Page 17 of Synced to Us

Wyn heads to the door, offering me a salute before he leaves. “See ya in a few days, wifey.”

“Ugh. Don’t call me that.”

“Your choice, gorgeous.”

“Don’t call me that, either,” I snap.

“Looking forward to this weekend, doll!” Wyn says, stretching his lips wide with a fake grin.

The door clicks shut just as his infuriatingly perfect ass disappears from view.

6

Dee

I pace my apartment one more time, making sure my flat iron’s turned off. Wait, I need to pack my flat iron, not just unplug it.

Racing into the attached bathroom of my master bedroom, I do just that.

Then let out a moan and fall onto my bed as a starfish.

My long hair fans around me, and I contemplate the ceiling, as if the vintage tin cut-outs can tell me why I’m so jittery and out-of-place in my own apartment with two suitcases at my feet.

It’s not like going away with Wyn for two days to meet his family will kill me. This isn’t even real. I can treat it like any of my old jobs and become someone else. Except, I don’t know what Wyn’s true fiancé would be like. Would she be one of those bro-girls who wears team jerseys while watching the Super Bowl and dominates wing-eating contests and beer funnel challenges? They could belch the alphabet together. Or, would she be artistically leaning? Maybe a bass player of another band or an introverted poet who publishes verses on her Instagram page and has thousands of followers? Or could she be one of the primped, perfect, and primed club girls that were plastered all over the tabloids with him?

No, Wyn wouldn’t go for any of those. Not permanently.

Then again, how would I know that? Back when I was an escort, I was prepared with a roster. The client application would be heavily researched and referenced, and then, if approved and the four-figure, half-up-front deposit transferred, I’d send him over a preference list to fill out. He’d return the sheet asking for domination, a sweet schoolgirl, an innocent virgin, or a loud-mouthed ex-wife. I’d then show up accordingly, no judgment (just extra cash if the persona was required to spank).

This fake fiancé act is yet another mask to wear, but there’s no face chart to go with it. If we were going to my firm annual gala first, I could easily instruct Wyn on what to wear (Tom Ford), how to act (confident and content), and what to say (nothing). With Wyn initially in charge of our debut fakery, he hasn’t provided a single clue as to how I should act. I even texted him for suggestions, and all he responded with was:

Just be yourself, girlie. <3

I didn’t reply right away, instead getting through a rush of meetings and client calls. By the time I checked my phone, he’d followed up with:

Didn’t like that one either, huh? :p

I never thought there’d be a man who used so many emojis in texts. Turns out one exists.

“Argh!” I roll over, mashing my impeccably made-up face into a silk pillowcase.

If I’m honest, Wyn doesn’t worry me. Men are easy. Likely, my nerves are because I’ve never met someone’s parents before.

It shouldn’t bother me to come face-to-face with a man’s mother, but that has to be the reason for the off-kilter feeling in my gut and lack of confidence in my freshly blown-out hair, designer cashmere coat, and newly sewn-in eyelash extensions.

Parents are way out of the stratosphere and well off-limits in both my major careers. I’ve never had to think about them. I haven’t even dealt with my own in almost two decades. I was fourteen when they left me. They’ve yet to send a postcard.

But, I’m Deonne frickin’ Sparrow. When it came to fairytale stories when I was young, I pictured myself as the wolf who ate the grandmother, never Little Red Riding Hood. I snagged the title of the youngest female hedge fund operations manager in New York City. At 27, I own a top floor apartment in DUMBO, a growing, coveted neighborhood of converted warehouse buildings under the Manhattan Bridge and overlooking the famous skyline. I had no help or handouts. When it comes to meeting parents, no one’s mother should manage to terrify me, let alone one I haven’t met yet.

My inner pep talk propels me upright. I push to my feet, smooth back my hair, grab my handbag and suitcases, and roll them to the front.

Then make an extra shot of espresso while I wait.

At five minutes past the hour—this seems to be Wyn’s thing—there’s a tap on my door. After knocking back the smooth, caffeinated crema and popping a breath mint, I stroll to the door and swing it open.

“How’d you get past security?”

“Well, hello to you, too.” Wyn tucks his hands in his jeans pockets, inclining his head while an amused glint lingers in his eyes.

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