Chapter 9
IVY
If you look up Chase Hunter on the internet, the termstuffydoesn’t come up.
Wealthy. Single. Playboy. Those are the terms of reference sprinkled all over Google.
When I sputtered out the s-word yesterday, I never expected he—the confident man who tends to make my heart freefall into the pit of my gut—would grow a freaking complex.
Nonetheless, here I am, in the back of the town car with Mrs. Adams, as Henry escorts us to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.
“So, you’re the pretend fiancée?”
Mrs. Adams seems like a delightful woman. Elegant, statuesque. Like someone who would be in charge of a London charm school. I’m almost afraid to breathe in fear she may order me to correct my posture.
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.” I clear my throat. “That’s me.”
“Excellent choice. You’re very pretty and I’m sure you’ll put on a convincing performance.” She pats my shoulder, smiles assuredly. “And please, call me Lottie.”
As Henry weaves in and out of traffic, through what’s known as the Wilshire area of Los Angeles, I peer out the tinted window: palm trees adorned with mini Christmas wreaths; business storefronts decorated in holiday cheer; people shuffling about, some carting briefcases, others tugging along with shopping bags in tow. It never ceases to amaze me how this city, and its residents, never sleep. I was nervous when I first arrived here, taken aback by the city’s allure. Sure, I’d seen movies and postcard pictures, but seeing is believing. Still, there are times I miss New York, the architecture, the pop-up stores, and of course the 24-hour bodegas.;
Henry turns onto Rodeo Drive, a popular shopping district in Beverly Hills, and shortly after, pulls to a stop alongside a curb in front ofTiffany’s. Admittedly, Rodeo isn’t the place I typically shop. It’s way too out of my league. However, with the per diem, I don’t mind spending a little on clothes for fake Evelyn.
“Shall I return in a few hours, Lottie?”
Lottie glances up at Henry. “Yes, hon. I’ll text you about an hour before. Will you be heading home until then?”
“Yes, love, I need to finish hanging the Christmas lights.”
Lottie flicks her gaze over to me as I try to figure out the dynamics between these two.
Are they involved? Or just comfortable offering terms of endearment?
Lottie must have caught wind of my bewilderment. “Henry and I are married, my dear. Chase was sweet enough to give Henry a job when he retired six years ago, and wanted something to do besides be bored at home while I was at work all day.”
“Aww, how sweet,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.
Henry cranks his head, eyes crinkled at the corners as he turns his attention to me. “Chase is a nice man, extremely generous, so don’t be fooled by anything you may have heard or read on the internet.”
Lottie and I exit the town car and I follow behind on the sidewalk as she snakes her way through the crowd of shoppers. She stops in front of a store—its name I can’t even pronounce. “Shall we begin here? They have a lovely assortment of suits, coats—”
More stuffy clothes?“How about we try another store. I’m thinking Brenada Boutique may have some items that would look amazing on Chase.”
We walk a few shops down to Brenada and once we make our way inside, two young women greet us. Immediately, they make me think of the two snobs who dissed Julia Roberts’ character in the moviePretty Woman.Not because they’re rude, but because of the way they scan us from head to toe when we walk in.
“May we help you, ladies? Are you looking for or shopping for someone in particular?” the one with dark hair asks while the one with raven-colored hair stands next to her, arms folded, eyebrows raised.
Lottie grins, hand on hip. “Yes, we’re shopping for Chase Hunter.” She cocks her head to the side, her tongue noticeably grazing the inside of her cheek. “You two may have heard of him, right?”
“U-uh,” dark-haired snob stutters, “of course we’ve heard of Chase Hunter.”
“Wonderful. Now, Ivy here has the task of buying clothes to make Mr. Hunter feel a tad more hip.”
Raven-haired snob’s eyes widen. “You’ve come to the right place. Follow me.”
After an hour, Lottie and I walk out of the men’s clothing boutique with bags and more bags of chic threads. Jeans, slacks, sweaters, Oxford shirts, silk tees, and even some PJs.
“You’ve got an eye for nice clothes,” Lottie says. “Maybe you can spruce up my wardrobe sometime.”
