Chapter 2
TWO
Josie
I'm halfway through untangling five different leashes when Pickles—the schnauzer with anxiety issues and a bladder the size of a peanut—decides my left sneaker is the perfect substitute for a fire hydrant. "Seriously, dude? That's the third time this week!" I yank my foot away, but the damage is done. Perfect. Another stellar start to another glamorous day in the life of Josie Palmer: professional dog whisperer, struggling artist, and now, proud owner of urine-soaked footwear.
"It's just establishing dominance," Mrs. Greenberg calls from her doorway, her silk robe and perfectly styled silver hair making me question, as always, why someone who clearly has money doesn't hire a better-dressed dog walker.
"Well, he's definitely the alpha of my shoe collection now," I mutter, forcing a smile. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Of course, dear. Though Pickles has his therapy session at four, so maybe come at two?" She doesn't wait for confirmation before disappearing behind her glossy black door.
I wrangle the rest of my furry charges through the final leg of our morning adventure, dodging joggers and stopping at every interesting smell because I learned the hard way that rushing dogs leads to rebellion, and rebellion leads to poop in unexpected places. By the time I return the final dog—a golden retriever named Chairman Wow—to his hipster owners, my phone shows three texts from my roommate Mandy.
Landlord stopped by. Not happy.
Also your credit card company called.
And your student loan people. Again.
I groan, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. The thing about New York is it makes you feel special—like you're the star of an indie film about making it against the odds—right up until the moment you check your bank balance. Then you're just another statistic in the "millennials killing homeownership" headlines.
The walk back to my apartment in Greenwich Village—a term that suggests charm rather than "four people crammed into a space designed for two"—gives me plenty of time to calculate exactly how screwed I am this month. Art supplies for my latest commission: $240. Dog leashes to replace the ones Barney, my own rescue mutt, chewed through: $85. Rent share that's already two weeks late: $900. The math doesn't add up. It never does.
I trudge up five flights of stairs—the elevator's been "temporarily out of service" since I moved in three years ago—and hear the chaos before I even open the door. Barney's excited barking mingles with what sounds like Mandy's Broadway soundtrack obsession and Marco's attempt to fix our perpetually leaking sink.
"The prodigal dog-walker returns!" Mandy announces when I walk in. She's wearing pajama pants, a sports bra, and a beanie, despite the apartment being approximately the temperature of Satan's armpit. "Please tell me you're suddenly wealthy. The landlord's threatening eviction this time."
"I'm suddenly wealthy," I deadpan, dropping my bag and bending down to greet Barney, who's wiggling like his spine is made of Jell-O. The other two rescue mutts—Pancake and Sir Woofs-a-Lot—are tangled in a wrestling match on our secondhand couch.
"Liar." Marco emerges from under the sink, his face dripping. "The sink is possessed. I've decided we should just never wash dishes again."
"Bold strategy." I collapse onto the one chair not covered in dog hair, student loan notices, or Marco's collection of vintage concert t-shirts he refuses to wear but won't store properly. "Where's the eviction threat?"
Mandy points to a wrinkled paper on our fridge, held up by a magnet shaped like a pizza slice. "Bold of them to assume we can read formal legal language."
I scan the notice and feel the familiar knot in my stomach tighten. "Two weeks to pay up or pack up. Fantastic." I run a hand through my hair, which is probably a mess of tangled curls after chasing five dogs through Washington Square Park. "Anyone want to rob a bank with me? I've watched enough heist movies to know the basics."
"Your wealthy parents still refusing to help?" Marco asks, wiping his hands on a towel that might have once been white.
"They're not wealthy, they're comfortable," I correct him. "And they made it very clear that my 'art phase' ended when they paid for my degree in graphic design. I'm supposed to be at some corporate job designing cereal boxes or whatever by now."
"Too bad you have principles," Mandy says, plopping down on the couch and displacing Pancake, who gives an indignant huff.
"Yeah, principles and three rescue dogs no one else wanted." I reach down to scratch Barney behind his ears, where a chunk is missing from some unknown trauma before I found him. "Super marketable life choices."
My phone pings with an unknown number, and I'm half-tempted to ignore it, assuming it's another debt collector. But the preview shows: "Regarding a unique job opportunity—Claire Thornton."
