Page 9 of Santa Baby

“It’s a silent auction,” I mused, intrigued.

“And very, very exclusive,” Gabby pressed, tucking her hands behind her back. “I did some digging and it sounds like a few of your investors might be there.”

“Go ahead and put it on my schedule.” Events like that were always happening around the city—auctions for some grand foundation, some cause, always veiled in glitter and gold. This one, apparently, was veiled in blue. That was the theme, blue winter, whatever the hell that meant. I tended to frequent anything under the umbrella of the Rasmussen name or Smithsonian, seeing as they gave their money to causes that I took interest in. Educational reform, the sciences, health and infrastructure mainly.

“Do you want a plus-one?” she asked.

I glanced at my inbox, at Fia’s email address. “Yeah, I’ll need a plus-one.” Hopefully she wasn’t busy this weekend. It would be a perfect gathering for her to attend.

For whatever reason, my mind flooded with the memory of her in that pink dress again, and I felt a flicker of excitement about what crazy outfit she’d show up in next.

5

FIA

Liv paced behind the couch in my cozy studio apartment, scanning the invitation a second time, then a third, all while I fought for my life on the rickety stool I was standing on to hang more white, sparkly Christmas lights along the ancient crown molding above the three street-facing windows.

“I don’t understand.” Liv stopped pacing and stared up at me, smoothing her fingers over the fine handwritten scrawl.

“What don’t you understand?” The words were muffled as I held a pack of removable, sticky hanging hooks in my mouth. “I need a dress, Liv. Something blue, like the invitation says.”

“How did you get an invitation to this, Fia?”

I sighed with relief as I hung another section of lights and stepped down from the stool, my arms aching from the strain. I’d just started putting up my Christmas decorations today, on December first, a new record of restraint. Normally, my decorations were up before Thanksgiving, but this year I had been busy.

“I’m pretending to be Mason O’Leary’s girlfriend. No big deal.”

She gaped at me, her dark eyes wide with confusion. Her slick, straight black hair was tied back in a ponytail that trembled as she shook her head. “Does he know?”

“What do you mean? Of course he knows. Did you think I was just name-dropping him to get into these parties?” I laughed. “Just don’t tell anyone I told you.”

Liv made a small noise in her throat that edged on rage. I really wasn’t giving her much, honestly, but the idea of telling Liv the truth about this thing I was up to? Well, it kind of made me feel like I should be running an ad for my girlfriend services on the internet.

I walked to the kitchen, which was nothing more than a fridge, a few cabinets, and a two-burner stovetop, and grabbed the bottle of pinot noir off the counter. The twist-off kind, of course. I had been “dating” one of the richest men in the city, but I was still broke as hell.

I poured two glasses of wine, handed her one, and told her to sit down. An hour and a bottle of wine later, Liv stared at me in disbelief, but I’d filled her in. I told her it was harmless, just a crazy little adventure that would be fun to think back on when I was old and gray.

Once she wasn’t actively calling me insane, I turned the conversation back to more practical matters. “How hard do you think it’s going to be to find a dress that’ll fit me perfect by this weekend?”

She shook her head. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? Fia, what happens if your heart gets all tangled up in this?”

“I’m not going to fall in love with him, trust me.” I opened the second bottle. We were going to need it, especially since Liv was in no way, shape, or form done asking me what the hell I was thinking. “That’s less likely than finding out he’s a mafia boss or wanting me to join his harem.”

Liv snorted a laugh. “Seriously, though. Haven’t you given any thought to why he needs this? Like, what exactly does he expect from you? Do you have to kiss him? Sleep with him?”

I frowned at her. “I’m not his sugar baby. In fact, he’s not even paying me.”

She pointed over the couch to the jet-black credit card sitting on the kitchen counter.

“That doesn’t count,” I squeaked, but she arched a brow. “He’s not—I’m not—This is just business.”

“Funny business?”

I rolled my lower lip between my teeth in thought, glancing around my apartment. Boxes of decorations lay haphazardly across the fluffy white area rug in the corner where a small TV faced the couch we were sitting on. A short, somewhat unsafe staircase with shelves underneath them, full of books, lead to the loft, which was the only place where my mattress could fit comfortably. My desk, messy and unorganized, was in the far corner of the room, near the stairs, with a direct view of the fire escape.

At least I had my own bathroom. Oh, and I had a washer and dryer, which was a luxury living in New York City.

Liv snapped her fingers, trying to get my attention. “What?” I hissed.