“People get old…is that what you’re saying?”
“Why? Because it would be the typical asshole thing to say?”
Yes. “No.”
“People don’t always get old,” Philippe mutters. He looks like he just took himself by surprise, and I see it. Those amazing grey-blue eyes flood with pain.
His dad. He’s talking about his dad. What a piece of work I am. “I’ll do it,” I blurt, just so I don’t have to see his pain anymore. “I—we’ll need a dry run, though. Dinner. To talk about stuff and get our story straight. Or something. I don’t know. To get used to each other.”
“Should I practice kissing you?”
My mouth goes totally dry, and my lady bits do a freaking leap through the ceiling before I realize he’s kidding. He’s mocking me. “Uh, no.” I scramble to recover. “That’s not needed, I’m sure. This kind of public display of attention is gross. I think most people think so. Just holding hands would be appropriate, I think. If even that. I think we should practice looking at each other. People who are into each other look at each other differently. Your mom will know if we’re faking it. And we need to get our facts in line, so we don’t give conflicting evidence.”
Philippe’s lips settle into a hard line. “Alright. The wedding is next week. I’ll take you out to dinner on Saturday in my overcompensating lime car. I’ll make it nice, and I’ll pay. Then, when the wedding is over, I’ll delete your little writing project. I promise I won’t make any copies.”
“I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
“What does it matter? I’ve already seen it. I’m not going to blackmail you with it again. More importantly, you’ll get the raise.”
I swallow thickly while my mind races. Something else is racing too. It feels like my heart. I’m sure it’s my heart. Is it seriously my heart? Why would it be my heart? Damn it. I’m in trouble. Poo stew. That’s another of Granny’s favorite sayings.
“Fine. But I need a dress. Are you going to foot the bill for it too?”
Philippe rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were actually a nice girl underneath it all.” I can tell he’s not really serious, though.
Did he just make a joke? Philippe Wilson? I’d write about it in a snarky, dry sort of humored way if I weren’t already in so much trouble. Effing journal. Why did I ever think it was a good idea?
“Well?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday night. Send me your address. I’ll do my best to take you to a place without gluten-free bagels, strange skinny lattes, pickled beets, and cauliflower pizza.”
CHAPTER 4
Philippe
I pull up to a gingerbread-style house at twenty minutes after seven. I know I’m late, but from my experience, women usually run late anyway, even for a fake date. Oh, and I didn’t want to appear eager. Or obliging. This is a little bit like me waving my middle finger at the journal I read a few days ago.
I think Sutton gets it because when she pulls open the door, which is painted purple to match the purple shutters and purple trim, she doesn’t look pissed about having to wait for me.
I rake my eyes over my date for the evening. I told her I was taking her someplace classy, and she’s dressed for it. Sutton is pretty. Actually, if I was looking for a girlfriend and I wasn’t her boss so I could be free to notice her, I’d call her beautiful. Her auburn hair is usually done up in a braid hanging down her back or in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Tonight, it’s brushed out, and it shines around her shoulders. The red highlights gleam even though the sun is just about down for the day. She has a killer body, as evidenced by the red dress she’s wearing. It falls to her knee and is cut high around the neck, exposing none of the gentle swells of her breasts. She has a tiny waist which the dress does emphasize, and also a rather lovely behind area. Her legs are shapely, especially in the heels that she has on. She doesn’t normally wear those to work. Or anything that form-fitting.
She’s paired it with a black cardigan and has her regular black purse slung over her shoulder. As usual, her makeup is understated—hardly there at all. She doesn’t need fancy methods to define her sharp cheekbones or the angle of her jawline. She has beautiful dark eyes and nice lips. Natural. Sweet. She’s like a fruit picked right off the tree. Absolutely delicious, more so because it takes you by surprise. Fruits off the tree taste nothing like fruit in the store.
“Quit eyeing up my granddaughter!” A tiny old lady appears behind Sutton.
“No danger of that, Granny,” Sutton grinds between clenched teeth. “Remember, we talked about this. This isn’t a real date. This is a business transaction.”
“Is that what you call it nowadays? Back in my day, business transactions meant something else entirely.”
Sutton flushes scarlet, which is actually quite alluring. I’m wearing my usual office attire—black pants and a button-up collared shirt. The sleeves are rolled up because I find that it’s the most comfortable way to wear it. And right now, my dick is doing all sorts of probably noticeable things. Please don’t let her grandma see that I have an erection. Please, god, if you have any mercy at all…
“Not that kind of business transaction! I already said, I wrote something stupid, he read it, he’s blackmailing me, I have to go on a few dates with him, it never gets mentioned again, and I get a raise. End of story.”
“You should get a raise because you do good work. You’re always looking