"Who's Claire Thornton?" I ask nobody in particular, opening the message.
Mandy shrugs. "Sounds like someone who has her life together."
The message reads: "Ms. Palmer, I'm an executive assistant at Blackwell & Reed Law. My employer would like to discuss a short-term, well-compensated opportunity. He can meet you at your convenience today. Please advise if you're interested."
"Is this a scam?" I wonder aloud, showing Mandy the phone.
She squints at it. "Blackwell & Reed is real. Like, super fancy Wall Street lawyers real. Maybe one of their partners needs dog portraits for their mansion?"
"Or it's human trafficking," Marco chimes in helpfully. "But you know, desperate times..." He gestures toward the eviction notice.
I text back: "What kind of opportunity? I walk dogs and do art commissions." No point getting my hopes up for something requiring, I don't know, professional qualifications or the ability to afford matching socks.
The response comes back immediately: "The opportunity is of a personal nature and requires discretion. Mr. Carrington is prepared to compensate you very generously for a weekend of your time."
"Okay, definitely human trafficking," Marco says, reading over my shoulder.
"Or a weird rich person sex thing," Mandy adds.
"Either way, might solve our eviction problem," I say, only half-joking. I respond: "He can come by this afternoon. 4 PM. I need to know what exactly this involves before agreeing to anything."
After sending my address, I spend the next three hours in a frenzy of minimal cleaning (moving the mess from visible areas to less visible areas), trying to finish a commissioned digital illustration that's already a week late, and wondering if I should be more concerned about inviting a complete stranger to my apartment.
At precisely 4:00 PM, a knock on the door sends all three dogs into a barking frenzy.
"I'll get it," I call out, though neither of my roommates seems particularly inclined to move. "Down, monsters. Let me at least see if he's worth being eaten."
I open the door and literally have to tilt my head back to look up at the man standing there. He's tall—like, unnecessarily tall—with dark hair cut in that precise way that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His suit is a shade of navy so perfect it makes all other blues seem like sad imitations, and his tie has a dimple so precise it could only be intentional. He looks like someone cut him out of a "How to Dress for Success" magazine and pasted him into my dingy hallway.
"Ms. Palmer?" His voice is deep, with that cultivated upper-class accent that suggests either old money or someone who's worked very hard to sound like old money.
"That depends on who's asking and why they're asking." I cross my arms, suddenly conscious of my paint-splattered jeans and the worn NYU t-shirt I've had since freshman year.
"Elliot Carrington. From Blackwell & Reed." His eyes, an intense shade of blue-gray, scan over my shoulder to the chaos that is our apartment. His expression tightens slightly, like he's just discovered he's allergic to mediocrity.
"Right. The mysterious job opportunity." I step back reluctantly. "Come in, if you dare. Fair warning—there are three dogs and they all have questionable judgment about strangers."
As if on cue, Barney approaches and begins sniffing Elliot's immaculate pant leg with alarming intensity.
"They're…friendly," Elliot says, the word sounding foreign on his tongue as he carefully steps over the threshold.
"Mostly. Sir Woofs-a-Lot once bit a mailman, but in his defense, the guy was wearing a truly offensive Hawaiian shirt." I close the door behind him. "So, Mr. Wall Street, what's this very discreet, very personal job that you couldn't explain over text?"
Elliot looks around, clearly searching for somewhere pristine enough to sit. There is no such place.
"Perhaps we could speak privately?" His gaze darts to Mandy, who isn't even pretending not to eavesdrop from the kitchen counter.
"That's my roommate. She stays, or you leave. House rule for strange men with mysterious propositions." I gesture to what is theoretically our living room. "The other roommate is out, and the dogs have all heard worse."
Elliot's jaw tightens, but he gives a curt nod. "Very well." He still doesn't sit. "I find myself in need of someone to...accompany me to an important business event this weekend. To play a specific role."
"Like a secretary? Personal assistant?" I raise an eyebrow. "Because I should warn you, my organizational skills are largely theoretical."
"Not exactly." He clears his throat. "I need someone to pretend to be my fiancée."
The words hang in the air for a moment before Mandy lets out a bark of laughter. "Holy shit, he's for real?"
