Twenty-Three
The rest of last night's dinner was tolerable.
Barely.
I think.
I was too busy monitoring the Nathan Proximity Alert System to register the conversation fully.
It wasn't that I was lost in thought. It was more like being hyper-aware of a large, potentially dangerous animal in the room. A very attractive, very present animal. His thigh brushed mine under the table whenever he moved, a casual, electric touch. I saw him practically biting his tongue every time my name came up in some mortifying anecdote. And the way he looked at Daniel and—let's be honest—Jeremy? Pure, unadulterated I want to punch you vibes.
Which, okay, was a little flattering.
Mercifully, the conversation eventually veered away from my spectacular life failures, and before I knew it, dinner was over.
Mission: Impress Parents with Fake Boyfriend? Achieved. Disturbingly so.
My mother practically tackled him with a goodbye hug, her face mashed against his chest, lips moving in a muffled whisper I only caught when she finally released him. “He's gorgeous.”
I swear, I half-expected her to start squeezing his biceps. The second-hand embarrassment was almost too much.
I walked him to his car, a tiny, traitorous part of me wondering just how ironclad that no sex clause really was when he merely pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek, murmuring, “Goodnight, sweetheart,”
in that voice that could melt asphalt.
I think I swayed. Like a Victorian maiden overcome with the vapors. Pathetic.
He waited until I was inside before driving off, which was annoyingly sweet.
Upstairs, I changed into pajamas, fully intending to collapse into a sleep fueled by exhaustion and humiliation. Instead, I made the catastrophic mistake of getting into bed, grabbing my phone, and doing exactly what I should have done before agreeing to this insane charade.
I Googled him.
Instant regret. A tidal wave of it.
Surprise, surprise, my initial impressions of Nathan Calloway were wildly off the mark. Not that you can form a truly accurate assessment of a man when he's got you gripping the headboard, your vocabulary reduced to a fervent prayer that includes his name.
But still.
I'd pictured him as well-off. A nice portfolio, a couple of country club memberships.
The reality is so much worse.
Zero personal social media. A digital ghost. If he has any profiles, they're buried deeper than my self-esteem right now.
The only links were to his business. And the articles… God.
“Most Eligible Bachelors.”
Forbes. Business Insider. A net worth that could make a small country weep.
Self-made. Started from nothing. Built an empire.
And Julian is definitely the fun one. That was glaringly obvious from a couple of pictures. One showed Julian, grinning, with a drink in hand, his arm slung around some woman, while Nathan sat beside him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Another, from some charity gala, had Julian practically groveling at an elderly socialite while Nathan observed with a look of mild amusement.
They built a kingdom together.
And I, in my infinite wisdom, just conned this man into pretending to be my boyfriend.
Lord, help me.