring water agua fresca if you ever break up with John.
Unless we can hire Gracia even if things don’t work out between you and him. Then never mind!
ME
How much of Gracia’s iced coffee have you had today?
CALLIE
She’s already made me two servings! My brain and internal organs are perma-frozen, and I love her so much.
But how are you?!
I’m soaking in a gigantic bathtub in a luxurious spa bathroom in my billionaire fake boyfriend’s condo in Tribeca, that’s how I am!
This is a whirlpool bathtub, and I have recently turned off the jets.
Earlier, I held on to the edge of the tub, placed my feet on either side of one of the jets, and gave the most girl part of me an intimate hydromassage.
John is attending meetings all day. I’ve been working out and swimming, wandering around the neighborhood, and vlogging.
It’s the first time I’ve lived a life of leisure in my entire life, and I don’t hate it.
And I’m not even going to worry about what it means that I don’t hate it.
I don’t have a care in the world as I recline in this now-still water, replying to all the texts I’ve been too busy to reply to since arriving in New York.
I text Callie a photo of my pristine white marble surroundings and then open up the message from Milo.
MILO
Look who I slept with last night?!
Attached is a photo of a body pillow that he’s taped a printout of John’s face to.
He gets a passive-aggressive thumbs-up-emoji response for that.
There’s a text from my sweet mother, asking if I want to stay with them while we’re in Cleveland.
MOM
At least come by for supper! Johnny invited Dad and me to his fundraiser event, and we’d so love to support him, but I really don’t think I should leave the puppy alone for more than an hour!
Also, I promised your father that he will only have to put his good suit on again when we attend his children’s weddings.
Message received, Mom. Message received.
ME
I’ll ask Johnny! Send more puppy pics!
Opening up my text convo with my brother, I realize I haven’t written to him since we left for London.
ME
Are we glad, jealous, or slightly resentful that Mom and Dad didn’t get a puppy until we moved out?
He replies immediately, which is so strange.
NATHAN
It can be all three. It’s definitely all three for me. He’s so cute, though.
ME
You know who else is cute? Your best friend. Where have you been hiding him all my life?
NATHAN
I nearly drop my phone into the water when I see the emoji response.
Oh my God. My brother is in love. He’s in love with his girlfriend.
Nathan has always despised emojis, even more than he hates the West Coast. For as long as I can remember, he has refused to reply to texts or emails if there’s an emoji in them.
Katie must use emojis. Now my brother is using them.
I am as surprised as the surprised-cat emoji.
If Nathan can fall in love and change, then maybe John can too.
So why does that make me feel so anxious?
NATHAN
Waited for an eye-roll emoji, but it didn’t come. I’m happy for you. I can’t wait for you to meet Katie.
ME
I am so excited to meet her!!!!!
NATHAN
That was totally disingenuous, and that is why I hate emojis.
ME
OMG I could not be more ingenuous! I am so excited to meet the woman who doesn’t find you gross and annoying and stupid.
NATHAN
IKR
For some reason, the thought of being with John around my family makes me nervous.
Johnny did say that by the time we’re in Cleveland, this arrangement might feel real.
But I’m worried that my family will be able to tell it isn’t, and by then we’ll both be tired of pretending it is.
Unless it is real and we’re both pretending it isn’t? Or one of us is? I’m not sure who.
I might need to hydromassage my lady parts again before I spin out.
Just as I’m about to put my phone down so I can turn on the jets again, I get a notification that Julian has sent me a message on Instagram.
JULIAN
I’m free to meet up. Let me know your schedule.
I lower myself deeper under water, as if I can hide from him.
It takes me a minute to realize he saw my Instagram post. This building, which I recall John described as sick, is in fact a luxury tower and an architectural landmark.
There’s a big, round, mirrored stainless-steel sculpture outside of it, and I asked a stranger to hold my phone to take a video of me dancing in front of it.
I’ll edit it into a vlog later, but I already posted a still of it on Instagram.
And I forgot that my account has a location stamp on it.
For the first time ever, I have absolutely no interest in seeing Julian.
