“Anthrax isn’t contagious, Milo,” I said, biting into a lime wedge. “And why would I have the plague? I’m not a fucking flea.”
That sent Britney into another fit of laughter. She gets a little unhinged when she’s drunk, which is a sharp contrast to the other ninety-nine percent of the time, when she’s a terrifyingly competent attorney.
I let her laugh it out before sighing. “Besides, not going is just as pathetic as going alone—maybe worse. Rick will know I bailed because of him and his fucking Miss Perfect. I need an actual plan. Something that makes him jealous.”
“You need a boyfriend,” Milo said.
Britney nodded, still wiping at her eyes. “He’s not wrong.”
I huffed. “Well, yeah. And if that were so easy, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Britney fell quiet, studying me for a second.
“Wait,” she said. “What if you don’t need arealboyfriend?”
Milo and I looked at her.
“Just one for the weekend,” she continued. “Like in that stupid Darren McAvoy movie we watched.”
I stared at her. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I am,” she said. “Just someone to show up, make it convincing, and shut Rick up. Obviously hot.”
I leaned back. “Right. Because finding a hot guy willing to pretend to be my boyfriend—and competent enough not to blow it—should be a breeze. I’ve got exactly three days to pull it off.”
“What about that hot Irish neighbor of yours?” Britney suggested, her words slightly slurred. “The one with the arms. You know. The nurse. Doctor. Whatever.”
“Connor?” I said, even though there was no doubt who she meant. Connor O’Reilly from 4B. Connor with the perpetual five-o’clock shadow and eyes the color of a storm.
“Yes. Him.” Britney nodded eagerly. “He’s perfect. He’s hot, he’s got the accent, and he seems nice enough that he might actually say yes if you ask. Plus nobody at the party knows him, so there’s no weird overlap.”
“Absolutely not,” I said immediately. “He’s straight. If he says no, I still have to see him every fucking day.”
“So?” Britney shot back. “You’ve been talking about moving anyway.”
“That’s different,” I said.
“Not really,” she replied. “Worst case, you move a little sooner.”
“It’s a horrible idea,” I said. “Plus I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. You remember that hot brunette we ran into last week when you came over?”
“That’s even better,” Britney said, like that only proved her point. “If he has a girlfriend, he’s not going to feel weird about it or think you’re actually hitting on him.”
“It’s still crazy.” I snorted, but the alcohol was already taking the edge off my better judgment. “We’re not even friends. Why would he say yes?”
“He would if you gave him a reason,” Milo said, completely confident in a way only drunk people are. “Offer him money. If he’s a doctor, he’s got debt. That way it’s not weird—you’re basically doing him a favor.”
I shook my head and took another shot of tequila.
And that’s when it stopped sounding completely insane.
I groan at the memory and press the heels of my palms into my eyes, which only makes the throbbing worse. We kept drinking. At some point, the idea stopped sounding ridiculous. And then I went home, and somehow, at 2:37 a.m.—according to the phone I squinted at in the hallway—I found myself standing in front of Connor’s door.
I knocked. Too hard, probably. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, and I swayed slightly, trying to look casual in case anyone happened to walk by.
Then the door opened, and there he was.
Connor. Shirtless.
