Page 69 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"No," I tell her.
"I don't believe you. Swear it—on the life of your favorite suit—that you're not buying me a new purse."
I laugh. "I swear I won't buy you a new purse."
It's not really lying if your fingers are crossed, I think to myself.
She either believes me, or perhaps decides not to bother arguing about it, and starts chattering about the new Yves Saint Laurent purse. I listen, filing away enough details to know what to get my PA to ask for in the store.
Finally, she circles around to the subject we've both been avoiding.
"So," she says, hesitating. "This thing… you know… we're not doing it again, right?"
The right answer is yes. But the word won't come. Saying yes would be lying—to her and to myself.
"What do you think?" I ask instead.
"Maybe we should just enjoy it while the contract lasts and keep it casual. I mean, it's not like we can sleep with other people, and I have a pretty high sex drive. I think you do too."
"Hmmm."
"So—deal? No-strings-attached sex?"
It's a bad idea. I already feel the pull, the attachment growing under my skin. If I'm not careful, I might actually… what? Fall for her? No. That would be insane. I can't let that happen.
"Deal," I hear myself say.
I glance across the ballroom, watching Jenna mingle effortlessly among the guests. The charity gala is in honor of an old friend, packed with high-society types, and it's our official debut as a couple. I won't lie: I'd worried about how she'd handle it.
I didn't need to.
My fake fiancée is a natural charmer.
Within minutes, she's surrounded by women hanging on her every word.
I understand the appeal. She has a way of making people feel seen—important—when she talks to them. When she speaks, you can't help but listen.
While I'm stuck in conversation with a few investors, I keep an eye on her from across the room, unable to stop watching.
"Your new fiancée is quite the woman, isn't she?" says James Bador, a friend of mine and CEO of a cybersecurity firm.
"She is," I admit, not taking my eyes off her.
"I'm glad it's not awkward."
"Why would it be awkward?"
Then I see her—Anastasia Lieberman—gliding across the room with a cluster of women. Shit.
Ana's an actress I took to a movie premiere a couple of months ago. It made sense at the time; the film was produced by a client, and Ana was a familiar face on the guest list. There was never a second date, though. She was too clingy for my taste—and she treated waitstaff like garbage. That was enough to end it right there.
Now she's looking straight at Jenna, eyes sharp, calculating.
"Because," James continues, oblivious, "your ex is here."
"What?"
"Your ex-fiancée. Marina. I saw her at the entrance."
