Page 100 of Boyfriend of the Hour
2. Also dont swear so much. BE A LADY.
3. Keep your elbows off the table.
4. Dont spill anything on these Fancy cloths in case he wants to return them.
5. Good postur. Walk like the dancer youused to beARE.
All good advice, most of which came from internet searches on “how to go to a society dinner,” which led me down a rabbit hole of finishing school websites and TikToks about debutantes.
There was a lot about curtsying and people wearing books on their heads. I figured I could at least handle the posture. The rest of the rules I’d cobbled together the best I could.
“Just do it,” I mumbled to myself.
Like it was waiting for me to quit stalling, the doors opened as a few diners exited.
Well, that was my cue.
I strode into the restaurant like I owned it, conscious of the turning heads (most of them belonging to men) as I made my way toward the bar on the far side of the neutrally decorated space dotted with linen-covered tables and views of Central Park. The place was crowded—every table was full, and the bar itself was jammed with people, even at only six thirty. The elegant notes of a grand piano being played in the far corner floated over the crowd, creating the perfect atmosphere of ease and elegance.
For the first time, I understood why Nathan had insisted on the new wardrobe—and was eternally grateful. Everyone in the restaurant also dripped money. If I’d shown up here in my jeans and Vans, I probably would have been given a dollar and sent to sit on the sidewalk with the other panhandlers.
I searched the crowded bar and eventually spotted Nathan sipping on what I would have bet was a soda water and lime out of a rocks glass. No scrubs tonight—of course, why would there be? Instead, he was wearing one of the countless pairs of wool pants he preferred for clinic days. This time with a matching suit jacket, tailored perfectly to those big shoulders, over a light blue shirt that complemented his eyes and a dark blue plaid tie. He was facing another man who was speaking, nodding every so often while he listened.
There was something missing, though. When he came to my bar, Nathan was generally so much quieter than he appeared to be here. When we weren’t making idle conversation, he generally just sat with his overpriced scotch in front of him and studied everything and everyone around him, making no attempt to hide his interest.
Now, I saw none of that intense attention on his face. If anything, he looked like I probably did when I was forcing myself to pay attention in class, knowing the information was going in one ear and out the other, and unable to do anything to help it.
Because he was faking it, I realized. The interest, the slightly stiff smile, the courteous nods. I didn’t know how I knew he was putting on as much of a show as I was, but I did. Which made me wonder how often Nathan felt like he had to be someone he wasn’t just to fit in. Just like me.
And you know what? I kind of hated it.
I wantedmyNathan. The one who couldn’t care less if people thought he was cold or slightly off. The one who only askedquestions when he was truly interested and stopped talking completely if he wasn’t.
I liked the Nathan who was one hundred percent genuine and didn’t feel the need to hide his idiosyncrasies. Especially since I liked those too.
I raised a hand, trying to get his attention. “Nathan!”
The man he was speaking to turned with him and mouthed “Wow” before nudging Nathan in the arm. A few other people around them also turned to see who was calling out—two other men standing next to women in outfits even more elegant than mine, plus another woman with bobbed brown hair standing just beside Nathan, who didn’t seem to be attached to anyone.
Though she was looking at me like she wasn’t particularly happy I’d shown up.
Showtime.
“Hi, babe,” I said as I strode up to my fake-boyfriend and laid a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get a cab.”
That wasn’ttechnicallyuntrue. Since I couldn’t afford a cab, I couldn’t really get one. It was kind of funny watching the reactions of people on the subway. People who wore clothes like this didn’t take public transportation.
“Oh, I completely understand,” said a blond woman I assumed was someone’s wife, judging by the diamonds circling her left ring finger. “It’s just murder getting across town this time of day, even just coming down Park. See, George, this is why I think we should have our own driver.”
I congratulated myself on my excellent improv. Scene One in the Tale of Nathan Hunt’s Girlfriend: establishing common ground with the rich and impatient. My first leading role, and I was already killing it.
Nathan, however, was forgetting his lines.
Instead, he was still staring at me. His eyes had lost that look of faux interest as they traveled over my clothes and my hair,lingering a half-second longer on my exposed shoulders. His mouth had also fallen open. Just a little.
I preened like a freaking swan.
Yeah, spending a few nights at Diamonds was definitely worth that exact reaction.
