Page 57 of P.S. I Dare You

With that, I show myself in.

I simply wanted to be cordial, neighborly. Jude seems like a decent man, friendly and approachable, which is rare around these parts, not to mention easy on the eyes … but meeting new people—men in particular—is the furthest thing from my mind and it’s going to be that way for the foreseeable future.

I finally got my heart back from the lying thief who stole it all those years ago, and I’ll be damned if I give it away to the first guy who so much as smiles in my direction. I might not be back to my proverbial fighting weight, but I’m not weak by any stretch of the imagination.

Besides, as far as I’m concerned, men are all the same and if one of them wants my heart, he’s going to have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.

Love is for the birds.

Love Aldridge is for herself.

MY NEW PLACE REEKS of expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and old leather—not that I’m complaining. It’s a far cry from the stale pizza-scented two bedroom I’ve been sharing with my sister and nieces in Brooklyn for the past year. Besides, I’ve lived in worse places: sweaty Army barracks, tents in Iraq, beer-stained sofas in friends’ living rooms.

Sliding my barely-broken in Gucci loafers off, I head to the stainless-steel double-wide fridge and grab a bottle of beer from the middle shelf. There must be twenty different varieties here—most of which I’ve never heard of. I reach for an Arrogant Bastard, slam the door shut, and twist off the cap.

Standing in the middle of a kitchen bigger than my entire place back in Brooklyn, I drag my palm along the shiny smooth marble counter. Everything’s so clean. So untouched. White and marble and wood, chandeliers that look like they belong at the MoMA. Every square inch of this place is doused in upgrades fit for a sheikh, and while this is only my third day here, I still can’t help but gawk a little every time I walk through the door.

Earlier today, I’d done a bit of exploring … mostly drawers and nightstands … only to find condoms strategically shoved in every corner of this place. I couldn’t help but remember that rich bastard’s words to me as I left his office that day: “You’ve got my full permission to drive it like you stole it.”

It meaning … his ex-wife.

But he isn’t paying me to judge him, is he?

I take a swig of beer and another good, hard look around.

I’ve been in places like this plenty of times before, but I was always in a plumber’s uniform and I was never there more than a few hours before heading to the next call out.

Making my way to the living room, I stand before a floor-to-ceiling window with an unobstructed view of Central Park.

People pay millions of dollars to live like this and now some rich asshole is paying me a million dollars to pretend to live like this for reasons I still don’t quite understand. He said he couldn’t tell me why for “liability purposes”—his and mine. Maybe that should’ve been a red flag, and to a guy in different circumstances, that would’ve been all the reason he needed to walk out of Hunter LeGrand’s office right then and there, but as the old adage goes … he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—literally—because between the lines of that offer was a threat.

Taking a seat in a buttery chair the color of top shelf cognac, I bring the beer bottle to my lips as I take in the view of the city at night. It’s a different experience from this side of the bridge, almost like seeing it for the first time.

There are going to be a lot of firsts for me these next few months. First time living like a true Upper Eastsider. First time wearing nothing but designer labels. First time pretending to prefer Chopin and Bach over Bon Iver and Iron and Wine. First time dedicating my entire existence to ensuring some divorcee socialite falls madly, deeply in love with me and then breaking her heart the second the ink is dry on the marriage certificate.

Every time I think about what I’m doing, I hate myself a little bit more than the time before, but if I’m going to do this, I can’t think that way. I have to harden my heart, ignore that voice in my head that tells me how fucked up this whole thing is, and keep pushing forward.

Last month, Hunter had given me a small binder full of notes on his ex-wife. Hobbies. Interests. Favorite shops and restaurants. Most-loved travel destinations. Favorite books and movies and wines. Anything I could possibly want to know about her was in there and I was told to study those pages, to know them frontward and backward, to memorize every little thing about Love so that I could morph myself into the kind of man she’d fall irrevocably in love with.

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