Chapter 14 Lifestyle Of The Rich and Famous
By the time the sun is up, casting pale yellow beams through the windows, I’ve mostly recovered from the late night run in with Noah and his damp t-shirt.
Mostly. I still break into a heated flush if I think about it too long, but figure it’s no use getting worked up over it.
We were disoriented; it was late, in an unfamiliar house, and for all I know he was sleepwalking or something equally as strange.
I shower and dress quickly, hanging the pjs up on a hook in the bathroom. The pale peach dress with a sweetheart neckline isn’t what I planned on wearing today, but I figure between the forecasted heat and dressing down for spa treatments, I’ll appreciate the simplicity of a dress.
Unsure Noah will be awake, I step lightly in the hallway. The smell of coffee bids me further into the rest of the house. The blankets I assume he used last night are folded neatly on one end of the couch, and the coffee maker is filtering, but Noah is nowhere to be found.
I pour myself a mug and settle onto one of the barstools to sip it and enjoy the view of the gardens from the kitchen windows.
Raising the warm cup to my lips, I revel in the nutty aroma.
Iced coffee is my preference, but this brew goes down smooth.
However, I almost immediately regret the sip and choke on it when Noah bursts through the door in nothing but basketball shorts and running shoes.
Sweat glistens on his chest, his hair curling from the humidity rising off his skin.
“Good morning,” he says, flashing a wide grin. “How’s the coffee?”
“Good,” I hiccup, raising the mug again to keep from staring at the hard lines and planes of his body. Is he trying to kill me?
He doesn’t seem to notice my averted gaze, and slinks down the hallway and into the bathroom. My phone buzzes, the screen flashing with Kara’s name.
Kara
How are things? Bang your boss yet?
Lottie
Nope. I’m pleased to report, even after a few bottles of wine, my half of the rent is still safe. As it will stay. You better start clipping coupons because next month is going to be tight for you.
Kara
Damn. Have a shot of tequila for me ;)
I roll my eyes, knowing this is her not-so-coded message to get frisky.
I know we aren’t unique in this, but between the two of us, tequila means trouble.
And, despite Kara’s encouragement, trouble is not what I need right now.
Noah met me on one of my infamous tequila trouble nights, and while we’ve forgiven each other’s misgivings and crafted a careful, professional friendship, I’m not sure that will survive if he’s the one that ends up on the wrong side of a tequila shot.
My coffee is nearly gone by the time Noah saunters back into the kitchen.
He’s sporting a baby blue golf shirt and navy slacks and I’m irritated by how well he pulls off every god damn thing he wears.
Setting his mug of coffee on the counter in front of me, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his thin, dark leather wallet.
He flips it open before pulling a card from one of the slots.
“It’s about time we head out, but I wanted to give this to you before I forget. Charge whatever you need for today.”
With two fingers he slides the card across the counter and I frown. “I told you, I don’t need your pity money.”
“And I told you, it’s a business expense. Take it, Charlotte.”
The way he says my name, my full name, pulls at that vulnerable place in my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed support from someone other than Kara or Nan and I’m not sure I like the territory we’re dancing in. I narrow my eyes.
“A business expense. Really? So if Amy was on this trip with you, and she was sitting here, not as your fake girlfriend, would you be offering the same thing?”
A collection of emotions play across his features, one of them a mirror of the curling tension I felt last night as we stood panting in my doorway, before he settles into a mischievous smirk.
“Yes. If it was Amy instead of you, I would still insist she take the card. But between you and me, I’m glad you’re not Amy. Fake or not, she’s not my type.”
My jaw drops open, and he shrugs before finishing his coffee and turning to put the cup into the sink.
Is he flirting with me? We’ve shared the occasional quip back and forth before, sure, but this is different.
For being in a fake relationship, that felt .
. . alarmingly real. My stomach dances and I clear my throat as I push back from the island.
Professional. Be professional. The rules we set have a purpose.
“Fine. I’ll take your stipend.”
“Very good.”
I pause, wondering if the praise he so casually tossed between us was intentionally sexy or if it’s my imagination, before shaking my head and swiping my purse off the counter.
