5 JANIE
JANIE
“You’re telling me forty-six of the fifty-two women we just scrolled through on your Instagram, your past lovers, are all insufferable?” I’m yelling again.
And we’re in yet another bar. This man really does not like to sit still.
“Hasn’t been that many,” he rolls his eyes.
It was exactly that many.
“Enough that my hand is cramping up!” I put the phone down.
“Listen,” he says softly. “That was my plan at first too, but as I just explained, I can’t think of one person who would work. There are two types of women in my world. One, the vicious manipulators who are already counting my money with their greedy hands, and,” he hesitates.
“And?”
“And the sweet type who think they’re in love with me.”
I scoff, “No.”
“Believe it or not, some women find me very desirable.” I must make a face because he laughs. “Damn, they at least find me bearable.”
I try to smile, “Sorry. You’re just so…” I gesture from his flopping, casual chestnut hair that he compulsively runs his hand through, down his whole charming, happy, never-had-a-single-care face, built body like someone with a lot of personal time to work out, to his expensive, hardly-worn shoes.
“…so much. But I can see the appeal.” His brows lift so I add, “if I squint.” He laughs and I chuckle too.
“C’mon, Benedict, this isn’t a real marriage, right? So what if your wife is a little…”
“Vapid, shallow, greedy, horrid?”
I glare, “You were with all these women you’re now bashing.”
“Only because I saw eyes and tits and legs for miles.”
“Not helping your case!”
“No, damn it,” he shakes his head. “I mean, physical attraction is always the start, right?” I don’t nod but I don’t disagree.
“Then you get to know a person. Despite what the press says I’m not all one night stands.
I dated all those women for at least a few dates.
Everyone from my circles...they just want the money, the status. ”
“So give it to one of them. They get their clout, you get your inheritance. Then divorce them in a year. Come on, Boss, are all billionaires this dense?”
“I’m too pretty to be smart,” he jokes.
“It’s not hard. Pick one!”
He takes his phone back. “Firstly, it’s five years.
Five years I’ll have to share a life with this person.
Dad’s stipulations are clear, has to appear to be a real, public, convincing marriage for at least one year.
No one knows about this contract except Dad, me, the lawyers, and now you, here in,” he gestures around.
“This very serious vault. The rest of the world must think we’re madly in love for the first year or else he’ll renege.
After year one, no stipulations other than no divorce until after the fifth anniversary. ”
“Five years isn’t that long,” I try. His turn to glare at me. I concede, “All right, I’ll give it to you, it’s not great.”
“That’s an eternity with a fake persona, a doe-eyed yes-man-type, fawning all over me,” I snort and he corrects himself.
“The idea of me. Not actually me. They’re just wanting to see and be seen in New York and London.
It’s all status, power, politics. A boring game.
And the players can’t be trusted. Who knows what schemes my wife would cook up behind my back. ”
“So, what about one of the sweet ones who accidentally fell in love with you?”
“They’ll want a, you know,” he squirms in his seat, “commitment.”
I pause, “How drunk am I, exactly? Are we not talking about marriage here? The ultimate commitment?”
“Yes, but they’ll want a real marriage and this won’t be real.
They’ll secretly hope that I’ll slow down, put down roots, have babies.
You know…love. And I'm thirty-three, after nearly twenty years of dating, looking, trying…I just don’t think I’m the true love type.
” He pauses. “Plus, I just don’t enjoy spending time with any of those birds.
” At that, I raise an exaggerated eyebrow.
He understands my innuendo and laughs. “All right, I enjoyed spending some time with them. But talking, laughing, faffing about for fun? For five years? I can’t see it. ”
“Not even with this one? You hesitated on her for twenty-two seconds.”
“Penelope?” He sighs and his face turns wistful. “She had pierced nipples.”
Shocked with his honesty, and the way he sounds truly romanced by boob piercings, I take another gulp of my water, then nod. “Speed dating it is!”
“How does that work?”
