Page 9 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

My hammering heart finally starts to slow down, but when I turn a corner and catch sight of my apartment’s front door, it fires up to the pace of a jackhammer all over again.

There’s a piece of paper taped to my door.

Even from halfway down the hall, I can see the angry red text stamped across the top: EVICTION NOTICE.

I feel woozy as I step up to it and start to read the fine print. It’s a jumble of legal jargon that might as well be a different language altogether.

Behind me, someone coughs.

I turn and see my landlord, Lou. He’s in his usual saggy dungarees and sleeveless white muscle t-shirt. The gold chain around his neck disappears in the bed of gray fuzzy that sprouts up from under his shirt collar. “Hey hon, I thought that might be you passin’ by my door. Look, I know this isn’t pretty.” He gestures to the sign. “We all love havin’ you in the building. But rules is rules, ya know? I got people pounding down my door, askin’ for your place. Heck, I already got another guy lined up to sign a lease.”

“What are you saying?”

He shrugs. “Sorry. I hate to do this to you, but you’re out. Technically, you got sixty days, but I’m getting maintenance in to fix that leaky sink of yours, starting tomorrow morning.”

“I put in a work order for that thing last winter!”

“Sure, but what can I say? Been busy. But now that we’re turning the place over, I gotta make sure it’s up to snuff. Got the guys doing a complete upgrade that will take a couple of weeks, at least. My advice is you get out as soon as you can unless you like a side of sheetrock dust with your morning coffee.”

This day needs to end.

I need to fall into my bed, pull the covers over my face, and wake up to a world that doesn’t include overpriced restaurants, grumpy Damian Knight, or eviction notices.

Lou steps forward and pats my shoulder. “Sorry, kid.” He turns and waddles off.

I wish I was a kid. If I was, I’d have kid-sized worries on my mind. Memorizing the week’s spelling words. Whether mom packed me PB and J or tuna fish for lunch. That kind of thing.

But I’m not a kid anymore.

I’m a grown woman.

A grown woman with very complicated, adult-sized problems.

I lean against the door. My forehead smacks against the paper taped there. Inside, Bo lets out an excited yip.

I drag myself upright, fit my keys into the lock, and let myself inside.

As I exchange my heels for a pair of flip-flops and then give Bo pets and kisses, I chew over the fresh new complication in my life.

I accepted a down payment on a painting I’m supposed to produce this summer. There is no way in Hades I’m going to be able to paint it here, to the tune of a hammer, saw, and chatting plumbers.

Where am I supposed to work?

Options flit through my brain as I clip Bo’s leash to his collar. We traipse down the stinky staircase together, and by the time we reach fresh air, I have my answer.

I can’t bunk with Fizzy; he’s allergic to dogs. My mom passed away years ago and Dad’s still in California. Too far. I don’t have friends in the city with space enough for a new roommate plus her dog.

But Idoknow that Damian lives in a spacious mansion on the edge of Silver Springs. Mansions have spare rooms, don’t they?

Bo lifts his leg to pee on the scraggly Elm tree off to the side of my apartment building’s front stoop.

I watch him for a minute, then pull out my cell phone and dial Damian’s number.

His answer is gruff. “Hello?”

Clearly, I’ve annoyed him by calling. Is that spa music in the background? I think I can hear a cello.

I do my best to explain my situation. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid: the faster I get it all out, the less pain I’ll have to endure.

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