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I take it, confused. “What’s this?” I ask, as I unfold it to find…
A check.
“What you were talking about,” Dash says, looking confused. “The investment. I’m sorry I left you hanging on this week, I had to get the contracts all squared away.”
“The investment,” I echo, all my excitement draining away. And just like that, I feel like the biggest idiot in New York City—maybe even the world. This whole time, we’ve been having two different conversations.
He wasn’t talking about our relationship, or his feelings for me, but instead, this:
A check made out to my new company for $200,000.
The waitress arrives with our steaks, and Dash is all smiles, joking with her, and happily digging into the food. “What did I tell you?” he says, taking another bite. “So good. You need to try this béarnaise, too. Here, try some of mine.”
I sit there, miserable. This is exactly why people say you should never mix money and friendship. Or… Other relationships. Naked ones. Because it blurs all the lines, and makes it impossible to tell what’s real, and what’s just another part of the deal.
What am I going to say to him now,. ‘Thanks for your massive check, can we talk about how I’m in serious danger of falling in love with you?’
I know that the money in my hand is what I wanted. Hell, it’s the reason I signed on to be his fake girlfriend in the first place. But that was when I thought he was nothing but a cocky playboy with more money than sense.
Before our jokes and banter, and getting to know him.
Before my heart started doing that pesky flutter every time he smiles at me.
Dammit. I really didn’t think this whole thing through.
I summon a bright smile, and carefully place the check in my purse. “This is great, thank you,” I say, hiding the ache in my chest. “I’ll be able to put down the deposit on the lab space I was telling you again.”
“We’ll set a time for you to sit down with my advisors.” Dash says, still smiling. “I know I promised to be hands-off, but these guys are real pros. They’ll be able to give you a ton of advice and pointers, about scaling up to the next level.”
“Wonderful, I really appreciate your consideration!”
My attempt to mimic enthusiasm ends up sounding like the closing line on a job application cover page. I pick up my fork and try to eat, but my appetite has disappeared.
“So, what do you say to movie night?” Dash asks.
“What? Oh, sure. Maybe.” I pick at my food. “I’m going to be pretty busy though, with all the business stuff.”
“Right. I get it.”
There’s a long pause, and I almost say something. Just blurt it out—how I feel, what I need to say—but my fear gets the better of me. What if he gives me the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, and says he was never looking for a relationship? I don’t have it in me to pretend I wouldn’t be crushed, and then where would I be?
Looking like a pathetic, lovelorn mess, that’s where.
“You know, I’m getting a headache,” I say, finally pushing my plate away. “Too many energy drinks,” I joke weakly. “On top of all that coffee.”
Dash frowns. “Do you want to call it a night?”
I nod, relieved. “I think I need an early night. Some peace and quiet.”
“Of course.”
Dash pays the bill, and we head outside to the sidewalk. A cab pulls up, and he opens the door for me. I pause again. As much as I want to invite him back, and spend the night wrapped up in his arms, I have a sneaking suspicion that my emotions won’t be able to play nice. “I’m heading that way,” I point, “and you’re downtown, so…”
“... I should probably get a separate cab,” he says, and nods. “OK.”
Another pause.
I try to smile. “Dinner was delicious,” I say. “Sorry for bailing early.”
