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Looking uninterested, Julie waves her hand in the air, cutting me off. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but I have enough drama in my own life. I don’t need nor want to hear about your ex. If he’s an ex, that’s a good thing because it means you’re single and able to fake date my grandson. I want the whole world to believe he’s finally met his match, and I want his life to be boring. So boring that the media knocks off and finds someone else to torment. I want him focused, and I want that company to thrive. Since you work there, you can show him the ropes and teach him a thing or two.”
“I…but you don’t even know me!”
“I know. But I can tell you’re the hardworking sort of person who believes in fair trade fashion.”
“How do you know that?” I’m not currently wearing any of it right now. It makes me wonder if those robot senses of hers are going haywire, and she can see through the walls in the house, all the way to my closet.
“You were wearing it in the photos. And anyway, I looked into you, of course. You have two degrees—community college, but still. You’re a hard worker, and you’ve put in lots of unpaid overtime. You worked your way into a manager position, and the staff has nothing but good things to say about you. You also pay your taxes on time every year. You support three charities—two financially and a local animal shelter here, where you volunteer. Aside from that, you bought this house yourself, paid the down payment in cash, and you have zero debt aside from your car loan, which comes out of your bank account every month. You have two older brothers, both still living in this town. Your parents as well. You also graduated top of your high school class, and you got a hundred percent in English…”
“Wow.” I cut her off but then have to swallow hard to get the boulder-sized lump in my throat to go down. “That’s very thorough.”
Julie Louise Paris—because I’m not using just her first name after a speech like that—smiles softly at me. She’s less intimidating with her current expression, and she actually looks like she could be a nice person. Her eyes change, getting softer and shinier, and I can practically see the love flooding from her face like one of those token heavenly beams they’re always depicting on TV.
“I really care about my grandson. People might see one side of him—the harder front he has to put on. They might see a rich young man who has been spoiled, who has everything the world has to offer. A man who has spent years dating women. Dating. Many. Women. Many people think if you’re rich, you’re free game. That you have no feelings, emotions, or heart. They see just a glimpse and think they have the entire picture. Well, they’re wrong. I want the world to see that Asher is a good man. He’s got a good heart, and it’s been broken more times than I can count. Not that he would ever confess to it. I want someone to treat him well. Maybe then he’d have some idea of what a relationship is truly supposed to look like.”
“So, I could do that, but it would all be fake? That doesn’t sound like what any relationship should be. I’m so confused. Why…seriously. Why would I do that?”
“Is it money you want?”
“No!” It’s very obvious how insulted I am by that question.
“A promotion?”
“No.”
“Fame?”
“Definitely not.”
“What can I bribe you with to do this for me then?”
Suddenly, I realize Julie Louise Paris is no robot. She just looks like a grandma—a very fancy, pink-haired, mossy-eyed grandma who cares about their family. I know Asher is her only grandchild as I’ve done a bunch of research on them too—just what I could find online—when I found out she had bought our company. I feel slightly guilty about that now, but I’m not sure why. It was just a quick search—token stuff. I don’t know what Julie Louise Paris got in her English class when she graduated.
“You’re not going to threaten to fire me, bribe me, or ruin my life if I don’t comply?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” I bite my lip hard.
“Hmm.” Julie Louise Paris sits and waits, but then she can’t contain herself, and after a minute, she blurts out, “I’ll give you some money, but you can’t tell Asher about it. He’s going to ask you like it was his idea. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars if you agree. I’m sure you could use the money for something. Your family? Your house?”
“To date your grandson? For how long?” Why did I just ask that? It sounds like I’m starting to come around.
“Just a few months.”
“A few months? That’s crazy!”