Surely if he’s seen my recent posts, he knows I’m with John.
Or is it that obvious to everyone that this isn’t a real relationship?
I’m so confused.
It’s difficult for my brain to catch up to my body, I suppose.
John Brandt has gone from Brother’s Annoying Friend I Want to Punch to Person I Enjoy Going to Bed and Waking Up with Despite Still Sometimes Wanting to Punch Him.
My body has accepted it since I first felt his hungry mouth all over me.
This feels real. Therefore, it is real. But the voice of reason in my head is all hand on her hip, wagging her finger at me: Girl.
You haven’t survived an entire month with him yet.
You need to calm the F down. And then some calm, quiet inner voice reminds me that I have known Johnny for so much longer than a week.
It’s like when I was learning fouetté turns in ballet class a decade ago—I struggled with these repeated pirouettes forever, it seemed.
They eluded and terrified me, and I hated doing them.
Then, all of a sudden, I nailed it, and it became my favorite move.
Is that the secret to dealing with Johnny? Practice, practice, practice?
I am a ballerina, after all. I’ve forgotten who I am. I’ve forgotten my intention when I agreed to this in the first place. I get to have sex with this man, and I only have to pretend to be his girlfriend! This is literally the ideal situation for me.
After celebrating my emotional breakthrough with more intimate hydromassage therapy, I spend an hour getting ready for the gala event.
I’m wearing the royal-blue evening gown Iris got for me.
I brought a pair of pale-pink Louboutin open-toe stiletto pumps that I got secondhand a few years ago and have only worn once.
I usually wear my hair up in a messy or tight bun or down and naturally wavy.
Tonight, I’m straightening it with an iron.
I lotion up every inch of my skin and apply my lipstick with a lipstick brush.
I even apply eyelash extensions, because this is Manhattan.
I’ll be there representing John, who will be representing his new foundation, and there will be some red-carpet action.
And also, I want John to have a nonstop boner as soon as he sees me—is that so wrong?
My phone dings, and I expect it to be a text from Callie or Milo, but it’s Julian.
JULIAN
Hey babe, where are you? Can’t wait to see you.
He has never called me “babe” before. Ever.
I type out:
Hi! I’m in town with a friend, and we have a really tight schedule. Sorry I won’t be able to see you this time!
Friendly without being flirtatious, to the point, and it doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation or discussion. Send!
Immediate reply.
JULIAN
Cool. Let me know if you have time to grab a drink tonight.
Um. No.
I don’t respond because John will be back any minute and because—gross. I am starting to see why everyone thinks he’s kind of a dirtbag.
When I open the bathroom door, I nearly scream because John is in the bedroom, and I had no idea he had returned.
He’s already dressed in his tuxedo. He shuts the closet door and turns around.
I lean against the doorframe, trying to look as casual as possible in fake eyelashes and the most expensive dress and shoes I’ve ever owned.
I completely forget my plan to look boner-inducing, because he is so handsome in a tux that I also forget to breathe and stand up straight.
I think my spine has dissolved. I haven’t felt butterflies in my stomach since I was about eight, and they were always ballet related.
I have to hold on to the doorframe for support.
I barely even register the look on John’s beautiful face.
It’s somewhere between ravenous and awe-inspired, and I suddenly feel self-conscious.
Me. He walks toward me slowly, his head slightly lowered, eyes wide, like he’s approaching a wild horse.
I would move toward him too, but I don’t trust myself to walk just yet.
He holds his hands out over my dress, hovering about two inches away from my body, his palms following my curves without touching them. I swear I can feel him touching me, even though I see the space between us.
“Can I touch?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
He trails his fingers down and back up the front of my dress.
I shudder, and he lingers around my cleavage for a few seconds before gently stroking my straight hair, and then he pushes it all to one side over my shoulder.
As he steps behind me, it tickles when his fingers travel down the exposed side of my neck and across my bare upper back. I release a loud sigh.
“You smell incredible,” he says. “What is it?”
“Chanel.” My voice is husky as usual but weak. “I wear it on special occasions.”
He lowers his face into the back of my neck and inhales. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through the night.”