Chapter 10
Ten
CHARLOTTE
The Voodoo “Stick with Kids” Gala is the kind of event I could run in my sleep.
Elegant venue? Check.
The Riverside Manor ballroom is dripping in crystal chandeliers, with floor-to-ceiling windows that show off the Mississippi River like part of the décor.
Impeccable catering? Check.
The shrimp remoulade is perfection, and the vegetarian option is actually vegetarian, not a sad pile of wilted lettuce pretending to be a meal.
Well-dressed attendees mingling with the right amount of enthusiasm for providing underprivileged kids with hockey gear?
Check and bless their good hearts.
I’m in my element.
Or, I should be.
But honestly, it’s strange being on the “civilian” side of an event like this. I can’t remember the last time I attended a high-profile ball or gala without a headset and clipboard. I’m usually running the show or too tired to get dressed up and socialize.
The last few times I was invited to attend a society function, I made a donation and pretended to have a scheduling conflict.
I’m turning into a homebody in my old age…
I would certainly rather be “home” with Nix than watching him work the room, that’s for sure. After a week apart, I selfishly—stupidly—want him all to myself.
I really have to stop falling for this man, but he makes it so damned hard.
Thank God he had to go on the road for nearly a week after our night at the pizza parlor, or I’m pretty sure the “sex isn’t on the table until after Teddy’s wedding” clause would have been ripped to pieces and scattered on the floor.
And we’d probably have banged on top of it…
“Your man is such a sweetheart,” a silky voice murmurs beside me.
I turn to see Frederica, one of the “Makena approved” WAGs she introduced me to earlier, before she and Parker headed home to “catch up on housework,” aka “bone all night.” In an emerald dress that makes her golden skin glow, Frederica is as gorgeous as she is warm and approachable.
She beams as she adds, “He just went out of his way to introduce Dean to the commercial agent he’s been circling for months.”
“Oh, good. I’m so happy to hear that. He really is a great guy.” He is. Too good. I really should have found someone more obnoxious to fake it with.
It’s going to be hard to say goodbye in a few weeks. Or even a couple months.
All the more reason not to get in any deeper once our deal is done.
But there’s no reason to think about that now. I’ve had enough stress the past few days, dealing with fussy indie musicians for the film festival gala, and as my grandmother always says, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
I smile, leaning back against the now-empty auction table beside Frederica as I ask, “How about you? Having a good time?”
She laughs and gives a little roll of her eyes.
“Sure. I mean, I’m not going to complain about a night out with free gourmet food and champagne, but…
” She trails off with a shrug of one bare shoulder.
“It’s hard when they’re away for the longer trips.
The girls miss Dean so much. They’re still too little to understand why Daddy has to go away. ”
I furrow my brow sympathetically. “That sounds hard. And hard managing two toddlers on your own, too, I bet. How old are your girls again?”
A smile splits her face. “Two and three. Irish twins, because you can get pregnant while breastfeeding. Just FYI. The TikTok moms told me otherwise, but… Well, I sure did prove them wrong.”
I laugh. “Good to know. I never trust social media. Not since the time that yoga woman with the perfect skin tricked me into ordering salmon sperm lotion.”
“Oh my God, me too!” Frederica gasps, reaching out to give my arm a quick squeeze.
“By the time I realized the molecules were too big to penetrate the skin barrier, I was out two hundred dollars, plus shipping from Korea. Dean was so pissed. I had to promise not to whip my credit card out while doomscrolling for at least a month. But at least it was good for a laugh. He teased me about having fishy sperm face for weeks.” She pauses, lowering her voice before she adds, “Speaking of a good laugh, I loved the way you handled the beer thing. That shirt was perfection. And what a way to launch a personal account!”
I grin. “Thanks.”
Screen-printing a vintage-style “Beer T*ts for President” T-shirt and wearing it to brunch with Nix the Sunday before he left was pretty out there for me, but the NOLA society blogs ate it up.
Not to mention that owning it seemed to take the wind out of the critics’ sails.
By the following Tuesday, the internet had moved on to other things, my shame forgotten.
“It was past time I had a personal account anyway,” I add. “Not everything in life is appropriate for the business page.”
“And there’s more to life than work,” Frederica adds.
“Agreed.”
