Page 8 of Fake Fiancée for Dad's Best Friend
Alex’s chauffeur picked me up an hour ago and then drove us to TEB, a private airport across the Hudson River from Manhattan.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been on a private jet and I feel like a queen. It’s a midsize jet with about ten seats, but the interior feels spacious. The stewardess, a tall and beautiful woman with curly brown hair and tanned skin, greets us upon boarding and then takes our suitcases and stores them in the front of the aircraft.
I sit down in the roomy, comfortable leather seat, and Alex sits down in a chair facing me.
“This is incredible!” I can’t hold my grin as I settle into the comfortable seat while glancing around at the sumptuous interior of the jet. “Do you fly a lot?”
“Not a lot. Only about once a month.”
I laugh. “Only?” That’s a lot to me. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve air-traveled in my entire life. The farthest place I’ve been to is Washington DC, and the only other country I’ve visited is Canada. Thus, you can understand my eagerness to go abroad.
The flight attendant, Kim, comes to us shortly with a tray holding a bottle of Roederer Cristal and two flutes. “I’ve got your favorite Champagne, Mr. Anderson. Would the lady like something else?” she asks as she places the bottle and glasses down on the table between us.
“Oh, I’m fine. I’ll have the same thing.”
Kim pours the drink for us in a professional manner. “I also have your magazines, sir. Would you like to read them now or later?”
“Thanks, Kim, for remembering everything,” Alex says. “I’ll read them later. We should start lunch now. I’m starving.”
“No problem. Be right back.” Kim says with a confident smile.
I like the woman, but at the same time, I can’t help but envy her close relationship with Alex, even though Alex only hires her once a month. Does it go beyond working? My mind is soon filled with sordid conjectures, and I have to force them out.
After seeing Alex at my dad’s house, I went to an interview with him at Trend on Monday. As he promised, he set me up for a position as the designer director’s assistant. Although I won’t start until next week, I’ve thoroughly browsed through the company’s fashion catalogs in the past few days. Although the name Trend suggests fashionable and up-to-date products, they seem to target mature and affluent customers.
Alex generously wrote me a check when we last met, paying in advance for the fake date. I didn’t wait to cancel my admission at Pearson, along with a letter filled with apologies. I then accepted the offer from AFAP and paid for the partial tuition. Now, with my future settled, I feel lighthearted and cheerful.
Of course, it isn’t the only reason I’m full of joy. The adventure ahead of me is exciting, too. I know it’s just a pretend date, but I’ll be with Alex for the entire weekend. The man exudes irresistible power that pulls me to him. Since I saw him last Friday, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind.Don’t fall for him. I remind myself. Otherwise, I would pay dearly for the five grand.
“What’re you thinking, Vivi? Are you nervous?” That deep rumbling Voice messes up my heartbeat just like that. I become aware of his subtle cedar-scented cologne right away.
I swallow down the champagne that I’ve been holding in my mouth and say quickly, “What? Not at all!” I force a smile to hide my embarrassment. Shit. I need to pull myself together.Act professional. Alex is a friend, but he’s my boss and partner in crime for the weekend. If I bombed our first transaction, I wouldn’t be able to work for him in the future. I take another sip of the expensive drink, but a glance at the man across the table from me tells me the mission is more challenging than I expected.
Today, he looks incredibly handsome in a blue cotton shirt with top buttons undone, reminding me he came from work. My God. Does he always look so good? If he’s attractive in a t-shirt and jeans, he’s breath-taking in a dress shirt and trousers. His raven hair is carefully styled, and he has just a few threads of greys to give him an authoritative look. Even though I can’t see his muscles, I detect the shape of them. All these guessings and trying to x-ray through his clothes make my thighs tingle.
As I shamelessly ogle him, his eyes darken a bit as they linger on my shirt. “That’s a pretty shirt,” he says. “Puff sleeves? Yeah. They’re this summer’s trend. They remind me of my high school days.”
Did he say days or dates? I guess girls back then wore this style, and I’m a bit jealous. But I’m glad he likes what he sees. “My mom loved them, and I have had a thing for them since I was little. I’m thrilled they’re back. I’ve made quite a few shirts with the same sleeves but different types of puffs.”
He raises his eyebrows and leans closer to examine the workmanship of my shirt. “Neatly finished seams and strong stitches. I see you’ve not only inherited your dad’s passion for fashion design but also his tailoring skills.”
“Thanks,” I say, pleased by his praises and the approval in his eyes.
“Forget about grad school, Vivian,” he says in a husky voice, eyes still roaming over my body or my dress. “Work for me already!”
Whatever he’s interested in, my fashion-design talents or my figure, I’m thrilled. My heart raps in my ribcage. For a moment, I want to do just as he suggests and start building my career already. But no, I can’t give up my dream just like that. And I shouldn’t lose my head over him just because of one flattering comment.
“Thanks, Alex,” I say, smiling. “I’ll work for you after Paris, I promise.”
He sticks out his pinky and waves it at me. I laugh and hook my little finger over his. “How did you know this?”
“You taught me, sweetheart!” he says with a chuckle. “When you were little, you made me do this when I told you I would get you a kitten.”
I grin at the memory of Snow White, a Persian cat he got me for my sixth birthday. “I can’t believe you still remember it.”
“Of course I do,” he says. “I love the gesture. I wish I could use it in business negotiation. It’ll spare lots of paperwork.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.” I blush and change the subject, “I miss the cat.”
