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In the kitchen, she’s whipping up an omelet, flipping it with the pan like a gourmet chef.
“If your therapy career doesn’t work out, you could probably open a restaurant,” I tell her.
She cuts the omelet in two and slides each piece on plates. “I learned from my grandmother. Cooking is sort of my therapy. That and wine.” I laugh. “In the past years, yours has been sex?”
Talking about my past sex life is the last thing I want to do. “I wouldn’t call it therapy.”
She shrugs and doesn’t respond. I take a moment to look around her place. It’s not as big as Theo’s, but it’s still lovely. It’s neat and orderly but not stale or staid.
“I guess therapists get paid pretty well in this town. This is a nice place you have here.”
She hands me a plate over the counter bar while she stays on her side to eat hers. “Yes, I’m not sure I will have it for very long.”
My ears perk up at that. I’ve been hoping that a place would open up here. But, at the same time, there’s a sadness in her voice that makes me think she doesn’t want to sell it. “Why not?”
She sighs. “Well, remember that relationship I told you I just got out of?”
I nod, wondering what kind of asshole would leave an intelligent, sexy, beautiful woman like Charlotte.
“Well, we were living here together. He was helping with the mortgage.”
Living together? Sounds like a serious relationship. “And he just left you with the mortgage?”
She nods and then laughs, but it’s a bitter laugh. “It’s worse than that, even. He was my partner in the practice. So basically, I’ve been left with a business office and this place. I do fine. I can support myself with my practice, but I will probably have to downsize my home and office, as I don’t make enough to manage both.” She shakes her head. “You don’t need to be hearing all this. I don’t want to destroy our lovely evening with my financial woes.”
I focus on my omelet, trying to hold back the idea that has sprouted in my brain. Of course, it’s a bad idea, but it might answer both of our prayers.
“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” she says. “You are attempting to reform your reputation, and I’m about to be homeless.”
I shrug. “I seem to have fallen off the wagon on that count, and it was worth it,” I say so she doesn’t think I regret it. “But even if I became a monk, I’m not sure that would solve my problem.”
“What problem is that?”
“One of the reasons I’m trying to reform is that I’m having trouble finding work in the same type of clinic I worked at in Los Angeles. There’s some concern that my former ways will bring attention to a clientele that generally doesn’t want anybody to know that they’re being enhanced.” So even if I go into regular surgery, my past could still ruin my career.
Her brows furrow. “Really? Your line of business is all about improving sex appeal, so it’s weird that they would penalize you for having sex appeal.”
I laugh because I love the way her mind thinks. “You’ll love this then. At my last interview, the doctor told me that if I appeared more settled, as in married, he might consider me. And then he went on to say how the married doctors cheat on their wives, but perception is everything.”
She shakes her head. “It’s thinking like that that keeps me in business. I mean, people can’t be who they are because they have to meet some perception. But in trying to meet that perception, it makes people crazy.”
“Amen.” I take a bite of the omelet, groaning at how tasty it is. I’m using the moment to gather my nerve to make my suggestion. “You know, it’s possible that you and I could help each other here.”
“Really? How?”
“You need someone to help you with the mortgage, and I need someone to help me look settled.”
Her face morphs into shock as she realizes what I’m about to ask.
“You let me move in here with you, and I’ll help you pay the mortgage. You can pretend to be my one and only and make me look completely settled. It’s a win-win for both of us,” I say quickly to get it all out.
“Are you serious?”
This is the point at which I should probably say I’m joking, except I’m not. I’m just desperate enough to go through with this crazy plan. “I wish I was. But I need help with the mortgage and a fake plus one to get a job. We don’t have to get married or anything. We can be pretend engaged.”
For a moment, she gapes at me. “How do you see this playing out? How long would we have to do this?”
“I haven’t thought it that far through yet. Three months. Six months. I don’t know. Long enough that you can make alternative plans to have somebody else move in or afford the place on your own, and long enough for me to look settled and get a job. Then we can break off the engagement and go on with our lives. No harm, no foul.” The more I think about it, the better the idea seems.
