Page 13 of Boyfriend Maintenance

“We are very happy, I’m not pulling anylinewith you.”

“Nothing can rival your first love. You’ll see. All I need is one dance and you’ll be swooning in my arms once again.”

“I’ve never swooned for you.”

“You keep telling yourself that, baby doll.”

“I’m hanging up now.” And then I do.

Tossing my phone on the couch next to me, I realize what I just did.

Shit, shit, shitballs.

I really need a boyfriend now. Unfortunately, the engagement party is less than a week away. There isn’t enough time.

Just as I’m contemplating what the downfalls of a name change and an escape to Mexico might be, there’s a knock at the door. To my surprise, it’s Jake.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” He’s without his toolbox, so I know he isn’t here on official maintenance business.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Can I come in?”

I should tell him to go away. He was a total jerk to a poor woman in need of his help. Me being the poor woman.

I move and open the door wider to let him in. I get the door closed right as he talks.

“I’ve thought more about your fake boyfriend scheme. And I’ll do it, but I have conditions.”

“Um, excuse me, but it’s not a scheme.”

“Whatever. Are you still in need of my help or not?” He folds his arms across his chest. I can’t help noticing the thick, corded muscles of his biceps and—oh, those forearms. I mentally check to make sure I’m not drooling.

“Yes, I’m still in need of a date.” I mirror his pose, I’m not about to let him come in here and try to intimidate me.

“All right, first condition. You pay me fifteen grand. You’re asking me to go to a fucking wedding.” I try to hide the discomfort that fills me at his request. I don’t have fifteen thousand. He keeps going, “Second condition is that you buy me whatever clothes and shit I’ll need to wear to these events. I live in jeans, sneakers, and T-shirts. So, if you want me to play the part, pay for it. My third and final condition, no sex. I’m not a man whore and I don’t fuck residents.”

Damn, he’s a cocky son of a bitch. His stunted view toward the rich and well, me, is stupid-annoying. Yet, his give-no-fucks attitude is kind of hot. I’m struggling between being turned on and pissed. Maybe each emotion is feeding the other.

I let the anger emotion take over. “I have my own condition.” I jut my hip out a bit, showing him that I mean business.

“Yeah? And what’s that?” He smiles at my indignation.

“Don’t ever call me crazy or insane again.”

“Really? That’s your condition?” He thinks this is a joke.

“Yes. I’m completely sane. Every decision I make has been carefully made and made in my best interest. I don’t appreciate people who don’t understand me and my decisions blowing me off by calling me crazy. Don’t do it again.” I’m dead serious when I say I’m so sick and tired of people calling me that. If I had a quarter for every time someone called me crazy when I walked away from my family’s money, I would be a self-made millionaire by now for sure.

“Why do people call you crazy? Is there something I need to know about?” he asks me, but I can tell it won’t sway his decision.

“I’m not interested in getting into it with you.”

“Fine, whatever. So, what will it be? Fake boyfriend or not?”

Ugh, I don’t have fifteen grand, but I do have a bonus coming up next month. Maybe it will be enough to cover. I will have to save more. Becca will understand that I can’t go out to eat as much. I’ll charge the new clothes to my credit card. It’s got a substantial limit, one I never reach. You’d think a person growing up with a silver spoon in their mouth would be prone to poor money management when left to do it on their own, but no, not me. I’m on top of my shit. I hear my phone text tone from the couch and remember my call with Craig. I have no choice.

“Deal.” I thrust my hand out for a shake.

He seems a little relieved himself, but still puts off his don’t-mess-with-me vibe as he takes my hand in his. “Deal,” he agrees, as he should since I didn’t bother negotiating his terms.

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