Chapter 11
INA
Iwalked into our tiny kitchen with a sheet mask plastered to my face. The fifty-dollar gift card sat on my kitchen counter where I left it. It was better than the stapler, but it was still pretty impersonal.
My mom always told me not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Mom didn’t realize that fifty bucks to Orpheus wasn’t going to get me very far.
It wouldn’t buy me a side salad. So unless they would let me buy a half portion of something, this gift would require me to spend a ton of money to use it.
So it wasn’t a gift at all.
Amazingly, the card felt worse than the stapler I was certain had been snatched from the supply room or from a coworker’s desk. Not to mention gift cards were the ultimate low-effort gift. And the fact it was to a restaurant in the building told me my Cupid probably grabbed it at the last minute.
Abby was at work, finally healthy enough to return to the restaurant after her bout with the devil bronchitis. The apartment felt too quiet without her, just me and the hum of the radiator and the sounds of the city filtering through the single pane windows.
It was Tuesday night. I should have been relaxing, maybe watching something mindless on Netflix, definitely not thinking about work or Secret Cupid gifts or the fact that I had agreed to be Dane Kavanagh’s fake girlfriend for a Valentine’s Day marketing campaign.
Actually, I hadn’t heard anything about that since Monday’s meeting. No follow-up from Heidi. Nothing from Dane except the usual terse Slack messages about his schedule. He wasn’t being a very attentive fake boyfriend.
Maybe they decided to go in a different direction. Maybe Heidi had found a model who was willing to play the role, or maybe the whole idea had been scrapped entirely. Dane had never been thrilled at the prospect.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, I felt weirdly disappointed.
My laptop pinged with an email notification. It was from Lucas. Considering the late hour, it had to be important.
I opened the email and immediately saw a link to Cupid’s Arrow, followed by a screenshot of what appeared to be a dating profile.
My dating profile.
The profile photo was from the Christmas party. Lucas had taken it on his phone, catching me mid-laugh at something Norma had said. The image was zoomed in on just my face.
I looked happy. Approachable. Like someone you might want to meet for coffee. It was a really nice picture. He had found my good side.
Lucas had taken the time to write a brief bio. I scrolled down to the body of the email.
Ina,
Surprise! You’re officially a Cupid’s Arrow success story (or you will be once we launch the campaign). Attached is your new profile. It’s deactivated for now, but it’ll go “live” as part of the backstory for how you and Dane “met.”
Don’t worry, we pulled all this info from your HR file and some very light social media stalking. The matchmakers helped make sure it sounds authentic.
Also attached: NDA. Read it, sign it, send it back. Standard stuff about not discussing the campaign publicly, not contradicting the official narrative, blah blah blah. Heidi’s lawyer made it sound scary but it’s actually pretty straightforward.
Dane will reach out with details about your first date.
Congratulations!
Lucas
I clicked on the NDA attachment.
It was really happening. Not just happening—it was already in motion. They created a whole profile for me. And prepared legal documents to make sure I couldn’t back out or blow the story.
I was reading through the NDA, which was indeed scary despite Lucas’s reassurances, when my phone started ringing. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer.
But something made me pick up.
“Hello?”
“Ina. It’s Dane.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “Mr. Kavanagh?” I glanced at the clock. It was almost eight-thirty. “Is everything okay?”
“I need you to meet me for dinner.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what? When?”
“Tonight. Now, ideally.” His voice was calm, businesslike, like he was scheduling a meeting and not calling me at home on a Tuesday night. “Can you be ready in twenty minutes? I’ll send a car.”
“At this time of night?” I laughed. “I ate hours ago.”
“Then just have dessert. So twenty minutes?”
I looked down at my sweatpants, and with my free hand I touched my face with the mask still on. “Tonight?”
“Lucas forwarded you the NDA?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know this train is rolling down the tracks now. The campaign, the dates, all of it. We might as well start now.” He paused. “Unless you’re uncomfortable with that.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just a little last minute. What if I’m in the tub?”
He paused and cleared his throat. “Are you in the tub?”
“No, I can be ready. I was just saying.” I was already scrambling off the couch.
