Chapter 8
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The only funeral I’m funding is my own.
Mirabelle
……………………………….
Ah.
Well.
Um.
Lynn’s eyes sparkle as her and the rest of my small book club companions descend on me in a flurry the moment I knock on the door to Lynn’s sweet little suburban home.
Faces perched around the phone she’s holding, she parrots the displayed article title, “Who is she?” Her teeth bare in a vicious grin. “What I’d like to know is who is he?”
It is quite unfortunate, but…I believe I have located…it.
Beth nudges Lynn in the arm. “He’s Damion Anders. It says that. Everywhere. Because he’s a billionaire?” Her blue eyes sparkle beyond the thin wire frames she shoves up on her nose.
“Now, Little Miss Mirabelle, where do you think the nice billionaire’s hand is?” Leeann cackles. “I thought you preferred not to read that genre.”
Lynn swats Leeann. “Don’t antagonize the poor girl. She’s less likely to fund our funerals if you talk like that.”
My face blisters as the sensation I swear I only just got off my mind returns in full force.
“How does one go about seducing a billionaire?” Lynn asks.
“Oi, what was that about our funerals?” Leeann snaps.
“Bah! What do you think we have grandchildren for?” Beth grins, like a school girl. “Tell us everything. When did you two start dating?”
“We’re not dating,” I say, the words airy and floating. “We’re not. He’s my new boss.”
“Oooh,” rises from the three women.
“Billionaire and boss/employee?” Leeann giggles. “You’re spoiling us.”
“I promise we’re not. My car wasn’t starting and…” And he lied to me. I was so frazzled that night, I let him lie to me. The odd light wasn’t a streetlamp; it was a camera.
I am working for a liar.
And this is why security and brick walls appeared all around his property practically overnight. Amarella is no longer quite so quiet.
All the color that just rushed to my cheeks abruptly drains. “I…need to sit down.”
Lynn helps me into her living room, into my cozy little corner on the sofa, where I always sit, right by the window and the table, where I put the snacks I normally bring.
Normally being when I’m not exhausted trying to adjust to a new job for a lonely grump who has—every single day for the past week—kept finding me and asking if he can help with whatever I’m doing.
“Oh, dearie,” Beth soothes, settling in beside me and resting her weathered hand on my shoulder. “We’re only teasing. Tell us about your fancy new job.”
Okay. Okay. Let’s think about this rationally. I’m a rational person. So that should be easy.
Right?
Right.
Of course.
Absolutely.
My breaths shorten, but I catch them, force air out and in with long pauses.
Fundamentally, does this matter?
No. I don’t think so.
Something that haunts me was simply…caught on camera…
and distributed…en masse. But I am not dating Mr. Anders, and even though he lied to me, I am used to people lying to me like this.
It’s one of those things they consider a little lie.
He probably did it in an effort to protect me from the situation.
It was, ultimately, an attempt at kindness.
Probably.
More likely than not.
“Mira?” Beth nudges, snapping me from my thoughts. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“I’m…” not okay. I was not anticipating needing to sort through whatever this event has caused inside me in public.
In public.
I think, maybe, that’s the part that has me the most disturbed.
I am, presently, being perceived by who knows how many strangers, and their conclusions are all incorrect.
“Lynn, get the girl some water,” Leeann says, settling into the armchair on my other side. “That man is treating you well, isn’t he?”
My mind trips through the past few days, and months, and years. “I think so. He’s paying me well.”
“Hm.” Leeann’s lips purse.
Lynn’s hand and a crisp glass of water appear in front of me, kind eyes peering when I look up.
Her round cheeks lift in a smile after a moment, then she addresses the room, “Ladies, I think we should talk about our books.” After I take the water glass, she settles into her spot at the head of the space and faces Beth.
“What have you been reading this past month?”
Books. Yes. Talking about books at book club is what I anticipated when I left my still very new home this evening.
Palpable relief swarms, and I sip my water while fragile wisps of normalcy settle my racing heart.
Everything’s fine.
I hope.
Surely Mr. Anders can set everything straight. Surely he can have his assistant email someone and say that we’re not together. Surely he can take care of this, and I’ll fade back into the oblivion I’m comfortable with.
Everything is fine.
Or, well, it will be.