Page 17 of Meet Stan

“Actors don’t lie.”

I sipped my champagne and fixed her with a frank stare.

“Are you sure about that? Is Chris Hemsworth really a god of thunder? No, but we pay him a lot of money to pretend to be one. I’m paying you a lot of money to pretend to be my girlfriend. Is it really that much different?”

“I guess not. As long as we’re clear sex is not included in the package, I think I might be willing to discuss terms with you.”

“That’s great—”

“But I want two hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars. And I’m going to need it in advance.”

I was taken aback. Wanting it in advance was negotiable, if not something I had expected to hear come out of her mouth. Mostly, I was thinking that it was a rather oddly specific number to request.

Most people go for amounts by the tens. You know, ten thousand. A hundred grand. Half a million. I’ve never heard someone request such a precise number before. I got the impression she had something in mind for the money, and she needed it fast.

“Wait a moment. I don’t mind paying you in advance, at least not in theory, but how do I know if this is going to work out?”

She set her glass down and stared at me hard.

“What?” I prompted when she didn’t say anything.

“Fine. You want a demonstration?” She gestured to the outside terrace area, the last refuge for the persecuted smoker and a place to get some fresh air. “Let’s step outside for a moment.”

“All right.”

I stood up and we went toward the terrace, and she entwined her arm with mine. I eyed her, and she beamed a smile my way.

Once we got outside, she kept herself pressed against my side like glue. With everything I said she burst into laughter like it was so funny. At one point she swept her fingers through my hair and pursed her lips.

“What?”

“What kind of conditioner do you use?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“You have nice hair, I just think you should take care of it. What if I buy you some conditioner?”

“Um, okay,” I said.

“Oh, you two are just adorable,” said an older woman sitting nearby, a cigarette with a long ash balanced in her venerable fingers. “Sometimes you can just tell when it’s going to work out. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said, beaming a smile at the old woman. “I guess when you know, you know, right?”

She leaned into me and smiled. “Hey, babe, you want to go back in and see what they have for dessert?”

“Sure.”

We went back into the restaurant, and she gave me a smirk.

“Okay, that was impressive.”

I didn’t want to admit how good it felt to have her pressed against me or doting on every word I said. It felt damn good, as a matter of fact. Too good.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “You know, it’s too bad we don't believe in love.”

“Why is that?”

“C’mon, man. The chemistry we got? Fugetaboutit.” She dazzled me with another smile. “I mean, at least in the short term we know we work. Of course nobody works in the long term, right?”

---