Page 12 of Drunk on You

“Boring as hell,” she finishes. “Why would anyone who enjoys helping others want to be stuck in an office all day, drawing up contracts for million-dollar corporations that are demanding, selfish, and full of themselves? Arguing with megalomaniacs about the laws and regulations? The hours are long and stressful.”

She shakes her head, and I take my eyes off the road to stare at her, shocked that she knows so much about corporate law. If I were having this conversation with Nora, the only point she’d be able to make was which one brought in more money.

When Stacey catches me looking at her, her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, and she clears her throat. “Anyway, I think she should follow her passion.”

She tries to play it off, but it’s too late. I see her—the real her. This woman is a paradox, and I don’t know what to make of it.

“Did you go to college?” I ask casually, noting the way she momentarily tenses up before relaxing. If I wasn’t paying attention, I would’ve missed it, but something is off here, and I’m on high alert now.

I’m not concerned about the legalities of our agreement. Everything was done on the up-and-up. But something isn’t adding up. Stacey hasn’t been given a dime yet, but she’s wearing designer clothes, telling me she has her own money. On top of that, she speaks properly and knows about law.

“I did,” she says, answering my question without giving shit away.

“I’m assuming you didn’t major in corporate law?” I joke.

She laughs, but it sounds off compared to her natural, light laugh I’ve heard several times already.

“No,” she says, still refusing to give anything away.

I consider pushing the subject, but we arrive at 365—the restaurant we’re eating dinner at—and need to get out so the valet can park the car. With her on my arm, I lead us inside, and we’re shown to our table on the terrace.

The waiter introduces himself, lists the specials, and then asks what we would like to drink.

“I’ll have a scotch, neat,” I tell him. “Kingston Gold Label, if you have it.”

The waiter nods, but Stacey looks at me like I’ve grown two heads, and I briefly wonder if she’s not a drinker.

Until she clears her throat and plasters on a smile, barely glancing at the wine list before she says, “I’ll have a glass of 2003 Marcassin pinot noir.”

“We only serve that by the bottle,” the waiter states.

“That’s fine,” she says just before she looks back down at the list, her eyes going wide. “Oh, um, actually …” Her gaze flits to me and then the waiter. “I’ll have?—”

“We’ll take the bottle,” I tell the waiter. “Thank you.”

As a man who’s worked for a liquor company half my life, I think what a person orders says a lot about them. I always order Kingston because I’m loyal to the company that’s given me the life I live. This woman sitting in front of me just ordered a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. The price isn’t what has my attention though. It’s the fact that she knew what to order without thought. She not only knows her wines, but she also knows the good shit, and she didn’t consider the price until it was brought to her attention.

She’s either a seasoned gold digger, which doesn’t fit the woman I’ve gotten to know thus far, or she’s been around good alcohol. But here’s the thing: why the hell would somebody apply to become a trophy wife for the pay, yet be accustomed to ordering expensive alcohol?

I could argue that she did it because I’m footing the bill, yet she ordered before she looked at the price, and once she realized how expensive it was, she backtracked.

There’s a chance I’m overthinking this, but I didn’t get to where I am without being scrupulous.

“You know your wines,” I say once the waiter has retreated.

“I spent some time in Europe. It’s pretty much a staple there,” she says with a light laugh. “You can’t eat out without learning which wines are better than others.”

I remember that she’s from Europe and mentally chastise myself. Of course she knows her wines. I’m being ridiculous, and if I’m honest, I think I might be looking for something to be off with her because so far, I can’t find a single damn thing wrong with her. I was expecting a brainless bimbo, but instead got a smart, witty, beautiful woman.

I think a part of me is wondering why someone like her is here when she could easily land any man she wants. And that makes me wonder if maybe she’s in some kind of trouble and she needs the payout. I want to ask, but it would sound accusatory, so instead, I push it aside. If something’s wrong and she needs help, eventually, it will come out.

The waiter brings us our drinks of choice, and then we order our dinner. The rest of the meal goes well. We keep shit light, talking about places we’ve visited, our favorite hobbies and books and shows. She admits she hasn’t been on a boat in years and is excited for tomorrow, and despite knowing this is all fake, I really enjoy her company. Stacey is easy to talk to, and if the circumstances were different, she’s someone I would actually consider getting to know better—for real.

After dinner, I drive us home and walk her to her door. She doesn’t open it though, instead turning around and facing me.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says. “The food and wine were delicious, and the conversation was wonderful. It was probably one of the best fake dates I’ve been on in a long time.”

Her eyes, filled with mirth, connect with mine, and I lean in to kiss her cheek good night.

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