Page 14 of Pretending I'm Yours

MAYA

Twyla found someone.

A man.

A man who might betheman.

The man I’m going to pay ten-thousand dollars to have sex with me…

“Holy shit,” I wheeze as I pace the private suite two floors beneath the city street, shaking my hands at my sides as my heart does it’s best to punch a hole through my sternum. “This is fine. It’s fine! You decided it was fine in Maine and on the train into Manhattan and while you were getting dressed tonight. If it was fine then; it’s fine now.”

Itisfine.

For six years, I’ve pinched every penny, squirreling away a nest egg to use to buy my first rental property. Now, I have enough for the down payment on the apartment building I’ll be closing on next weekanda high-class prostitute.

“Oh my God, you’re hiring a prostitute. Who are you and what have you done with the real Maya?” I sag onto the soft yellow couch on one side of the suite and drop my head between my knees, fighting to pull myself together as the reality of what I’ve done hits me full force.

It’s not about the money.

It was never about the money.

The problem is that I’m light-years out of my comfort zone and likely careening toward the worst decision I’ve made in my entire life. I’ve always been the good one, the dependable one, the friend you can count on to remember when the term paper is due, where the lifeguard stands are, and who in the group is allergic to shellfish.

I’m a good girl and good girls don’t hire prostitutes.

They also don’t lie to their parents or their friends or make secret plans to move to New York if everything goes well with their new rental property. But I’ve done all of those things, and now I’m here, on the verge of seeing who I might become if I stop worrying so much about being “good” and see what being brave can do for me for once.

It might lead me into a wild, wonderful new life as a self-made millionaire before the age of thirty. At the very least, it has a high likelihood of getting me laid, and I’m pretty interested in that.

Heck, I wasveryinterested in that less than an hour ago, when I locked eyes with that gorgeous man by the fire.

I’ve never felt desire like that before, such an instant, overwhelming attraction that my heart instantly beat faster and my nipples pulled tight inside my bra. Just the memory of him sitting there, reading in that big leather chair, with his perfectly mussed hair and intelligent gaze makes heat throb between my thighs.

Thinking of the man—and hoping whoever Twyla found is as effortlessly sexy—I pull in a honeysuckle-and-thyme scented breath and exhale for a count of seven as I sit up. I smooth my hair and fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking and focus on my beautiful surroundings, willing the Zen of the space to soak into my wobbly bones.

The suite is beautiful, like everything else in The Garden. Soft lighting from art deco sconces bathes the small sitting room in golden warmth. On the far wall, a rolling brass bar cart holds crystal decanters and glasses.

And then there are the French doors…

I can’t tell for sure, but I think there’s a bed on the other side of those doors—a bed that makes this meeting feel charged with exhilarating, terrifying possibilities.

But surely, we’re not going to do anything in that bed tonight. This meeting is just to see if the man Twyla selected feels like a good match. If the vibes aren’t right, we won’t even see each other’s faces.

I touch soft fingers to the black silk mask covering the top half of my face, the reminder that I’m partially hidden bolstering my resolve. I’m in disguise, in costume. I don’t have to be shy Maya from Maine during this meeting. I can be a confidant, sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she wants.

Or at least pretend to be one…

Suddenly, the door handle dips and the door swings open, sending my blood pressure skyrocketing all over again.

I start to stand, to extend a hand and murmur the appropriate pleasantries—even if I feel about ten seconds from passing out—but thenhesteps inside, and my knees turn to Jell-O.

It’s him.

The man by the fire.

Even with a black mask obscuring the upper half of his face, I know those broad shoulders and perfectly tailored suit on sight.

I gulp and try to think of something to say other than—“God, you’re like something straight out of my dirtiest, sexiest dreams.”—while he eases into the room with the grace of a man completely at home in his own skin.

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