“Text me your address,” he said. “The car will be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at my phone for approximately three seconds before launching into panic mode.
Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to transform from comfortable couch potato into someone who looked like she was casually going on a date with one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
I flew to my room and tore through my closet. What did one wear to a fake first date? Something nice but not too nice? Casual but not too casual? Good bra and panties?
I settled on dark jeans, a black sweater, and a mismatched set of mildly sexy underwear.
That way, it looked nice but not like I was planning on putting out tonight.
Nothing was going to happen, of course, but it was better to have cute underwear and not need it, than need cute underwear and not have it.
I quickly scanned my shoe offerings and went for black ankle booties.
No time for a full face of makeup. I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss, then stared at my wet hair in despair.
It was already curling into unruly waves as it air-dried. I tried to tame it with my fingers, gave up, and grabbed a wool coat and a knit hat to cover the disaster.
I grabbed my purse, double-checked that I had my phone and wallet, and hurried out the door and down five flights of stairs.
A black sedan was waiting outside, looking like something Dane would send.
Or it could be some mob guys. I wasn’t about to jump into it until I had scouted it out.
The driver got out when I timidly approached.
He wore a dark suit and looked like he moonlighted as a Secret Service agent. “Miss Lavin?”
“What’s the password?” I asked.
He frowned in confusion. “Mr. Kavanagh didn’t give me a password.”
I smiled at him. “That’s the right answer. Should I sit in the front or the back?”
“The back will be more comfortable, ma’am.”
I wasn’t loving getting called ma’am like I was my mother, but he was trying to be polite, so I slid into the backseat without commenting on it. He pulled smoothly into traffic, and I tried to make small talk.
“So, uh, have you been driving for Mr. Kavanagh long?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice. Do you enjoy it? Is he a good boss?”
His expression never changed. “It’s a job.”
“Right. Sure.”
“The conditions of my employment are more than adequate,” he said, like that clarified things.
I tried again. “The weather’s been crazy lately, hasn’t it?”
“Cold out there. Yes, ma’am.”
No wonder he wanted me in the backseat. It wasn’t for my comfort. It was for his.
This man was clearly not interested in conversation, which was probably for the best because I was too nervous to think of anything more interesting in terms of small talk. Everything on my mind tonight was big talk, not fitting for this situation.
So, have you ever been summoned to dinner by a billionaire late at night? No? Just me?
You ever get pulled from your driving job to star in a commercial with a man too hot to pretend with?
Do you ever worry you’re getting in over your head? No, ma’am? Right. Just me again.
Thirty minutes later the car slowed. I looked out to see a restaurant with a line stretching down the block. Everyone waiting was dressed to the nines—cocktail dresses and suits and the kind of casual wealth that came from never having to check price tags.
My heart sank. I was wearing jeans, a sweater, and a hat covering my disaster hair. I looked like someone’s nanny, not someone who belonged at whatever exclusive establishment this was.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I started to say, but the driver was already getting out and opening my door.
Another man in a suit appeared beside the car. “Miss Lavin? Please, come this way.”
“I’m not really dressed for this,” I murmured.
“You’re perfect. Come.”
He walked away and I had no choice but to follow. My face burned as we walked past the line of people waiting to get in. I could feel their eyes on me, judging me and wondering who the fuck is this bitch?
From how I was dressed, they probably thought I was there to fix a clogged toilet or fish a dead rodent from the walls. Surely, someone like me couldn’t be dining here this evening. I couldn’t blame them if they thought that. I was thinking the exact same thing.
The man led me through a discreet door, not the main entrance. That tracked. Trash through the back. I chuckled and shook my head, knowing I was getting dramatic. Dane had asked me to be there and that was all that mattered.
We walked into a space that made my breath catch.
It was a large dining area with very few tables.
Maybe ten in total, all perfectly spaced to give each group privacy.
Each separate area felt intimate, romantic.
The lighting was warm and golden, and there was a full bar along one wall where a bartender—or more likely a mixologist—was crafting something that looked more like art than a drink.
He used herbs, a mystery powder, and what might have been a unicorn horn. Or maybe ginger. The bar area was dim.