“Well, you sign up and…” I imagine him going into a coffee shop or a bar for one of the events I’ve been to.
He’d be attacked by paparazzi outside before even signing a fake name on the sign-in sheet.
And the fake name would be pointless. “Never mind. Wouldn’t work with the paparazzi and that People’s Sexiest Man Alive face of yours. ”
He beams and leans back in triumph, like he’s caught me ogling him or something. “I believe that award covered more than just my face.”
“Barf.”
“Uh huh, yet you know about the cover article and my performance in the great Grace race. Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Don’t quote the Bard and be British at the same time. It’s off-putting.”
He sits up straighter and takes on some strange American accent, “My bad, lemme turn my British off and talk regular.”
I laugh. Hard. “What the hell accent was that?”
He over annunciates his r sounds even more while jutting his chin out, “I’m American, baby! Trucks! Beer! Touchdowns! Nascarrrr!”
“What, now you’re a pirate?” He laughs and I laugh hard again and we’re both so loud everyone in this fancy bar is probably bothered. Weirdly, I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.
“Damn, see? Like this,” he gestures between us. “I can’t laugh with any of them like this. I’ve had more fun in the vault with you than I had on any of those dates.”
“Well, I’m only fun while supplies last.”
He frowns, “Pardon?”
I frown too, realizing we’ve been at it for hours. I never bar hop and I also don’t…chat. Definitely not for hours.
Weird.
“I have a very limited supply of energy for,” I gesture between us and around us, “this. In fact, I’m a few seconds away from turning into a pumpkin. I’m going to order an Uber.”
“Nonsense, I have a car just ‘round the corner.”
I think about protesting the billionaire doing billionaire things for me, then I remember I’m broke as a joke and deeply exhausted. “Thanks.”
“So, I’ll see you in the morning?” he says as I stand and he gives the bartender his thick, black credit card.
“Um, why would you see me in the morning?”
“Because you’re freed from your vinegar-and-egg-based responsibilities,” I start to protest but he keeps talking. “And I can’t very well just walk around now without you.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Can, but won’t.” He takes his card back, signs and motions for us to head to the entrance. “Walking from meeting to booth to podium with you by my side reminding me I’m pretty will be great for my fragile ego.”
I huff a laugh. “I will not be doing that.”
“Fine, rolling your eyes and yawning at me?”
“Much better for your giant ego.”
“Brilliant. See you just shy of nine. At the coffee table.” I guess I make a face because he adds. “I know it’s shit. I’ll bring us real coffee. But that’s where we’ll meet.”
He opens the door to his stretch limo for me, just as he’s noticed people calling his name. I pause before I get into the car.
“If you really got me out of my job, could I maybe just, I don’t know, stay in my room and binge Real Housewives of Amish Country instead?”
“As your boss, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
I groan.
“See you,” he says, but he’s no longer looking at me. There’s a line—an actual line—of hot women waiting to take a selfie with him.
Ew.
Once I’m settled and pull the door he leans down in, stopping me. He pops his head inside the car, “I will see you, right?”
Something pulls in my chest at the earnest look on his face.
Maybe it’s the fact that he genuinely wants me to join him in the morning, which implies he’s not ordering me.
Maybe it’s that he’s actually worried I’ll stand him up.
Maybe it’s just that small, stubborn part of me still loves to be needed, no matter how hard I work on myself.
Whatever it is, it makes me lock eyes with him as I nod and reply, “You’ll see me. ”
He smiles wide and ducks out to shut the car door.
That smile broadens even more, though, when he spots his line of fan-girls. I look away. He’s so very annoying. His billionaire problems are annoying. So what if he has to be married to a schemer or a poser for a few years? He’s a billionaire.
Meanwhile real people are out here with a sibling at a half-way house, about to have to move their Gran into a cheaper nursing home, getting daily calls and texts that literally keep them up at night.
Cry me a river, dude.
But hey, at least I don’t have to spend my day in the mayo jar suit.
That thought must be why I can’t stop smiling the whole way down the strip to my hotel.