Page 42 of Pretending I'm Yours

Fuck me.

The mantra pounds through my head as our cab winds through the darkening streets of Lower Manhattan. I squeeze Maya’s thigh and her head rests trustingly on my shoulder in the cozy back seat, but all I can think about is how quickly this perfect thing is going to implode.

How quickly she’s going to learn to hate me…

Or at least think I’m one twisted son of a bitch.

She and Sully aren’t just acquaintances; they’re best friends from childhood. If we were to try to make a go of this in the real world, there’s literally no way we could avoid running into Weaver and his soon-to-be fiancé. He told me he plans to pop the question at Sully’s friend’s New Year’s Eve party, right before they head back to the city. No matter how hard I might try to keep my relationship and friendships separate, it would only be a matter of time before fantasy and reality collided with disastrous results.

My house of cards is about to come crashing down, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Nothing, except for ending things with Maya on New Year’s Day, the way we originally planned, and I can’t do that. After just twenty-four hours, I’m pretty sure Maya’s the person I’ve been waiting for, the one I was beginning to doubt was out there. Her sweetness, her humor, her good heart and passion and big dreams—it’s like she was made for me.

And I was made for her.

The only thing I’ve lied about is my job. Everything else I’ve shared with her has been the real deal. The feelings growing between us are, too.

But do I have a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing her of that?

I don’t know. I need advice, perspective, and there’s only one person I can contact about a problem with my fake escort client.

My phone burns in my pocket, but I can’t text Twyla with Maya pressed against me, asking if there’s anything I want to add to the grocery delivery she’s assembling. She wants to cook for me tonight, to thank me for the perfect day.

She’s so good, so trusting.

And I’m starting to feel like the villain in a gothic novel, taking advantage of the innocent young woman entrusted into his care.

Thanks to a traffic jam in the Flatiron District, by the time we reach the apartment, our groceries are already waiting in the lobby. I gather the larger bag, while Maya takes the smaller one, and we trudge up the five floors to the apartment. Which is, of course, another lie. I don’t live in a fifth-story walk-up. I live in a luxury building, with a doorman and staff who deliver my groceries to my penthouse and put them neatly away before I get home from work.

Inside, Maya heads straight for the kitchen, pushing up the sleeves on her sweater. “Prepare yourself for greatness,” she announces. “My grandmother’s shepherd’s pie is the stuff of legend. She has a top-secret blend of seasonings she uses on the lamb that she only shares with immediate family members. And you have to memorize the recipe. She refuses to write it down. I think she seriously believes someone might break into her house to steal it.”

“Sounds like I’d better make myself scarce,” I say, with what I hope passes for a normal smile. “To preserve the family secret.”

She winks. “Nah, you can watch if you want. You’ll just have to close your eyes when I apply the rub.”

“I never want to close my eyes when you’re applying a rub,” I quip, making her laugh and a fresh wave of self-loathing rush through my chest. But I couldn’t stop flirting with her if I tried.

Which means I have to figure a way out of this mess.

Stat.

“And I have a few emails I need to handle,” I add, nodding toward the stairs. “Mind if I grab my laptop and head upstairs? I can come help set the table and make salads in a bit.”

“Yeah, no worries. Take your time. I’ve got this.” She’s already pulling ingredients from the bags and laying them out on the island. “Pudge will keep me company. He loves to help cook.”

Summoned by the sound of his name, her massive orange baby emerges from under the desk in the office nook under the stairs with a meow that seems to say, “You called?” that makes us both smile.

“There he is,” Maya coos. “How was your day, buddy? Ours was great.”

Pudge meows again, pausing to headbutt my leg as I pass and purring as I reach down to rub his scruff. Guilt twists my stomach all over again.

Now I’m starting to feel like shit for deceiving a cat.

“I’ll be back down in few,” I say, practically bolting for the stairs.

Once I’m safe in the bedroom with the door closed behind me, I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot a text to Twyla—THE SHIT HAS HIT THE FAN. I just found out that Maya is friends with Sully. WEAVER’S Sully. As in my friend and former VP of Acquisitions, who knows that I am not now, and have never been, a male prostitute.

Thankfully, Twyla responds immediately.

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