Page 62 of Pretending I'm Yours

She then takes a shot of my phone withherphone, making my stomach drop.

“No, Sydney, don’t,” I say, reaching for her arm.

“Don’t what?” she asks, shoving her phone into her bag before I can grab it.

“Don’t report him to the police or whatever it is you’re thinking. With the exception of this morning, he’s treated me wonderfully. He’s been kind and protective and supportive and charming. And he even insists on paying for everything.”

She snorts. “He can afford it. You practically gave him your life savings. I mean, ten grand a week? If I ever burn through my inheritance, maybe I’ll become an escort. I had no idea they made that kind of money.”

“And that was with a fifty percent discount because Weaver’s friends with the owner of the club,” I murmur, flinching when she squawks again. “But still, he’s been generous. And I don’t know, maybe there reallywasa sick friend.”

“No, there wasn’t. Trust your gut, Maya. The gut never lies.”

“Maybe, but one lie doesn’t make him a bad person. And it certainly doesn’t justify getting him arrested.” I glance around, lowering my voice before I add, “Prostitution is still illegal, you know. And I could get into trouble, too. I’m part of this illegal equation.”

Her shoulders relax and some of the outrage fades from her expression. “I seriously doubt anyone would prosecute you, but don’t worry. I’m not going to report him. I’m just going to keep his face on file, so I know exactly who to go looking for if anything happens to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say. “He would never hurt me like that, Syd. Never.”

She arches a brow. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am,” I say, a different kind of suspicion prickling across my skin.

Maybe I’ve overreacted. Anthony at least deserves the chance to explain himself before I jump to damning conclusions. He’s earned that with every perfect moment we shared before this morning.

Sydney nods as if she can read my thoughts.

But we’ve been friends for so long, she usually can.

“Then you should go talk this through with him,” she says. “In the meantime, I’ll make a few phone calls. If you’re open to going into the deal with a partner, we might still be able tomake it work.” She holds up a hand, stopping me before I can respond. “Not me. I know you don’t want me to save you, but my bestie from high school, Noelle, has a friend who’s part of a purchasing collective. They buy distressed properties, renovate using as much elbow grease as possible, then sell them off. I’m pretty sure they’ve only bought single unit properties so far, but they might be ready to tackle a bigger project. It’s worth a shot, anyway. I know they have a solid legal framework in place to protect each person’s investment stake, so you wouldn’t be jumping into a completely unvetted situation. There would still be risks, but…worth a shot, right?”

I nod, hope flickering to life inside me again for the first time since this morning. “Yes. Thank you. I would appreciate that so much. I don’t close until Friday, so there might still be time to meet with them tomorrow. Or, if they’re not ready to move that quickly, I might be able to get the closing pushed back.”

“Okay, good,” she says as we rise from our seats and shrug back into our coats and scarves. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.” She reaches out, giving my arm a squeeze. “And you’d better text me the second you get the real story from this man. Don’t settle for anything less. If he’s really The One, he’ll see how upset you are and do whatever it takes to make it right.”

The One…

As we hug goodbye outside Oscar Wilde and go our separate ways—me downtown to the Village and Sydney uptown to have dinner with her dad at the penthouse where she grew up—every moment of the past five days with Anthony plays in my head.

The montage is overwhelmingly wonderful and romantic.

And sexy.

And sweet.

And…real.

This isreal. It has to be real, right? I mean, I’m naïve, but I’m not an idiot.

But you have been pretty drunk on orgasms, and I don’t think that makes you the most reliable judge of character. Pretty sure sex isn’t known for enhancing your rational side.

Good point, Inner Voice.

As soon as I emerge from the subway station near Anthony’s place, I pull out my phone, planning to call him and ask if he wants to meet at the coffee shop around the corner. I’ll be much less likely to fall prey to his sex vibe if we’re in public with cappuccinos.

But when I glance at the screen, I see a missed call and a voicemail from my lender…

My heart begins to race as I step off the sidewalk, huddling against the brick wall of a local grocery store in the late afternoon chill. Pushing my fingers to one ear to block out the hum of traffic and the shouts of kids playing at the small park across the street, I strain to hear the soft voice of Mary, my loan officer.

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