There’s no way he meant for that to be more than a casual blip.
He’s just pleased I’m not still fighting him on the money. That’s it.
And yet, as I step out of the house and cross over the yard, I’m having a hard time squashing the raging symphony of arousal coursing through my veins. Very good, indeed.
The one thing about Cheryl, is that despite having to spend the day shopping with her husband’s future business partner’s (fake) girlfriend, she doesn’t bemoan the experience. In fact, as we walk into our third boutique of the morning, I find I’m enjoying myself more than I thought I would.
“And that’s a summary of the last twenty years,” she says, pulling the door open for me. She’s just finished her nearly two hour discourse on how she and Tom met, and how they started Scented Acres as two kids so in love the troubles of the world fell away.
It’s impressive, their story. Despite not having any formal education, the two of them built a business out of what most would consider a hobby farm.
Though they had a few rough years in the beginning, their farm continued to grow and serve the community.
Dabbling in the crunchy wave of essential oils was just the icing on the cake that had already risen from a fruitful business built on farmer’s markets and local florists.
“You and Noah have been together for a year, right?”
I offer a closed mouth smile and nod. While I’m not against the pretend play Noah and I agreed on, outright lying to someone who’s been nothing but welcoming eats at my insides.
“Long distance must have been hard.”
“It’s been great having him closer,” I say, still dodging the blatant lie. “For me and for Flourish.”
Cheryl smiles. “Whatever hardships may arise in the business will be far easier if you face them together. Remember that when things get tough. And when he’s a knucklehead and too focused on work, you can call me and vent about it.
I’ve seen it all, honey, and probably have a trick or two you can try. ”
My throat tightens at her sincerity. As superficial as I thought her to be at first, Cheryl radiates authenticity and kindness.
She reminds me of a younger version of Nan—classy and kind.
But also strong enough to be the type of woman you want on your side when shit hits the fan.
I know I would never take her up on the offer, even if Noah and I were for real, but it’s kind of her regardless.
“Thank you, Cheryl,” I say, turning my attention to one of the racks.
“Of course. When you join the Scented Acres family you join us for life.”
This time the guilt keeps me from looking her in the eye.
While it will be easy enough for Noah to explain some kind of break up down the line, I do feel badly that Cheryl and Tom won’t ever know the truth.
Part of me wonders if they’ll grieve my exit from Noah’s world, or if I’ll be but a faint memory— an anecdote from the early days of their partnership with Flourish.
“Now,” she continues. “Let’s find you a dress for Saturday. I sure as hell don’t need another one, but I’m a sucker for scouring the racks.”
Fixing my attention back to the rows of dresses, I rationalize. Playing this part and lying for this weekend is securing both mine and Noah’s futures. What’s the harm when it means having the chance to see our dreams realized?
“How about this one?” She’s holding an emerald green cocktail dress with an asymmetrical neckline and one long sleeve. “I think it would bring out the striking green of your eyes.”
I pretend to muse about it, even though it’s not one I would ever pick out for myself. “I suppose I could try it.”
She beams and calls the store clerk over to start a dressing room. “We’ll be picking out a few more.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk says, taking hold of the hanger.
Surprisingly, we scrounge up four more in my size—most of them jewel tones.
Cheryl claims that’s my color palette, and while I don’t agree, I go with it because arguing with her is probably more trouble than it’s worth.
The clerk shows us to the dressing rooms where she’s saved a curtained stall and where she hangs the new dresses with the emerald one.
“Save the green one for last,” Cheryl says, taking a seat in one of the vintage armchairs across from my stall. “I think that’s going to be the winner, but I want to be sure.”
Once closed behind the curtain, I strip out of my peach dress and fold it as neatly as I’m able before laying it on the bench. Stepping into the garnet colored floor length gown, I shimmy it up around my hips. It’s tight, and not in the good way.
Popping my head out I make a face at Cheryl. “I don’t think the red one is it.”
“On to the next then.”
Grateful she didn’t push me to show her, I move on to the navy dress. It fits much better than the red one, but the sleeves itch and it’s too short.
“Blue’s out too,” I call, not even willing to open the curtain this time.