Page 2 of Choosing Samantha

“On Sunday,” he continues. “It’s just two hours—eat the overpriced eggs, introduce the beautiful woman as your date, and make an effort to act like a human being.”

“Fine,” I concede. “If it turns into a disaster, I'll fire you.”

“You say that every Thursday,” Miles says, with the confidence of a man who has heard that threat a thousand times and lived to see another day.

“It’s Tuesday,” I grumble, unwilling to admit I’ll never fire him. He’s the best assistant I’ve ever had—even if he hired me an escort.

“Then I’m ahead of schedule.” He stood and fastened his jacket. "Her name is Samantha."

Long after he leaves my office, her name lingers, stirring something in me, but I ignore the feeling and go back to the security report—or at least I try to.

two

Samantha

“You signed me up for an escort service?” The words come out so loudly that a guy studying two tables away puts down his textbook and stares at us.

Kendra gives him an apologetic smile, then leans across our small café table. “It’s a high-end companionship agency,” she whispers. “Please stop acting like I sold you to pirates.”

Selling me to pirates would be better if they were like Captain Jack Sparrow from the movie Pirates of the Caribbean. I’ve always had a thing for older guys—and Johnny Depp is definitely my type.

Shaking my head, I try to clear my mind of the thought of being ravished by an older guy. But who am I kidding? I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin with no idea what it feels like to be ravished by anyone. And now my best friend has signed me up as an escort. I need to end this madness. “You used my name, my photograph, and my personal information.”

“I created a profile. You still have to accept assignments.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee.

“That isn’t the reassuring distinction you believe it is.”

Kendra slides my untouched coffee toward me. “You’re behind on rent.”

“I know.” I pick up the ridiculously expensive coffee I know I can’t afford and shouldn’t have bought.

“Your campus job cut your hours.”

“I know.” I take a sip of the coffee, savoring each swallow, wondering if it might be the last real coffee shop coffee I drink for a long time.

“You have sixty-three dollars in your bank account.” Kendra softens her tone.

“I have seventy-eight,” my pride says before I can stop it.

“You bought groceries?” Of course, she would bring that up.

“Then sixty-three sounds right.” My shoulders slump in defeat as she shoots me a pointed look—I hate admitting she was right.

I’m halfway through my junior year at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and I’m one unexpected expense away from having to abandon the degree I spent years fighting to earn. My mother helps when she can, but she works double shifts at a nursing home and is already supporting my younger brother. My scholarships only go so far—spending money on anything other than living expenses is a luxury I can’t afford—ask my short-sized coffee. It could be worse—it could be demi-sized.

The broken screen on my phone is a constant reminder that I can’t afford even small disasters. Last week, a gust of wind off Lake Michigan yanked the phone from my hand. It hit the sidewalk face down, shattering the screen. I covered the worst cracks with clear tape and learned not to swipe too fast. Replacing it isn’t an option. Neither is missing rent again.

“What exactly would I have to do?” I trace the name on my cup with my index finger—the messy handwriting makes it look more like Nathan than Samantha.

Kendra smiles brightly. “Attend events, have dinner, make conversation.” She shrugs, blowing on her coffee before taking another sip.

“With strange men,” I add, feeling neither reassured nor comforted.

“Men whose identities, finances, and criminal histories have been verified.”

“That isn’t the same as knowing them.”

She places her hand over mine. “You choose whether to accept the assignment. Elite Connections sends the client’s profile and event details. You meet in a public place, and the agency monitors the appointment.”