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One
I had done something so absolutely and utterly bonkers that I kept wondering if I could claim temporary insanity. Or temporary stupidity might be more accurate.
Because I was a catfisher.
The complete misrepresentation online of myself as another person entirely.
I hadn’t meant to get so carried away. It was an accidental catfish.
What had started out as me finding a date for my friend Savannah had somehow resulted in me chatting on the app with a man named Michael for hours. Days. Maybe even a few weeks. As Savannah, not me, Felicia Hobbs.
It started out harmless enough. It was called screening. I was making certain he wasn’t a psychopath. For her. I had an obligation as a friend to not send her off to dinner with a serial killer.
Then it got to where I was telling him my own stories and feelings and maybe even falling for him, just a little. Okay, a lot.
Which was ridiculous because he thought he was talking to Savannah. She was a peaches-and-cream-complexion redhead with a sweet smile and an overwhelming optimism. I was a thin, pale, dark-haired British ex-pat with a dry sense of humor and a practical streak.
One of these things was not like the other.
Do you see my dilemma? It was charming in Cyrano De Bergerac.
In real life, it was just rude and a little creepy.
The only explanation I had for it was I had spent too much time home alone, working. We are not meant to hole up for days on end in a bedroom the size of a car boot surrounded by mounds of vintage clothing. I’d become eccentric, reclusive, obviously craving a connection with someone.
It was an accident, truly.
Though generally speaking I was known for getting myself into cock-ups, I had to admit. It was why I’d stopped dating altogether the year before.
Michael and Savannah had gone out to dinner and she’d told me he was nice enough but she wasn’t interested and, of course, that’s because everyone but her knew at the time she was already totally in love with Maddox, her roommate and nanny.
I was certain she’d left Michael wondering why the hell she’d been so hot (me being she) and then cold in person.
I’d also been stupidly relieved she hadn’t liked Michael and stupidly annoyed when he had continued to message Savannah, clearly interested in a second date, despite her tacit reaction to him. Was it her looks he liked, or me, the woman he’d been chatting with?
But he had mentioned early in our communications he wanted to get rid of his wife’s clothing, given she’d been passed away for ten years, so after their date I’d got in the wine and told him, as Savannah, to contact me, Felicia, who would potentially buy some pieces in his wife’s wardrobe.
See? Making it worse.
But now I was standing in front of an apartment door in SoHo hitting the buzzer for Dr. Michael Kincaid and feeling every ounce the idiot.
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is Felicia Hobbs.”
The buzzer rang. “I’ll come down and meet you in the lobby,” he said.
He had a sexy voice, unfortunately. It was low, gravelly, the tone commanding.
I had thought altogether too long about my outfit, but it was December and I was bundled up with a long winter puffer coat, a beanie on my head. I’d had a decent struggle with myself over footwear, wanting to thumb my nose at the weather, but it was snowing and I didn’t think an open-toed pump was going to accomplish anything other than a broken ankle. It wasn’t like Michael was going to see the pumps and what they did to my legs (amazing things, truly) and decide he was mad for me.
Hence the waterproof high-knee boots with adequate treads. I wasn’t going to shag the man, so what difference did it make?
It was called managing expectations.
I stood in the lobby, waiting for Michael to appear. It was what you’d expect for SoHo. Only eight units in the building and presumably all large and airy loft-style.
The lift opened and a man came out.
Michael was not as expected.
I’d seen his picture, but it hadn’t captured that confidence in his step, that height, that sexy shot of silver at his temples. He was wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, and a tattoo was visible on his bicep. I hadn’t expected a tattoo at all. He had on sandals, like he’d been barefoot in his apartment and slipped them on to take the lift down. He was far more rugged than anticipated, with a polished veneer.
