Page 17 of Renegade Roomie

“—but then you wake up the next day feeling like you just hit by a truck, and everything is icky, and you wind up vomiting your guts out on 14th Ave. and regretting every moment,” I finish.

Frederik winces. “Good point. I still can’t look tequila in the face.”

“Still, a guy like that would be a great short-term fling,” Lorelei muses. “And you haven’t scratched that itch in, how long is it now?”

No comment.

“You want the gig so bad, you take it,” I suggest, trying to forget the crackle in my bloodstream from Dash’s touch. “He needs someone who won’t fall in love with him, and he’s definitely not your type.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “I gave up pretending to date men in college. This one’s all yours!”

The rest of my shift is a long, harried blur of demanding customers who dismantle my displays every five minutes, but still don’t seem to buy anything, so by the time I finally clock off and head home, the thought of a weekend by the ocean in Palm Beach is sounding awfully tempting. Not to mention a cash payment from Dash that would let me take some time off to focus on my makeup company full-time…

But I couldn’t. Could I?

Nope. I shake my head, trudging down the busy sidewalk. If lunch today proved anything, it’s that Dash is too dangerous for his own good. And sure, he’s probably not a serial killer or anything, but that smile is just as deadly.

Agreeing to play fake girlfriend—even for a few days—is just asking for trouble.

I cross the street and duck into the little drugstore down the block from my apartment. It’s one of those ‘everything and its mother’ places, with cramped aisles and dusty boxed mac-and-cheese, but it’s one of the few places I managed to convince to carry a small display of my lipsticks.

“Hi Dorrie,” I call to the woman behind the register, as I make my way to the makeup aisle in back. It always gives me a kick to see my products on the shelf—and to see if I’ve made a sale—but when I search for the little riser I crafted to hold the boxes, I can’t find it anywhere.

I look around, searching every shelf, but there’s no sign of it.

My hopes rise. “Did you sell out?” I ask Dorrie excitedly, but she just frowns.

“Had to move it,” she answers brusquely. “No space. Back there, I think.” She gestures to the far corner, so I go looking…

… And finally find it. Behind a selection of laxatives.

“If this isn’t a metaphor for my crappy day, I don’t know what is,” I sigh, swallowing back the sting of disappointment.

Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s time to flush my dreams down the toilet, I think, as I sneak the display back to the cosmetics section. But I can’t quit, not after I’ve worked so hard. My products are amazing, and I know that all it takes—all any new company needs—is one person to believe in it, too.

Either that, or just whip out their checkbook.

On my way out, I pass the magazine aisle, and a picture on one of the covers catches my eye.

It’s Dash.

I grab the copy of New Entrepreneur off the shelf, but nope, I’m not seeing things.

The face gazing back at me from the cover is none other than Mr. Needs a Fake Girlfriend himself, complete with his annoyingly boyish dimple. I flip through the pages until I find the article, which is basically a highlight reel documenting all of Dash’s start-up success stories. The digital camera app that’s breaking records. The virtual reality coffee shop chain making waves with the tech-geek-chic crowd. He even managed to sign on with a group of guys who made dorky T-shirts with emoji symbols on them—one year later, they have millions in sales and their streetwear label is the toast of Paris Fashion Week.

I can’t deny it, the man has the golden touch. And the gold-plated spoon in his mouth to match.

Well, not right now he doesn’t. Not unless he manages to charm his grandmother into releasing his trust fund…

I pause, my mind going back to his not-so-indecent proposal. Was Lorelei right? Is this the break I’ve been waiting for? Despite the charm routine, I could tell, Dash is pretty motivated to get his money spigot turned back on. And, OK, it’s not the route to fame, fortune, and empowered entrepreneurship I planned, but beggars can’t be choosers, and my checking account is definitely begging for some moral—and actual—support right now.

Am I really considering this?

I walk home, turning it over in my mind. I can’t believe I’m considering such a crazy idea, but with every block, it seems to make a weird kind of sense. I mean, I’ve schlepped around town, had doors slam in my face a hundred times. Hell, I even went dumpster diving in the name of my dreams. Would play-acting at being Dash’s girlfriend really be any more demeaning than that?

I’m guessing not. Plus, it’ll be way more fragrant.

This could be my one chance to get my makeup line off the ground. There’s only so much I can do, alone at my kitchen table. But with a real investor, the sky’s the limit. I could set up a proper website, perfect my packaging, hire real employees to create and ship the product. Not to mention finally pitching the major beauty retailers, because I would actually be able to fulfil their orders. It would be a massive leap to the future I’ve dreamed about.

---