Page 52 of Curvy Love

This is yet another moment when it feels like I’m decades older than Sabrina.

Maybe it’s because Sabrina became so famous, so young and therefore has never emotionally matured past the age of seventeen. Or maybe it’s because my parents died when I was young, and so for years, it’s basically been me and my two older sisters supporting ourselves and having one another’s backs. Or maybe it’s because Sabrina may be my boss, but I’m—essentially—her caregiver.

I don’t know why, but in moments like this, she just seems ridiculous. The notion of flirting online, in full view of the public, with a virtual stranger just seems … absurd to me. Even more absurd is the idea of getting this upset about it.

I prefer to conserve my emotional despair for more important things, like impoverished children, avoiding contact with any flesh-eating bacteria and securing funding for my start-up company. Which—hopefully, someday—will make eco-friendly, non-toxic sensory toys for kids with special needs. But until I save enough money to get a big enough loan to actually start my business, it’s my job to care about (or pretend to care about) the things Sabrina cares about.

“I bet he didn’t even notice the thirst trap,” I say. Sabrina’s gaze sharpens and I quickly correct myself. “I mean, the thirst trap that Gossip Lane imagines you were setting.”

Sabrina lets out another huff and taps her toe, thoughtfully. “But he liked my post with the churro.”

“Of course he did,” I say in what I hope is a believably reassuring tone. “It was a very flattering picture.”

And it had a churro in it! Who wouldn’t like a churro?

I don’t say that part out loud and I have to suppress a sigh of regret for my fallen churro … because it wasmychurro she borrowed for the picture.

“Besides,” I say, “I’m sure he doesn’t read gossip websites, so he won’t see the article anyway.”

“I am not thirsty,” she declares.

“Of course you’re not.”

“Or needy or desperate.”

“Not at all. And you’ll probably never even see this guy again, even if he does live in Austin now.”

“Oh, I will definitely see him again,” she snaps with a determination that makes me think she’s about to order someone to bring her a hundred Dalmatian puppies. “The man is my soulmate.”

“Your …” I clear my throat. “… soulmate?”

“I’m hot. He’s hot. I’m famous. He’s famous. And there were definitely sparks when we met last year in London. Obviously I’m the reason he’s moving to Austin.”

I nod, silently, because it’s not at all obvious to me that the two things are connected. But I learned long ago that it’s rarely wise or necessary to point out logic when Sabrina gets like this.

“I’m sure he doesn’t want to seem thirsty either and that’s why he’s doing this bachelor auction thing. But, of course, now that that gossip hag mucked things up, I can’t go bid on him without seeming thirsty. Which is why I need you to go to the charity auction for me and win the date with him.”

Wait. What?

She thinks he doesn’t want to seem desperate, so he’s doing a charity auction so she can bid on him. But she doesn’t want to seem desperate so she’s sending me to bid on him?

How is that logical?

Or sane?

It’s not. Famous people are crazy. That’s the only conclusion I can reach.

Also, this is why I don’t date. Modern dating is way too complicated and way too much of a mind fuck.

Giving up to absurdity of my life, I just shrug. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She sips her green concoction through a straw while tapping on the screen of her tablet. “I’ve entered all the info in the calendar. I don’t expect you to wear black tie because, well—” she gives me a once-over. “Just maybe try for a skirt or something.”

My phone vibrates and I look down and see all the details. “This is tonight,” I say dumbly.

“Right.”

“I’ll need off early to get ready.” I don’t even know why I say that because I hardly even wear make-up, just a swipe of mascara and lip-gloss and I’m ready to go. I’m a low-maintenance kind of gal. My brown locks can’t decide if they’re curly or wavy, so I just let them do their thing because it’s better than fighting my hair.

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