Chapter 2
two
. . .
HONOR
If Blake thought I was impressed by his money, he was going to be severely disappointed.
I didn’t miss the way he’d clocked my expression as we were shown to our seats on the plane — the first row of first class, because where else would a guy like him sit? I was surprised we weren’t flying private, to be honest.
I knew his type. I’d grown up around them.
Rich, successful, and exhaustingly entitled. Exactly the kind of guy I’d have ended up marrying if I’d been willing to do things my parents’ way.
Only I hadn’t been willing to, and I still wasn’t.
That’s why I was on a plane to Antigua, sitting next to a guy who, while eye-wateringly hot, was no doubt going to prove to be either a total bore or a snob with a surgically-attached stick up his ass.
But the creative arts degree my parents had all but disowned me over wasn’t going to pay for itself. In college, fake-dating time-poor millionaires ensured I had enough cash for bills, books, and to pay off some of my student loans each month, though I’d still graduated with a major debt, like so many students my age.
Starting my own date-for-hire business had ensured I’d never have to go crawling back to my parents to pay my loans off.
The company had taken off recently and I’d moved from companion to manager, overseeing staff and clients from behind a desk. Albeit a very impressive CEO’s desk.
Blake was going to be my first in-person client in two years—not that he knew I was in charge. I hadn’t felt the need to share that information with him.
The worst part of my job was dealing with guys like Blake.
You find other people’s feelings inconvenient? They probably find you insufferable .
He’d made it perfectly clear why he was paying me to play the role of his girlfriend instead of bringing some needy bombshell along for free. He was clearly an arrogant asshole who was more interested in counting his money than finding a genuine connection with someone. But that was totally fine by me. And the money was well worth it, so I was happy to smile at his side and get paid for it.
Blake motioned for me to take the window seat and slipped his suit jacket from his toned shoulders. He was definitely hiding a cut body beneath that shirt, I was sure of it. He was probably the type who cried into his cornflakes if he missed a day at the gym. It no doubt provided him the perfect place to meet women he could root and boot to satisfy his own base needs without any emotional connection whatsoever.
Why were gorgeous men always such predictable assholes?
So far, he’d asked me exactly nothing about myself, further cementing my suspicion that we wouldn’t come away from this as friends the same way I was with some of my other clients. I’d managed to pull in some fun repeat clients back when I accepted jobs regularly. Ones who were so easy to spend time with it should be a crime to call it work.
But this guy was clearly a zero-fun zone.
Not that I cared that this stick-up-his-ass had no intention of getting to know me. This was a business deal. I was just here to get paid.
He slid into the giant seat beside me as the flight attendant appeared to hang his jacket.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Blake asked me, ordering a whiskey neat for himself.
I smiled up at the flight attendant. “Sparkling water with lime, please?”
Didn’t need to ask to know Blake would probably frown upon me having another glass of champagne. And he got to call the shots because he was paying for the privilege.
I already knew his ideal girl was someone who had long legs, great boobs, and zero demands of him. Someone who looked good while expecting nothing in return.
I could play that role.
“Did you read the notes I emailed you?” I asked, after the flight attendant had returned with our drinks.
He didn’t look up from the email he was reading on his tablet. “Yes.”
I propped my elbow on the armrest between us and leaned towards him. “So how did we meet then, honey snatch?” I asked sweetly.
“Don’t call me that.”
I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. This was going to be a long three weeks.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me either.”
“Any other rules I should be aware of?”
He lowered his tablet. “They’re not rules. My family knows I’d never date a woman who rolls her eyes at me or calls me cutesy names.”
“Why? Because it shows too much personality, and you hate that?”
He raised an eyebrow and, on him, it was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. He really was gorgeous with his thick dark brown hair, strong jaw and matching brown eyes bordered by dark lashes. It was a shame about the near-permanent scowl on his face.
“You know, you were so polite and quiet when we were in the lounge. Why did that woman not get on the flight?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again and sat back in my chair, putting space between us. “No talking. No personality. And no feelings. Got it.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn’t respond.
“Let’s go over the details of our relationship before we’re around your family. How did we meet?” I asked, gripping my glass on the little table at the end of my armrest as the plane rattled over the tarmac towards the runway.
“At the gym.”
It was the most boring made-up meeting. It suited him.
“And how long have we been dating?”
“Four months.”
“So this will be your longest relationship ever then?”
His gaze slid to me, but he didn’t say anything. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. He was a paying client. I needed to keep my retorts in check.
“Is it serious between us?” I asked, moving on before he burst a blood vessel trying not to have a good time.
“Probably not.”
I snorted a laugh. Even pretending, he was commitment averse.
“But we can’t say that to my family. So, the answer is maybe.”
“What do I do for a job?”
“We can’t tell them what you really do. So you work at a marketing firm.”
I frowned. That hadn’t been part of the back story I’d supplied him with.
“I have a degree in Creative Arts. How about I have a job in that?”
He shook his head once.
“My family is never going to believe I’d date a creative, or at least, someone interested in only being a creative. I need someone with drive. Ambition. If it were my choice, I’d say you’re an entrepreneur or owned your own marketing firm, but since you said it would be best to stick as closely to the truth as possible, I knocked you down to employee.”
I blinked at him. Is it too late to get off the plane? The money might not be worth it after all.
He wouldn’t date a creative? More like anyone with an artistic bone in their body would rather swallow their pointe shoes or be crushed by their own sculpture than get stuck with someone like him. I was tempted to tell him the truth about my career and my company. But I wasn’t about to correct his misguided assumptions of me. Judgment was something I was all too used to in my line of work.
And I'd gotten it the worst from my own family. My family had thought the same as Blake—that any kind of creative pursuit wasn't worthy of my time and energy. It got so much worse when my parents discovered the thriving business I’d created. My father nearly burst several blood vessels in his forehead raging over it.
I'd barely spoken to my family since. So no, someone as judgmental as Blake didn't need to know that I was the founder and CEO of this “little” dating service.
I forced a smile at him. “Next time if you could run any embellishments by me beforehand, that would be appreciated.”
My tone was clipped, and those dark brown eyes landed on me, somehow making my stomach flip despite my annoyance.
“I’m doing it now.”
I took a sip of my drink, swallowing down my irritation. He was demanding and arrogant and it had only been a couple of hours. How was I supposed to survive three weeks with him?
He was a walking, talking reminder of the kind of people—and the kind of life—I’d left behind when I’d moved away from my family, determined to tread my own path. While my clients came from money, most were tech start-up geniuses or laidback business creatives who’d made it big. They wanted connection and companionship; they just didn’t know how to get it. They weren’t Type-A buzzkills who looked down on people, and probably ironed their underwear and called it a good time.
“Come on now,” he said, studying me. “Don’t tell me we’re having our first fight?”
I glanced at him, trying to read his expression, but his classically handsome face was intimidatingly blank.
He was paying me an exorbitant amount of money to play the role of the perfect woman.
So I slapped a bright smile on my face.
“Of course not, sugar pants. I could never be mad at you.”
Mostly because anger was a feeling. And he was paying me not to have any of those.