Instead of using the phone on my desk and potentially leaving incriminating evidence, I pull out my cell phone. After pressing the numbers into the keypad, my finger hovers over the send button so long, the screen blacks out, and I have to reenter my password to bring it up again.
It’s now or never, Josette. Time to grow a pair and just make the call.
2
JOSETTE
I THOUGHT I WAS NERVOUS calling Made to Order to place my “order,” but that was nothing compared to the acid climbing up my throat waiting for my date to arrive.
Date…ha! Can you call it that when you pay for it? And I mean pay for it…a lot.
Filet Mignon seemed like the most prudent choice even though he was by far the most expensive. I chose him specifically because it said he has extensive higher education and can charm even the most difficult crowds.
Please God, let him be able to hold an intelligent conversation with the partners at the party.
Otherwise, I’m royally fucked, underwent all this stress, and spent my money for nothing.
I just need to get through this night.
All I need is one night of them taking me seriously as a partner candidate. The rest, I can figure out later. This will at least show them I’m capable of having a relationship, even if it is fake.
Everyone needs a man, after all.
The eye roll is only seen by me in the mirror, but I can’t stop it. It’s the twenty-first century, and
I still need a man to advance in my career. What an absolute dinosaur-size load of shit.
Chill, Josette.
I need to tamp down my anger and annoyance if I want to make a good impression tonight. It’s so damn easy to control my emotions in the courtroom, but anywhere else, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve.
And that won’t fly tonight. We need to be the perfect, happy couple if there’s even a rat’s chance in Hell of convincing the old farts that our “love” is real. I need to play the part perfectly.
A layer of mascara turns my practically clear lashes into long, black, elegant ones. I step back and give myself a final look in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The shimmery black cocktail dress is definitely going to turn some heads tonight. But it’s tasteful, not over the top. And my highlights are perfect platinum thanks to a trip to the salon earlier today.
At least I know I look good tonight. Hopefully, he’s as handsome and charming as Ginger’s boyfriend. Having to spend a night pretending to be a couple with a guy I have zero attraction to or who is a total bore would be pure torture.
The doorbell rings, and I take a deep breath to steady my fraying nerves.
I check the clock. It has to be him. At least he’s prompt. With one last glance at myself in the mirror, I grab my clutch and head toward the front of the house.
For some reason, the walk to the door feels more like I’m walking down death row toward my electrocution than to answer the door to—hopefully—an attractive date.
A look through the peephole doesn’t help much. All I can make out in the dim porch light is a dark head of hair on a very tall man.
Here goes nothing.
My shaking hands smooth down my dress before I throw the door open, and my breath catches in my throat.
Wade Saxon.
You have got to be kidding me.
WADE
If you would have given me a million guesses to figure out who would be opening the door for my date tonight, the last person I would have named is Josette Westmore.
The perky blonde is a damn shark in the courtroom.
