Page 9 of Fauxmance in the City

“Drink,” she says, shoving a mug in my face and one at Patrick.

I roll my eyes, but I swallow the liquid in one go. Natalie fills it again.

Patrick’s phone vibrates, and he slides up the wall. “It’s Avery.” Phone to his ear, he trudges into the hallway.

Natalie kneels in front of me, then grabs hold of my shoulders. My hair falls out of its knot, swinging around my face in a chestnut curtain. “You have to do something, Little Bee.”

“Like what?” I shrug her hands off.

“What about using an escort service or something? For the husband.”

“Too risky. Not with the filming.” I glance past her at the built-ins. “Patrick should paint those white. They’d lighten up the room. Or a nice Tiffany blue to give an unexpected pop of color.”

Natalie snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Catie. Focus.”

In the distance, the elevator chimes. It’s after ten, and no one’s in the office. A moment later, Sam walks through the door, pulling a wool cap off his flop of sable hair. He wears slim tracksuit pants and a black thermal top that’s snug against his impressively carved-out muscles.

“You’re looking lovely tonight, Nat.” Sam bends to kiss her cheek, which deepens in color.

Despite my constant warnings that Sam likes his women how he likes his assistants—easy, resourceful, and out of his sight when she has served her purpose—Natalie adores him. He’s always been sweet and generous to her.

“Catie, you look ravishing, as always.” His lips move toward my cheek, but I snap my face away, and he kisses my ear. “I’ll get you one day.”

I scoff, but a thrill runs down my spine at the double meaning. Damn the alcohol. It’s made me soft and squishy in my heart.

“I’m guessing it didn’t go well with Gillian.” Sam slides the six-pack of Stella he brought into the minifridge, taking a bottle out and popping the cap off in one quick motion. He hands a second to Natalie.

“Horribly. The execs from Good Day had a solution for every problem I threw at them. Patrick’s breaking the news to Avery now.” I scan the boxes of my books, popping my lip out in a pout. “All I wanted to do over the next two weeks was decorate my new apartment.”

“There must be some way out of this mess. Let me help.” Sam moves a squat mid-century modern chair in front of Natalie and me, then sits, resting his elbows on his knees.

“As soon as Gillian finds out I’ve been lying this whole time, she’ll fire Patrick and me.” I grasp my temples with my palms, warding off a dizzy spell.

“You need to eat.” Natalie wiggles to a standing position and then snaps the lid off the pasta container. She tears apart a piece of ciabatta before placing the pasta and bread in my hands, along with a fork. “Eat.”

Even as a child, I could never eat during stressful times. Natalie was the opposite. Food soothed her—not the eating of it as much as creating something beautiful and delicious out of nothing. She inherited it from our mother and our dad’s mom, Mamé. Their love of cooking was the only thing our mother and grandmother agreed on. They had a typical, highly charged mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship. Until Dad died. Then the two were inseparable, consoling each other in their mutual grief.

I scoop a small bite of pasta into my mouth, then put the container on the floor next to me, my stomach a circus. “I can’t eat. My stomach’s in knots.”

Sam picks it up, twirling pasta onto the fork and stuffing it into his mouth. “Damn, this is good.”

Natalie smiles. Nothing makes her happier than being complimented on her food. “It’s on page fifty-two of Catie’s book. It’s one of the most popular recipes, according to Amazon reviewers.”

“You’re a saint for giving Catie all those recipes.”

She shrugs. Natalie is always humble. Shy, really. “The recipes were only a small part of the book. The rest was all Catie.”

I sometimes wonder what the hell she’s doing still helping me.

“I’m twenty-eight years old and my career is over,” I mumble into the neck of my sweater.

Sam takes my hand, running his thumb back and forth across my knuckles, heat splaying out from his finger. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not in the mood.” Except, that one small touch is pushing me toward that mood quickly.

“A few days alone with me and you’ll forget everything.” Sam grins wickedly.

His gaze is intense, and for a second I wish we were alone so I could fling my legs over him and grind him until I forget everything about today.

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