Page 61 of Pretending I'm Yours

“I know it isn’t, but I want to help. I’m a very wealthy woman in my own right, honey, and now that Gideon and I?—”

“No.” I hold up a firm hand, hoping she’ll see the determination in my eyes. “That’s so generous and kind, but I can’t take your money. I made this bed, and now I have to lie in it. Or…get up and walk away from it after learning a very expensive lesson.”

She scrunches her lips into a disapproving line. “I get it. I don’t like it but…I get it. But let’s look at this from all angles first, okay? Maybe there’s another way to get the capital you need to move forward.”

We brainstorm alternatives—a HELOC on the property after closing, a private loan from my parents as an advance against my inheritance, selling my eggs to a fertility clinic—but none of them are really viable.

Maybe not even my eggs…

“I’m not even sure if my ovaries are functioning properly,” I mumble, my lips a little numb from my Elf on the Top Shelfmartini, a peppermint concoction even stronger than the Dirty Santa. “I could be infertile.”

“You are not,” Sydney says, with a defeated shake of her head. “But you don’t have enough eggs in your ovaries to finance those kinds of repairs. Not and have any left for making babies of your own, anyway.”

Tears spring into my eyes again, proving the hot mess train is still barreling toward Breakdown Station. “I won’t have babies. I can’t even find a normal guy to date who isn’t a walking red flag.”

Sydney blinks faster. “Wait, what? Who are you dating? And why is his flag red? Girl, you have really been holding out on me.”

“Well, that’s what you do when you decide to reverse Pretty Woman a Richard Gere of your very own and end up thinking that male prostitutes and small-town virgins have a shot at living happily ever after,” I say, lifting my glass in a sarcastic toast to the biggest idiot in the room.

Who is, of course, yours truly.

As soon as Sydney’s done choking on her drink, she demands I tell her what the hell I’ve been up to, and I do.

All of it. From begging Weaver to connect me to his sex-club madame friend, to Anthony sweeping me off my feet, to how fabulous he is with Pudge, to the way he makes me feel so beautiful and fascinating and safe.

To the way he lied and left me this morning after making a big deal out of being at the inspection…

“Holy shit,” she says, looking stunned. “I’m going to kill Weaver. Dead. He is so dead!”

“No, don’t kill Weaver,” I say. “I begged him to help me. He was just trying to be a friend, and I’m a big girl. I knew what I was doing.” I exhale a long, miserable breath. “Or…I thought I did. Until I met Anthony and had the most amazing sex ever andfell in love with a guy who is probably lying about everything. Including having feelings for me and my cat.”

“Shit, Maya,” she says, taking my hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. “Oh, honey, you are just going through it right now, aren’t you?”

“I think my dumb, impulsive teenager phase is hitting about five years too late,” I say, with a laugh.

It’s not funny—not at all—but that second martini is hitting hard, taking the edge off my pain.

“But we always knew I was a late bloomer,” I continue, glancing down at my phone as it begins to vibrate on the table beside my drink. Anthony’s face pops up on the screen as the muted call buzzes twice before I reach over, sending it to voicemail.

I’m fast, but I’m not fast enough, a fact Sydney proves as she says, “Holy hell, woman, was that him? Pull that picture up again. I need to see this sexy lying beast for myself.”

“He is a sexy beast,” I agree, pulling up the shot I took of Anthony smiling at me over his shoulder in the sculpture court at the museum. With the natural light filtering in through the giant windows and the white marble all around him, he looks like a male model.

Or a movie star.

Or a very expensive prostitute, who breaks dumb girls’ hearts on a regular basis.

“Wow.” Sydney blinks several times. “He’s gorgeous, Maya. And he has really kind eyes.” She looks up from the screen, her forehead furrowing. “Like…really kind. And the way he’s looking at you in that shot?” She shakes her head as she sets my phone back on the table. “I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s not a creep who’s going to steal your identity and give you crabs.”

My brows shoot up. “Crabs? Oh God, I didn’t even think of those. We were both tested for STDs, but can they detect crabswith a normal test? Probably not, right? I mean, aren’t they like…lice, or something?” I make a gagging sound. “Ew. Lice. Why is being a human so gross?”

“It is gross,” Sydney says, patting my hand. “But it’s also pretty amazing. And that guy doesn’t look like he has crabs. He looks like he has a standing appointment at that preppy barbershop in Chelsea that charges two hundred dollars for a shave. He isverywell-maintained.” She purses her lips and tilts her head to one side. “And a little familiar, honestly. I wonder if I’ve run into him somewhere. I attend a lot of charity banquets with women who would have no problem plunking down a few hundred dollars for a pretty man on their arm.”

“Try a few thousand,” I mutter, nibbling on the peppermint shortbread that came with my drink. I’m starting to get hungry, but for the first time all week, I’m dreading dinner with Anthony.

I’m not the type of person who can put hard conversations off until they’re convenient. As soon as I lay eyes on Anthony again, it’s all going to come out—all my suspicion and hurt and frustration, all my half-formed theories and secret fears.

“Really?” Sydney makes a thoughtful noise. “How much did you pay this man?” I tell her and she squawks in alarm. “Maya! Jesus. Let me see that picture again.” She grabs my phone, holding it up to my face to unlock the screen before pulling up Anthony’s photo.

---