Chapter 7
LIV
Blair looks like a kid in a candy store as she surveys the business class lounge at JFK.
Her eyes dart from the marble bar to the glass wall overlooking the tarmac, taking in every detail like she's memorizing it for later.
She's clearly never been in a place like this before—the way she hesitates before approaching the bar, the way she studies the self-service stations, the slight awe in her expression as she watches other passengers casually helping themselves to premium everything.
I had a moment of panic this morning, wondering if she was going to show up in those damned gray track pants.
Thank God for small mercies—Sailor apparently owns actual clothes.
The dark jeans and white linen shirt are perfectly acceptable, more than acceptable actually.
Her hair is styled instead of perpetually disheveled, and when she hugged me hello at check-in, I caught a whiff of something fresh and citrusy.
Body lotion, maybe? She's clearly made an effort.
I settle into one of the leather armchairs near the windows, my carry-on and garment bag beside me while I watch her navigate the bar. She's taking her time, studying the wine selection like she wants to make the right choice but isn't entirely sure what that choice should be.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie: Everything under control here. The Brennan engagement party setup is ahead of schedule. Stop worrying and enjoy your sister's wedding.
Sure, I’ve messaged her a few times, but she has no idea what I’m actually worried about.
It's not work—for the first time in months, I'm completely caught up. Every client is happy, every event planned down to the last detail. No, what has my stomach tied in knots is the woman currently selecting wines and whether she’s able to convince my family our romance is real.
I've memorized her "dossier"—a thin document compared to my own comprehensive folder.
Blair Miller, thirty-six, grew up in Asheville, North Carolina.
Moved to New York six years ago to pursue personal training.
Single, lives with a roommate on the Upper West Side, struggles to make ends meet in an expensive city.
Loves Thai food, craft beer, and old action movies.
Claims her guilty pleasure is reality TV dating shows, which made me snort when I read it.
"One white for my beautiful girlfriend and a red for me."
Blair appears beside my chair. She sets two glasses of wine on the small table and settles next to me with her red.
I take a sip and close my eyes in appreciation. It's exceptional—crisp, mineral-forward, with a hint of oak. "This is really good."
"It's Chablis," she says. "Your favorite."
I stop mid-sip and stare at her. "How did you—"
"Your file." Her grin is pure satisfaction. "I did my homework, just like you asked."
“I'm impressed. Well done, Sailor."
"You're welcome, honey." The endearment rolls off her tongue so naturally it's amusing. "Or do you prefer pumpkin? Buttercup? Sweet cheeks?" She's clearly enjoying herself. "Ooh, what about sugar plum?"
I nearly choke on my wine. "If you call me sugar plum in front of my family, I'm not paying you," I warn, but I laugh anyway.
"Fine, fine. I'll save that for private occasions." She leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. "But we should discuss the casual affection thing. Pet names, hand-holding, all the couple stuff your family will expect to see."
"Good point. I didn't even think about that," I say. It only hits me then that we'll be sleeping in the same bed for three nights. "You don't mind the affection, do you? The hand-holding and... all that?"
"Are you kidding me?" Her eyes light up with mischief. "I was looking forward to practicing kissing with you during the flight."
I roll my eyes while heat creeps up my neck.
"Very funny, Sailor." My eyes drop to her mouth involuntarily.
She's got nice lips. When was the last time I kissed someone?
Really kissed someone? It's been... God, almost two years since my last short-term relationship ended.
I've been too busy building my business to worry about dating, too focused on work to waste time on romance.
But looking at her now, I feel an unexpected flutter low in my stomach.
I quickly look away, but not before catching her knowing look. She definitely caught me staring.
"What?" she asks, her voice teasing. "You don't think we should practice kissing? I mean, we want this to look authentic, right?"
"A peck for show, sure," I say quickly, trying to regain my composure. "Nothing more. And be warned—you keep your hands to yourself in bed. I don't care how committed you are to this role."
She laughs and leans back with an exaggerated sigh.
"Please. You'd have to triple my rate for the premium package because I’m good.
Really good." When I open my mouth to respond, she waves me off.
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Scout's honor, I'll stay on my side of the bed. No wandering hands, no funny business."
But even as she jokes about it, a more serious concern creeps in. I really don't know this woman at all. What if her dossier is complete fiction? The thought of sharing a bed with a stranger suddenly seems less like a clever solution and more like a dangerous mistake.
She must see something in my expression because her smile softens. "Hey, how about you take all the initiative? With everything—the touching, the kissing, all of it. Would that work? You're in complete control."
I nod, twirling the wine in my glass. "Yes. I mean, no. It should come from both of us if we want to nail this. But don't push it, okay?"
"Sure. I have no intention of ruining a good thing." Blair gestures around the lounge. "This is amazing. Free food, premium alcohol, good company." She tilts her head as she regards me. "You must be doing pretty well for yourself to afford this lifestyle."
"I do okay," I say. "But I've worked my ass off to get here. Sixteen-hour days, sleeping in my office during wedding season, building relationships one event at a time. Nothing was handed to me."
It's true. My business, my reputation, my bank account that allows me to fly business class without checking the price—all of it earned through relentless work and an obsession with perfection that often keeps me awake at night.
"What about your personal training business?" I ask. “Do you have a website?”
Something flickers across her expression—so brief I almost miss it. "No, I'm not very good on the business side," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I just talk to people in Central Park. That's how I get most of my clients. Word of mouth, you know? And I flyer when things get slow."
"Flyering in Central Park?" I frown, surprised that’s still a thing.
"Don't look so skeptical," she says, leaning toward me. "Not everyone builds empires, Liv. Some of us are just trying to pay rent and maybe have enough left over for a decent coffee now and then."
Her comment makes me feel like an ass. I've become so used to the wealthy people in my professional orbit that I've forgotten what it's like to struggle financially.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to sound judgmental."
"It’s okay." Her smile is easy, forgiving. "But sometimes the simple approach works too." She takes a sip of her wine and looks out at the planes taxiing on the tarmac before turning back to me. "Are you nervous?"
I consider giving her my usual composed, everything-is-under-control response, but something about the way she's looking at me—genuinely curious, not judging—makes me abandon the pretense.
"Yes," I admit. "I'm seriously fucking nervous. I'm not even sure we can pull this off, and if we can't..." I pause, running my finger along the rim of my glass. "If we can't, I'll not only look like a total fool, but my family will be hurt because I've been lying to them."
My own vulnerability surprises me. I don't usually admit weakness to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.
Blair's expression grows serious. "Hey, look at me." When I meet her eyes, she says, "I won't fuck this up. I promise. Whatever happens this weekend, it won't be because I didn't hold up my end of the bargain."