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Ugh. Talk about twisting the knife. Ihatelying. “Em...”
“It’s fine. I’m giving you a hard time so you remember this next time you think about lying to me.” She grins and I know I’ve been forgiven...for now. If she finds out that this lie was to cover up an even bigger one, I’m toast.
Guilt churns in my gut. I’ve always wanted a sister, and Emery is the closest I’ve come. We have a great group of friends right here in this building—the two of us, plus a detective named Hannah, a flight attendant named Drew and her twin sister, Presley. The five of us are like a little family and we catch up weekly for games and drinks. Knowing that I need to mislead them all makes me feel sick.
You’re doing this for your future.
“I feel bad, okay?” I pluck a simple black dress from my cupboard. It’s not fancy in the slightest, but I’ve always thought it had a bit of an Audrey Hepburn vibe. “Really bad.”
Emery watches me closely. “Have you told your mum about all this?”
“Apparently someone saw a picture of me from the launch party and told her.” I cringe.
“Oh shit, she found out from someone else?” Emery’s face would be comical if I wasn’t feeling so anxious about this whole thing. “That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not.”
While this whole arrangement has the benefit of getting my mother off my back about Anthony McCreeperson, that doesn’t mean the plan is without its downsides. Namely, that I got the earful of a lifetime about not telling her I have a boyfriend. Let alone one who’s proposed to me.
Oops.
“She said that she was disappointed that I’d kept it a secret, but at least I had some hope of a stable future.”
Emery blinked. “I’m sorry, did we timeslip back to 1952?”
“Story of my life.” I roll my eyes. “It’s insulting that she thinks I need someone to take care of me. But whatever, that’s her issue, not mine.”
“Well, I mean he shouldtake careof you, if you know what I mean.” Emery cackles.
My cheeks burn. I don’t needanyhelp thinking about Daniel taking care of me in that way, trust me. I woke up in tangled sheets last night with the kind of dirty dream that had me willing my body to go back to sleep. The kind of dream where my legs were spread and his dark head was moving down, hands and tongue and teeth sweeping over me like a storm.
How I’m going to keep my sanity intact while we pretend to be in love is a question I haven’t yet answered.
“That red face says you don’t haveanytrouble in that area.” Emery nudges me with her elbow.
“Can we not talk about my sex life, please?”
Or lack thereof.
I need to keep my wits about me for this whole thing. Yes, I’m lying and I feel guilty as hell. But what options do I have? Allow myself to be evicted from my apartment and move in with my mother because I can’t afford rent?
If I do that, she’ll be in my ear every day about marrying Anthony and eventually I will either A, give in to shut her up or B, end up stabbing her with a Biro.
Our relationship wouldnotwithstand us living together. And while I thoroughlyhatethe idea of being paid to pretend to be in a relationship, right now my survival instincts are the ones in the driver’s seat.
“I’m going to get out of your hair,” Emery says, pushing up from the bed. “Text me when you’re back. You owe me a pizza night.”
She envelops me in a big hug. For a minute I want to cry—how the hell did my life end up here? I did well in school, planned my life out with goals and dreams and ambitions. I studied hard and I’m kind to people and...
Thinking like this won’t do anything. Just bat your eyelashes at a handsome man and then you can come home and get your life in order.
How ironic that no matter how hard I’ve tried to buck against my mother’s ideals, this is where I’ve ended up.
I won’t let Daniel get to me. I won’t be fooled into thinking someone like him might want me in the real world. I won’t feelanyaffection for a man who can buy his way into or out of anything. My mother fell for a man like that once, and she never recovered from it.
I won’t repeat her mistakes.
As I finish packing, the sound of a car door slamming grabs my attention. My apartment overlooks Love Street—that’s right, I live at 21 Love Street, and the address has never felt more ill-fitting. A sleek, black limousine is parked out front and the driver steps out, wearing a black suit and a shiny brimmed hat.
