Page 2 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I've only met him once in person, but trust me, once was enough. Not that I don't know what he looks like—his face is splashed across glossy magazines and half the influencer accounts in Manhattan.
As much as I hate to admit it, the man is hot with a capital H.
Tall, dark, and handsome. Broad enough to pass for a retired football player, even though I know he never was. Piercing hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones, softened only by a head of curly salt-and-pepper hair.
With a body and a face that were simply made for a poster-sized pinup that could adorn any self-respecting teenage girl's bedroom wall, he's the embodiment of a female sexual fantasy. Maybe I'd consider indulging in a little fantasizing myself, if he weren't also a rich, spoiled, arrogant asshole.
Of course, the other thing about Wolfe is that he's an old-money trust-fund kid who has ended up as CEO of his family's trillion-dollar international holding company. Smart, sure. He's not just a dumb pretty boy, but from our one meeting, I can tell that he's conceited as hell.
That's not even the worst part.
The worst part is that he's picky, mercurial, and the most uncommunicative son of a bitch I've ever dealt with.
Case in point: he and his team refused to even meet with me to discuss their vision for the showcase. "Too busy," they said. Theysaidthey would leave everything up to my discretion, which was fine in theory—right until I realized Grayson Wolfe is the kind of man who's never satisfied.
Working with him is torture. The pattern goes like this: I send over a detailed plan for the decor, hear nothing, assume allis fine and start executing the plan. Then I get an email a week later saying they want "something different."
No further explanation.
Fine. I stop what I'm doing and change everything.
They send an attendee list. I base all my plans around this list, only for a new list to show up without warning a few weeks later, that blows my plans apart. We redo everything, call vendors, rework the theme and then a week later, guess what? Yep, another revised list.
Every time I try to get clarification, or ask for confirmation that this is the final version for their requirements, I am either met by silence, or if I pick up the phone and call, his guard-dog secretary gives me the run-around and hangs up to "take another call." It's like shouting into the void.
Lately, though, the chaos has settled: no major changes now for two entire weeks, which means I might actually survive this thing. Good.
The first event kicks off in a few days, and we can't afford any more curveballs.
Since it's the first showcase of its kind—new for them as well as for me—I've had no blueprint. I'm flying by the seat of my pants with just my own creativity for guidance. I'm going with extravagant but tasteful, artistic without being gauche. My signature balancing act.
It has to work out. It justhasto.
The Ritz-Carlton is the location for the first party. It's a venue that I am very familiar with, since I recommend it for many of my clients' events, to the extent that they've even issued me with my own staff ID badge. By the time I finally reach the place, sweat is trickling down my back, despite the cool weather. It's probably due to all the errands I've been running today. Sure, I could delegate, but sometimes I like doing things myself. Keepsmy head clear. More importantly, it means I know it's been done properly. One less thing to stress about later.
The event suite has its own brass and oak revolving door, next to the main hotel entrance. The doorman stops me as I trip lightly up the marble steps.
"Identification," he says, deadpan.
I roll my eyes. "Really, Ricky? We do this every time."
He grins. "Sorry, ma'am. Policy. You know they're always watching." He nods toward the CCTV camera. I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear, dig out my ID badge.
"Did you make it home on time for your little girl's party last week?" I ask as he hands my ID back, remembering how he stayed late to help us set up for a previous event a few weeks back.
"I did. She loved the dollhouse I got her with the hundred bucks you slipped me."
"Well, she better have loved it."
In truth, that hundred bucks hurt when it left my pocket, but I don't begrudge him it. People like Ricky look at me and all they see is a successful businesswoman. What they don't see is that in reality I've barely a few hundred bucks to my name, and every client I win is part of my fight to survive. No silver spoon for me. My parents were as poor as church mice. It's just that I've learned how to look and act the part.
It's been like that since private school, when I had to blend in with kids whose parents never thought twice about dropping thousands on designer labels. To avoid sticking out, I learned to hustle, to mold myself into whatever people expected.
It's the same skill that's made me successful now. Fake it till you make itis pretty much the motto I live my life by.
There's only one person I think sees through me.
Grayson Wolfe.
