Page 7 of Fauxmance in the City

“What’s your husband’s number?” Gillian has her cell in her hand, ready to dial.

“I, uh…I should talk to him first.”

“I know what’s going on here.” Charles’s gaze sharpens, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. “You want more money.”

My cheeks burn crimson. “No! No. I—”

“Then what’s the problem?” Gillian places her hands on the slick table, scowling in a way that makes me shrink into my seat. “You’re not the only lifestyle blogger out there. I was just on the phone with Candy Morgan’s agent. They’re looking to expand her platform, and she’d jump at this opportunity.”

The name sends a shiver down my spine. Candy Morgan won one of those overly produced home-decorating contest shows, and she has been popping up all over the lifestyle scene, nipping at my heels.

“No.” I clear my throat. “It’s fine. I’ll talk to my husband. I’ll work it out.”

“We can’t have any delays. This is all for naught if Max regains his memory before filming.” Charles’s gaze skips over Gillian to glare at me. “Is this settled? Can we move on?”

Before I answer, Gillian butts in. “Of course it is, Charlie. Everything will run smoothly. I’ll make sure of it.” She stands and flicks her wrist, dismissing me. “Thank you, Ms. Bloom.”

Before I can utter another word, her secretary shuffles me out of the office.

Okay. Don’t panic. I can sort this out. There’s always a solution. I can run away to France. Or rent a husband. Are male escorts still a thing? With my luck, I’ll end up with some lunatic who would kill me in the middle of the night.

The shrill ring of my phone makes me jump. It’s Patrick. I hit decline.

In the elevator, the door opens to my office floor, but I stay frozen inside, slamming my fists into the wood-paneled wall behind me. How am I going to break the news to him that not only did I fail, but I also need to find a husband in two weeks or we’ll both be fired?

three

“Where are you?” Natalie yells through the phone I have gripped between my shoulder and ear, my hands occupied by the Tito’s bottle and the glass I’m pouring it into. “Your phone has been off all afternoon. How did the meeting with Gillian go?”

“Horrible. I’m hiding in my office. No, wait. Not mine, er…Patrick’s.” My mouth sounds like I have marbles in it, which is because I’ve spent the last two hours drinking my worries away with Patrick, who sits next to me on the floor.

Ten minutes later, the door clicks open. Natalie walks in. Patrick and I sit against the far wall, boxes filled with autographed copies of my bestselling book surrounding us. Natalie’s hands are full of two brown paper take-out bags. I gesture to the vodka bottle between Patrick and me, but she declines.

“You look awful,” Natalie says.

My usual perfectly put-together appearance is in disarray, a reflection of the state of my life. My hair is in a topknot, pieces sprouting out in all directions. The shimmer inside me has died. Why not let my outside match?

“Oh God. You’re wasted.” Shaking her head, Natalie slides the food bags onto the oak desk. It’s an overtly masculine office—all mahogany wood, muted colors, and monstrously large built-ins filled with brown leather-bound books.

“You could stop by with your ginger and carrot juice in the morning,” I suggest.

“Oh, and can you bring your banana-pecan waffles with bacon-infused maple syrup?” Patrick chimes in, his eyes still closed.

I rest my head against the wall next to him, already smelling the sweet bacon concoction in my mind.

“No chance,” Natalie says. “I have to work.”

“I thought you quit Chez Bella,” I say.

“This is my last week, and then I’m off to Panama to decompress. When I return to the city, my life will be completely consumed by the renovations for the new restaurant.”

Natalie is opening a restaurant in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. She has one investor, with hopefully another signing on soon. Still, the project is in a holding pattern as she waits on the permits for the renovations to come through. But the way Natalie is looking at me, I can tell she fears her life will be taken over next week dealing with my calamity.

“There must be some way to get you out of this mess with your job intact,” Natalie says. “If it ever came out that I was helping my sister fraud the American public, it could wreck my future restaurant endeavors.”

Natalie’s words grip me. I can’t ruin both our lives. The pressure of it makes me take another sip of my drink. Ah, sweet, numbing elixir.

“How long have you two been drowning in that bottle?” Natalie frowns.

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