“Beverly Hills.”
Chase lifts both brows in surprise. “You live in Beverly Hills?”
“Beverly Hills Adjacent,” I quickly amend, then mutter my address. “6501 Orange Street, please.” Once upon a time, I was all too embarrassed by my address. Yet, I’ve grown to love living in Beverly Hills Adjacent, also known as the “almost” Beverly Hills. I may not have that famous 90210 zip code, but I sure as heck appreciate my less-than-deep-pockets rental rate.
Henry speeds onto bustling Sunset Blvd, the street lights shimmering above. It’s dark outside now, and since it’s Monday at 5 p.m., traffic is its usual horrific state.
“So, where do you live?” I ask, convinced Chase probably lives in some posh estate tucked away in the Hollywood Hills.
“Me? Oh, I live in Malibu.”
Okay, fine. A posh estate tucked away inMalibu. Either way, it pales in comparison to anywhere I’ve ever lived. Sure, I grew up in a NYC Brownstone, Dad the chief of surgery, Mom a lead oncology nurse. Even so, I’ve dreamed of living in something elegant and grand like the kind where Hollywood actors and actresses reside.
“So, why does a seemingly successful man like yourself, need a fake fiancée?”
He breathes in a sigh, rakes his fingers through that full mop of hair. My mind drifts off to me running my own fingers through his hair, almost missing his reply. “It’s a long, long story. Are you hungry? Would you like to stop for dinner? We can chat, get to learn more about one another.”
BB pops her head out of my purse and barks in protest. “Oh, um, I should get BB home so she can eat her own dinner.”
He adjusts his tie. “Okay. How about we drop her off then go have dinner? I know of a place not too far from where you live.”
After my stomach rumbles and growls, reminding me I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch with Gabriella, I consent to dinner with Mr. Chase—whatever his last name is.
Thankfully, Henry finds a shorter route that gets us to my place twenty minutes later. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes while I get her settled with a bowl of food,” I say before I hop out of the car and scramble to the entrance of Beverly Glen Apartments.
Sadie, one of the few neighbors I tolerate, greets me as she’s checking her mailbox. “Ooo, Ivy. That’s a mighty fancy-looking car parked out there. Anyone I know?”
“Nope. Just someone I’ll be working with over Christmas.” I make a mad dash toward the staircase. “Have a great evening, Sadie.”
“You too, hon. Give BB a kiss for me,” she calls out as I scurry on up to the third floor.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later,after I’d set BB up with her own organic kibble meal, freshened up, slipped out of my pencil skirt suit and pumps and into a black, one-piece jumpsuit with strappy heels, I make my way downstairs to the town car.
Henry is waiting, hands clasped together as I approach. He gives me a curt nod and says, “Ms. Ivy,” as he draws the car door open for me.
Chase greets me with a slightly dropped jaw. “I see you’ve changed your clothes.”
“Yes. I thought I’d wear something more appropriately suited for dinner.”
Henry gets back into the car and asks, “Where to, sir?”
Chase eyes me, a smirk adorning his lips, amusement swirling in his eyes. “Micky D’s.”
Micky D’s?
As in, McDonald's?
That’s where he’s taking me for dinner? I fold my arms across my chest and scoff internally. What was I expecting, anyway? An elegant dinner at the Ritz? This is a business meal, not a business date.
A warm sensation crawls up to my cheeks and I swallow the lump of embarrassment clawing at my throat. “Micky D’s. Fantastic. I love their salads.”
We ride in silence while Henry works his way through traffic, the sound of frustrated drivers, honking their horns in the background. Squeezing my eyes shut, I reflect on all the choices I’ve made in life that have put me where I am at this very moment. Maybe, just maybe, I should’ve had aspirations of following in Ma and Dad’s footsteps, become a doctor or a nurse. Yet, no. Instead, I caved into a classic rebel-laced case ofI need to pursue my own damn dream. And look where said dream pursuance has dropped me. In the back seat of a town car with a fine-ass man who’s whisking his pretend fiancée off to McDonald's.
Perhaps it’s time I accept Ma’s offer to set me up. I mean, she only has my best interest in mind, right? It’s not like she’d set me up with some serial killer.
I shake away my thoughts just as the town car is steered up to a curb. A valet approaches and opens my door. “Welcome, Miss,” he says with a motion for me to step out and onto the walkway.
And when I do, I nearly pass out. Glimmering tea lights illuminate the building’s facade, the restaurant’s name, Micky and Delilah’s, shimmering in the dark.
Micky D’s.
Chase steps out of the town car, cups my elbow, leaning in with a sultry curved-up-lip smile. “What? Did you think I was gonna bring you to McDonald's?”
