Chapter 8
BLAIR
The seats are spacious enough that I can stretch my legs without touching Liv's, but close enough that I catch another hint of her perfume when she settles in beside me.
She looks different today dressed in jeans, a simple gray T-shirt, and a soft cream-colored cardigan.
Less New York powerhouse, more approachable. More Maryland, I suppose.
I remind myself to look appropriately impressed as the flight attendant demonstrates the seat controls.
The lie detector in my head keeps pinging—I should be awed by the personal entertainment screens and the champagne service.
Blair Miller from the Upper West Side, struggling personal trainer, would never have experienced anything like this.
The thing is, I usually charter private jets for trips longer than two hours.
I could tell Liv the truth right now. It's not too late.
I could admit that I don't need her money, that I was intrigued by her situation and offered to help on a whim because I was bored.
That I'm actually Blair Davis, recently retired tech entrepreneur who sold her cybersecurity firm for an amount that would make her business look like pocket change.
But I like being Blair Miller. I like being accepted for who I pretend to be rather than what I have.
Every woman I've dated over the past few years has done the math on my net worth before our second coffee.
They've googled me, researched my company.
By the third date, they're already planning the wedding for all the wrong reasons.
With Liv, it's honest, at least from her side.
She's not trying to charm her way into my bank account.
She's not pretending to love hiking because she read in Forbes that I'm an outdoor enthusiast. She's not laughing too hard at my jokes or agreeing with every opinion I express.
She's the opposite. Sharp-tongued, demanding, and sometimes even a little unpleasant. I like that.
Of course, she'd never date a personal trainer in real life.
I can see that clearly enough. Olivia doesn't date people who flyer in Central Park.
But that's what makes this arrangement refreshing—there's no pretense that this could become something real.
No expectations beyond a fake weekend performance with the best entertainment I've had in a long time.
"I have to say," I begin, mentally scrolling through her personal file, "that folder you gave me was truly impressive."
She glances at me and groans. "Please tell me you're not going to quiz me on your facts during take-off. I have a great memory, there’s no need; I know everything."
"Oh, I'm definitely going to quiz you. But first, I want to discuss you, because you’re much more fascinating. From what I’ve learned, you hate surprise parties, you're afraid of butterflies, and you once broke up with a woman because she put ketchup on a steak.
" I grin. "That last one particularly resonated with me.
Also, I have to ask—'The Boss'? Really?"
I watch her blush. "That's just what people call me at work. I had to add it in."
"People whisper it, according to your notes," I say with a chuckle. "Should I be worried?"
"You’ll be fine as long as you stick to our agreement," she retorts.
"Well then, Boss," I say, "I promise to be on my best behavior."
She laughs. "About the ketchup... That was a perfectly valid reason to end things. Who puts ketchup on a good piece of meat?"
"Monsters," I agree solemnly. "Absolute monsters."
The plane levels off, and she pulls out her phone, probably checking emails. I used to be the same; never able to switch off.
"So what's the deal with butterflies?" I ask, genuinely curious. "That’s such a weird phobia."
She makes a face. "I was five, at my cousin's wedding.
They released monarch butterflies during the ceremony—it was supposed to be this beautiful, romantic moment, but I panicked when a few decided to land on my face and in my hair.
I completely lost it. Screamed and cried in front of two hundred guests.
Even to this day I get an intense physical reaction when I'm near butterflies. "
"Hence your preference for planned events with no winged surprises."
"Maybe." She tucks her phone away and turns to face me. "What about you? Any weird phobias I should know about? You didn't mention any in your file."
"Needles," I say. "Can't stand them. Had to get stitches after falling off my bike last year. I may have screamed. And jellyfish," I add. "There’s something sinister about them."
Liv laughs. "Good to know. Well, you're in luck—Crayfield, Maryland isn't exactly known for its jellyfish population. And I promise not to schedule any surprise medical procedures this weekend."
"Thank you. I appreciate that. Now, I need to know more about this color-coding obsession you mentioned on page fifty-four, section five," I say. "Do you really organize your closet by season and color?"
"Obviously." She doesn't even look embarrassed. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Normal people just shove everything in their wardrobe."
"I guess that explains a lot about the state of the world," Liv says dryly. "What about your living situation? Please tell me it’s tidy."
I think about my actual apartment—the minimalist penthouse where everything has its place because I pay someone to organize it. Blair Miller would live very differently.
"Two women, one bathroom, zero organizational skills," I say. "My friend and I have an unspoken agreement that whoever runs out of clean clothes first has to do laundry for both of us."
Liv looks genuinely horrified. "That's not a system, that's anarchy."
"It works. Usually. Sometimes we both run out of clothes at the same time and have to go shopping. The same rules apply to the dishes. The first person to use the last clean plate has to do all the dishes."
"Oh my God. The mental image of your apartment is making my eye twitch," she mutters.
"It's not that bad," I protest. "We've developed a system. There are designated piles for everything—clean clothes pile, questionably clean clothes pile, definitely dirty clothes pile. Rei’s Xbox controllers live on the kitchen counter, my protein powder lives in the bathroom.
We generally pretend the dishes will wash themselves if we ignore them long enough and both avoid using the last plate by buying paper plates we can dispose of. "
"That's horrifying."
"It works."
"So what happens when you bring a date home?" she asks.
"What about it? Rei and I share an apartment, not a bed."
Liv chuckles. "I mean the mess. Don't you tidy up before you bring someone home?"
"No. Why would I?" I know this is killing her. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the slight twitch at the corner of her eye. It's like watching someone with perfect pitch listen to off-key singing.
"Because... because normal people don't want their dates to think they live like college freshmen?"
"If someone's going to judge me based on whether my couch cushions are fluffed, they're probably not the right person for me anyway."
She shakes her head in disbelief. "You're either very confident or completely delusional."
"I prefer authentically low-maintenance." I grin. "What can I say? I'm a simple woman with simple needs."
She hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Do you ever... date clients?"
"I have in the past, but I don't make a habit of it. Mixing business with pleasure gets complicated." I shoot her a humorous look. "Do you ever date your clients?"
Liv laughs out loud. "Do I ever date my grooms? No, certainly not."
"That's probably smart business practice."
She laughs again, and it’s infectious. It makes me want to keep talking just to hear it.
"So you don't date at all?" I ask.
"No. Not anymore."
Not anymore. Someone left a mark. "And you don't miss it?"
She arches a brow at me. "Miss what? The drama? The disappointment?" She shrugs. "My vibrator doesn't cheat. It doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, or expect me to pretend its fantasy football league is fascinating. I'm good, thank you."