She gives my arm another squeeze. “Okay, I should probably get back to circulating, but please tell Nix thank you from Dean and me for that intro. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” I say, lifting a hand as she steps away.
I should probably mingle again, too, but I like it here on the sidelines. It’s peaceful after a chaotic week.
Ever since the night of the opening game, when I made a brief appearance on national television, followed by local blog coverage of Nix and me making out at the pizza parlor, my phone has been blowing up.
Old friends, new friends, people I met once at a planning committee meeting, all of them have been texting to congratulate me on “getting my groove back.” On “landing such a hottie” and “showing that dick Teddy what he’s missing. ”
Even my usually “we must keep things classy, Char” mother called to assure me that my shirt was a “modern solution to a modern problem.” And that my suede fedora, designer jeans, and loosely crocheted vest put a “tasteful spin” on the look.
The pity fallout from the engagement article is gone.
I should feel victorious.
I do feel victorious.
Mostly.
When I’m not tormented by a creeping certainty that I’m in way over my head with my fake boyfriend…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the man currently coaxing me into the deep end steps back into the ballroom from the terrace. His eyes catch mine across the room, and he lifts a brow, silently asking, “Everything okay?”
I nod and smile, signaling I’m fine.
I’m about to start his way to relay Frederica’s message, when a hand on my elbow makes me turn.
It’s Keely, the Voodoo’s PR rep, looking sharp in a black pantsuit with her nearly white blond hair pulled into a sleek bun.
“Hey, Charlotte. I wanted to say thank you again for the hook-up with the valet company. When the other one said they had no record of our reservation tonight, I was totally thrown for a loop.”
“Of course,” I say, shifting back into professional mode. “I’m so glad you reached out. I’m happy to help any time.”
“Thank you. Seriously. I’m so glad I remembered that Nix was dating an event planner.
” She lowers her voice conspiratorially as she adds, “Not to get too personal, but… I don’t know what kind of magic you worked on Nix, but management is thrilled.
He’s been a model citizen, and the press has been next-level fantastic.
Not to mention his play is even more on-point than last season. Honestly, you two are gold together.”
Gold together…
If only she knew it was fool’s gold.
Fake gold.
But it didn’t feel fake when Nix texted me at eleven p.m. from his hotel room in Dallas, because he was reading Kierkegaard and wanted to talk about whether he predicted the performative emptiness of modern social media.
It didn’t feel fake when he sent me photos of terrible airport food with funny captions or told me my “morning meme of the day” messages made him laugh harder than he’s laughed in years.
It just…
Argh, it just doesn’t feel fake, and I don’t know what to do about it!
Forcing a smile, I thank Keely, assuring her, “It’s all him, really. He’s a great guy. He treats me very, very well.”
“Aw. Good. That’s so great to hear. Maybe there are some good ones left out there, after all.” Her expression softens with a soft, sappy longing I know all too well.
I don’t let that kind of longing show anymore—I’ve been burned too many times to reveal my underbelly in public—but I feel it.
“I think there are,” I say, not having the heart to tell a younger woman just starting her hunt for “Mr. Right” that they are terrifyingly few and far between.
Or that her chances of being born with a third nipple and scoring a winning lottery ticket days before she also hits the Billboard 100 with her latest pop single are likely statistically higher than the odds of her hooking up with a truly “good one.”
After a few more moments of small talk, I excuse myself, heading toward the ladies’ room. I really can’t hold my champagne. Goes straight through me.
But I’m not the slightest bit tipsy—we’ve been here nearly two hours, and I’ve been sipping slowly. I’d like to keep it that way. Sobriety is key to maintaining the strength to resist kissing Nix’s face off in the back seat of his pickup before he drops me at my place.
Resistance is key.
Just two more weeks until Teddy’s wedding. Two more weeks of keeping this fake relationship in peak #couplesgoals condition to ensure the moment I show up at my ex’s big day with a gorgeous younger man achieves maximum impact.
After that, well…
I’ll think about that after, when maybe the possibility of dating a younger man who’s totally wrong for me won’t be this tempting.
Time doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder or the pussy friskier, after all.
Sometimes it makes you realize you’ve been projecting good boyfriend qualities onto a total turd, and it’s past time to make your escape.
As I step out of the ladies’, a low masculine voice makes me jump, “There you are.”