Page 8 of Fauxmance in the City

Patrick stares down the long neck. “Since three drinks ago.”

At the same time, I say, “Not long enough.”

Vodka spills over the top of my glass, and I shrug. I’ll deal with it later. Except I won’t. Natalie grabs a napkin from the take-out bag, then dabs at the carpet.

“You need food,” Natalie urges.

“What did you bring us?” I ask, perking up.

“When your texts started looking like hieroglyphics, I whipped up some truffle pasta, steak frites, and crème brûlée, then left Jacques in charge at Chez Bella.”

“You’re a goddess,” Patrick says.

“You guys are the reason the restaurant is booming,” she says.

“It was Catie’s idea to mention Chez Bella in the latest brunch feature,” Patrick reveals.

“A thank-you for all the work you did on our book,” I say, meaning it.

“That’s all you gave her?” Patrick looks astounded.

“No,” I quickly defend myself. “Natalie receives half the profits from the book sales too. That’s how she was able to start working on her first restaurant, which she’s dreamed about since we were kids.”

“Your career is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Natalie says, and I think back to when everything shifted. First, when I was hired at Simply Chic. And second, when they expanded the digital market and all the lies in my blog circled back, crushing me in my past sins. “Please don’t mess it up.”

A phone pings on the floor. It’s mine, but it’s too much effort to grab it. Natalie glances at the screen.

“Sam,” she says.

“What does he want?”

“To sleep with you tonight.”

I seize the phone, read it—voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?—and hand it to Natalie. “He’s sent me that same text every week since I met him.”

“Every week for four years?” Natalie asks, eyes wide.

“Well, there was that nine-month period he kind of had a girlfriend. He stopped sending them until they broke up. Then he was back at it the day he kicked her to the curb.” I point a crooked finger at Natalie to make my next point. “He does it to annoy me.”

“Don’t give me that BS. You love it.”

“How can you say that?” I reel back. “Look what he did to Beth.”

“That was years ago, and you totally trust him now.”

“Not with my heart.” I think for a moment. “Or my vag.”

“But you trust him with your secrets.”

I snort in response because she’s right. It’s not a total mystery to me that I went from despising Sam to including him as one of my confidantes. He’s just always there. He Costanzaed his way into my life and has never left.

Natalie types into my phone.

“Hey! What did you say?” I read what she wrote. It’s our location. “Nat, he’s just looking for a booty call. He has, like, a list of women he goes through every night until one desperate girl accepts. Right, Patrick?”

“‘S right.” He’s staring at his phone as if it might bite him. Ever since I revealed I wasn’t able to get out of the special—and that I’ll be fired once they realize I have no husband for the special—he’s been working up the courage to tell Avery the bad news.

Natalie glances around until she spots two coffee mugs. She wipes them out with the bottom of her shirt, grabs waters from a pallet in the corner of the office, and fills them up.

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