Page 6 of Fake It 'til You Make It

I blow a raspberry with my lips, staring at my box and its spilled contents, then I shake my head and shuffle my shoulders. I need to be that woman, otherwise what is the point in all of this? What was the point of blowing my dream wedding fund on a fancy apartment I can barely afford?

‘I’ve got you,’ a male voice says.

I glance from my big panties – the large, stretchy, comfy panties I wear for bed when it’s that time of the month – which are lying in a heap on the ground, to the dark-blond hair on top of the man’s head, who has bent down to help collect my things. My big panties!

‘Oh God, you don’t have to?—’

He picks up the underwear, a nude pair of all colors, and looks up at me from behind a pair of aviators.

The sun is shining right on him, allowing me to see wide eyes behind his lenses. His chiseled face has an almost surreal look – too good to be true – yet it has a softness in the cheeks, the skin, the character lines around the sides of his mouth, that makes him appear… nice? His hair doesn’t look like it has been styled; it’s messy, a little rugged, yet it complements the rest of his features.

Only now do I remember that this aesthetically pleasing guy is holding my worst offering of underwear in his hands.

I snatch back my nude panties, shoving them into the box.

‘They’re my bedwear.’ I try to explain why anyone other than pregnant women and the elderly would wear these garments, but my words are slurred and blended by mortification.

No one is supposed to see them,ever! Especially not hot guys who are…

Whoa!

He rises to full height, towering above me. He’s tall but not lanky. He’s burly. Manly. The sleeves of his white T-shirt are tight around his biceps but more Chris Hemsworth than Dwayne Johnson.

Nothing like my ex, who was slimline, almost weedy. I like weedy.

But I still don’t want Mr Big and Burly to be holding my period panties.

In this moment, I have to concede that Dee has a point about blowing some of my savings on a new wardrobe. If I’m going to commit to this idea of acting the part until I’m legitimately playing the part of someone successful and chic, I need a wardrobe to match my new apartment. The woman who rents apartment 7B in Blake House doesnotwear panties that come up to her neck.

I struggle to heave the box from the ground.

‘Let me,’ the man says, reaching down to help me.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘I’ve got it.’

Please never look at me again.

‘Okay, let me get the door, then.’

I nod, my cheeks aflame. ‘Thanks.’

Please tell me he doesn’t live here.

I should be so lucky. As I step into the building, Mr Big and Burly follows.

If I weren’t holding a box, I would run directly to my apartment, stopping only to murder my sister for leaving me in this predicament.

But I am holding a box, so I make for the elevator. As I struggle to finger the button to call the ride, the guy is back.

‘I’ve got it,’ he says. He’s taken off his shades and now I see he has gentle blue eyes, sketched at the edges with the finest of lines.

Muttering my appreciation, my eyes squeezed shut, I step inside the elevator. Before the doors close, I tentatively open one eye, only to find the guy is now unabashedly dangling my large panties from his finger.

‘You forgot these.’

Kill. Me.

Kill. Me. Now.

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