Page 2 of My Hired Valentine

“So,” Scott begins, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk, “how are things in the dating arena? You know we married men like to live vicariously through you young studs.”

I roll my eyes. “Very funny. And to answer your question, I haven’t dated since the Ginger debacle.” I grimace at thememory. “That redhead was crazy—as in stalker crazy. I’m good the way I am.”

“Come on, what are you? Forty-one? Forty-two? You’re hitting your peak. You’ve got to get out there. Live a little. Not every woman is aSnappedepisode waiting to happen.”

I snort. “Says the man who’s been married for forty years. You don’t know what it’s like out there. Women have changed. Trust me.”

Scott leans forward, his grin widening. “You’re a young, handsome doctor who is bachelorette-worthy. Women would kill to go out with you.”

“Exactly.” I nod sagely. “And I don’t want to be the one killed.”

Scott laughs, shaking his head. “I bet I can find you the perfect woman.”

“You think so?” I chuckle. “Go ahead, knock yourself out.”

“I know so. Hold on.” Scott whips out his phone and holds it up, snapping a picture before I can protest.

“What are you doing?” I ask, frowning.

“Just wait,” Scott says, waving me off. “Go get me another grasshopper shake. I’ll have your woman by the time you get back.”

Shaking my head, I get up and head to the bar. Scott’s in his early sixties and must be starting to lose his mind along with his hair. A woman is the last thing I need after the Ginger nightmare. I still have the metaphorical scars to prove it.

By the time I return with a second shake, Scott’s grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

“Meet Violet,” he announces, spinning his phone around. On the screen is a profile picture of a woman with curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that seem to look straight through me. My heart does a weird little skip.

“She’s a fox, isn’t she?” Scott says, clearly pleased with himself.

“She’s not bad,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

“Not bad?” Scott laughs. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet. Let me read it to you. ‘Looking for a kind, discreet man willing to be my pretend boyfriend for one night. No strings attached. Compensation included.’”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “There’s no way a woman really wrote that. It’s got catfishing scheme written all over it.”

“You never know until you try,” Scott counters. “Besides, she’s offering to compensate you for one night.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And you know what that means. Live a little, son. Get out there.”

Before I can respond, Scott starts banging away at his phone, his expression triumphant. “You’re meeting her tonight at seven at Louie’s Pub. Dress casual.”

“Scott,” I warn, but he just grins.

“And make sure you have condoms,” Scott adds with a wink.

I groan, but as I glance back at Violet’s picture, something stirs in me. Maybe Scott’s onto something. Maybe one night with a woman like her wouldn’t be so bad.

CHAPTER 3

Violet

Isit at a small table in the corner of Louie’s Pub, nursing a club soda and trying to decide if I should leave. The clock on my phone says it’s 7:12, and my so-called date is already late. I open my phone again, pulling up Dex’s profile for the hundredth time.

There he is: 42 years old, ER doctor, and looking for “Miss Right-Now.” His bio basically screams, “I’m just here for a good time,” but then again, so does mine when I take another look at it. Amazingly, I’d received over two hundred replies in the first hour after posting my profile. Dex was the only one I responded to, and it might have something to do with his dark eyes and that strong, square jaw. There’s something about him that looks powerful—alpha. Just the kind of man I need to shut down Mr. Wayne Harris, Esquire.

I put my phone on the table and glance around the room. It’s cozy, dimly lit, with couples scattered at tables and booths, laughing and leaning into each other. They look happy, andthere’s a pang of something unfamiliar in my chest. Jealousy, maybe. Once upon a time, I wanted that, too.

The clock ticks to 7:15. Looks like my knight in a white coat isn’t showing up after all. He’s probably not even a doctor. More like a five-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound guy living in his mom’s basement, making fake profiles just to talk to women. This has to be the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. I grab my coat, ready to leave.

Just as I stand, the door to the pub swings open, and a man strides in. My breath catches. He’s tall—really tall—and his dark eyes sweep the room before landing on me. A smile spreads across his face, and I swear my heart skips a beat.

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