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, I shake my head. "You want to pay me to what now?"
"To pretend to be engaged to me for a three-day retreat with my most important client." His voice is strained, like each word is being forcibly extracted. "It's a misunderstanding that...escalated."
"You accidentally told someone you were engaged?" I can't help but laugh. "What, did you trip and fall onto a diamond ring?"
His eyes narrow. "The situation is complicated. The client is traditional, values family commitments. I may have implied I was engaged to...facilitate our business relationship."
"So you lied, and now you need to hire a fake fiancée to cover your ass." I translate, watching him wince at my crude summary. "Why me? There must be a hundred polished, sophisticated women in your social circle who'd jump at the chance."
"Because I need someone who won't be recognized. Someone with no connection to my professional or social circles." He straightens his already perfectly straight tie. "And I need absolute discretion."
"How much?" Mandy calls from the kitchen. "Cut to the chase, Wall Street."
Elliot looks pained at her interruption but answers, "Fifty thousand dollars."
I choke on air. "Excuse me?"
"Fifty thousand dollars for three days of your time. All expenses paid, of course. Wardrobe, transportation, everything." His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather instead of a sum that would solve literally every financial problem I have.
"Take it!" Mandy stage-whispers.
"This is insane," I say, more to myself than him. "You're insane."
"Probably," he admits, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost human crosses his face. "But I'm also desperate. The Harrison account represents thirty percent of our firm's annual billing. If I lose it because of this...indiscretion, I can kiss partnership goodbye."
I study him, trying to figure out if this is an elaborate prank. "What exactly would this involve? Because I'm not?—"
"Nothing inappropriate," he cuts in quickly. "You would need to convincingly play the role of my fiancée. We would share accommodations, attend couple's activities, dine with Mr. Harrison and the other guests. Basic public displays of affection might be necessary for authenticity, but nothing...excessive."
"And you think I can pull this off? Looking like this?" I gesture to my very un-lawyer-like appearance.
His eyes scan me from head to toe, a clinical assessment. "With the right wardrobe and some coaching, yes. You're..." He seems to search for an appropriate word. "Expressive. That could work in our favor."
"Wow, flattered," I deadpan.
"The retreat begins Friday afternoon. We would need to leave by noon." He pulls a business card from his inner pocket and places it precisely on our coffee table, which is actually just a large wooden cable spool Mandy found on the street. "My direct number is on the back. I need your answer by tomorrow morning."
I pick up the card, turning it over in my fingers. The paper is so thick and textured it probably cost more than my phone. "This is crazy."
"Perhaps." He straightens, adjusting his suit jacket. "But it's also fifty thousand dollars."
The number echoes in my head, conjuring images of paid rent, cleared debt, maybe even a proper studio space where I could finally focus on my art without constant financial panic.
"I'll think about it," I say, which is a lie because I'm already mentally calculating how long fifty grand would last if I budgeted carefully.
"Very well." He moves toward the door with the stiff grace of someone who's never been comfortable in someone else's space. "I'll await your call."
After he leaves, Mandy and I stare at each other in silence for a full minute before she says, "If you don't do this, I will literally never forgive you."
"It's insane," I repeat, but I'm already imagining what it would be like to not check my bank balance in terror every morning.
"It's fifty thousand dollars for pretending to like some hot lawyer for a weekend," Mandy counters. "People have done way worse for way less."
She's right, and we both know it. The eviction notice stares at me from the fridge. My student loan statements glare from the pile of mail. My phone pings with another rejection for a freelance art job.
I look down at Barney, who tilts his head as if asking what the problem is. "What do you think, buddy? Should I get engaged to a stranger for cash?"
He wags his tail enthusiastically, which I choose to interpret as canine financial advice.
"Fine," I say to no one in particular. "I'll do it."
I text Elliot Carrington's number before I can talk myself out of it: "I'm in. But if this turns out to be a weird sex thing or a cult, I'm keeping the money AND writing a bestselling memoir about it."
His response comes seconds later: "It's neither. Details tomorrow. Thank you, Ms. Palmer."
Just like that, I've agreed to be a stranger's fake fiancée for a weekend. My life has finally become the kind of bizarre that even New York can't normalize.
But hey, at least I'll be able to pay rent.