Chapter Three #2
Why is that so deflating? I want to argue more, but from the firm determination in her eyes, it’s obvious I’ll only end up strengthening her feelings for that bastard.
I stomp on the rising bitterness. “Fine, forget it. Just think of the extra dough you could make for taking on the project. You know I always compensate you more than fairly.” The words are clipped.
It probably makes me a bad person, but I want her to say yes.
“Not even for money. I have principles, Rhys. And Jeffrey’s good to me—understanding, faithful…basically perfect. The kind of guy I can picture getting married to. A loving partner who would make his wife and family his priority. Someone I can grow old with.”
Her words draw vivid images in my mind. Her in a gorgeous wedding gown, smiling as Slick puts a ring on her finger.
Then them buying a single-family home with a small yard in some upwardly mobile neighborhood.
A gently used minivan pulling up in front of their house, full of kids and a golden retriever puppy.
A scenario out of a horror show, as far as I’m concerned—the man in the van’s driver’s seat is all wrong. But she’s smiling, as though something similar isn’t just a dream, but a future she can easily attain. For me—those things simply don’t happen. Experience has taught me that.
Max’s phone pings. She glances down, her brow furrowed. “Is there somebody you’re supposed to accompany to some fashion show in Paris?”
“What?” I shudder. “What would I do at some fashion show? I’d have to be in a straitjacket to go to something like that.”
She taps her phone a few times, then lets out a soft whistle. “It’s Gabriella Ricci.”
I scowl. Gabriella was a top fashion model. She’s getting old for the job, but she’s still quite attractive, albeit slightly self-centered and vain, as women praised for their beauty since childhood often tend to be. “What about her?”
“Apparently you’re dating…?”
What the hell?
Max continues, oblivious to my incredulous reaction: “She says—and I quote—‘I asked him twice already, but he didn’t respond. I know he’s busy with work, but this is ridiculous. He’s putting me in a bind.’”
I rub my temple with my index finger. “How did she get your number?”
“She didn’t say. But it sounds like she messaged you.”
“Didn’t get anything. And I never gave her my number.”
“She could’ve gotten it from somebody else. I didn’t give her my number, either. Anyway, you should call her. Here, let me give you her contact.”
I raise my hand, palm out, before she can send me Gabriella’s number. “No. We aren’t dating, and I’m not wasting my precious weekend in Paris.” My time is at a premium. I avoid events that don’t benefit me, and fashion shows fall into that category.
“There were pictures of you two,” Max points out. “I remember seeing them.”
“They were for PR,” I say through gritted teeth, regretting the public appearance. “I attended one spring fashion gala with her because her date bailed, but she needed to be there for some brand promo she was doing.” No good deed goes unpunished…
“So you do make exceptions and go to fashion galas.”
I let out an impatient breath. “Once. She’s the brand ambassador for Platcher.”
“Ah.”
Platcher is a holding company for several cosmetics brands and dermatological pharmaceuticals, and owned by my mother’s family.
I had no choice but to go because the company needed Gabriella to show with some “arm candy,” and I fit the criteria.
Plus, I didn’t want Mom and her assistant Camilo to harass my brothers.
I don’t mind taking one for the team. Better me than them.
“One public appearance means nothing. Tell her no. If she won’t accept it, tell her unwanted clinging is unattractive. I’m sure she can find someone else who’ll be interested.”
“Guess the show in Paris has nothing to do with Platcher?”
“No. Even if it did, I’m not going to another over-perfumed, over-glittery event where good brain cells die for no cause.”
“You know, there are men who’d give up a kidney to be with her.”
“Great. Maybe you can pair her with one of them. On your own time, since I’m not paying you to match her up with men.”
Suddenly Max snaps her fingers, her eyes lighting up. “Gabriella Ricci can solve your problem! She needs a date, and you need a fake girlfriend.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“What’s wrong with her? You and her? Totally believable. You can even say you guys fell for each other at the spring gala.”
Gag me with a spoon. “She’s much too clingy.”
“Most men would love to have a woman like her in their arms.” Her tone says, What’s wrong with you?
“I’m not like most men.” Inspiration hits. “Like you, I have certain standards.”
“I said ‘principles.’ And no wonder you’re still single, if Gabriella Ricci isn’t good enough for you. What standards can’t she meet?”
“Somebody who doesn’t cling and won’t be traumatized by my parents or bossed around by my grandmother. Basically, someone impervious.”
Max looks at me like I just told her I want to fornicate with a woman who dances like a fairy and farts like a unicorn. But she isn’t that far wrong, either. I know for a fact that no such woman exists.
“Good to know,” she says finally. “I’ll see what I can do to get you somebody who’s better than”—she can’t quite hide a snort—“Gabriella Ricci.”