I cursed and seethed as I stumbled around, pulling on jeans and tugging a comb through my nest of hair as I tried to find a shirt. Damn laundry day! All I had left were scrubs and a few lonely “stuffed in the back of the dresser for sentimental reasons” shirts that I now perused with growing horror.
I smirked as I pulled a pink tee-shirt with a drunken unicorn over my head. A glance in the mirror across from the door made me visibly cringe, but what could I do? At least I was going to give him hell for waking me. And Amanda too!
I yanked open the door and walked into the living room. An outstretched mocha-chino softened those plans.
Marcus smiled. “Amanda told me to tell you that she’d see you later. She’s heading to Barry’s.”
“Oh, okay. You two woke me up,” I said.
“Well, hello to you too.”
“But you brought coffee, so you’re forgiven,” I said.
He glanced curiously around at the surrounding chaos.
“And before you ask. No, I wasn’t robbed.” I followed his gaze and bit my lip. In the bright light of day, the damage I’d done trying to find a suitabl
e hiding place looked less forgivable than the night before. “If you must know, I was looking for a place to stash that envelope you gave me.”
He turned around cheerfully. “Let me guess. In a bag inside the freezer.”
My eyes narrowed, and I took a scalding sip of coffee. “Did I miss the memo? Is something happening today? Because I got your text. The seventeenth is two weeks away.” The caffeine was revitalizing and I was thinking more quickly.
“I had some business in the area.”
“Not in this area,” I mumbled, but I don’t think he heard me. What business could he possibly have had in this rundown neighborhood?
He perched delicately between an upturned toolbox and a stack of past-due library books. “And while the seventeenth is two weeks away, the Los Angeles Diabetes Fundraiser Gala is tonight.”
I hopped onto the counter and pulled my knees to my chest with a frown. “I’m not following.” Spotting a hair tie, I quickly restrained my mane into a messy ballerina bun, wishing for what was sure to be the first of many times, that when I lifted my arms anywhere above my chin, my junior high tee-shirt didn’t crawl up past my navel.
His eyes lingered on me for a moment, before he cleared his throat. “I’m here to make sure you dress in something appropriate. Something that doesn’t reflect the weird Flintstones aesthetic you have going on here.”
I squinted suspiciously. “You’ve never seen the Flintstones.”
“That’s right,” he answered sarcastically. “I spent most of my youth selecting Afghans and teething on books.”
“At least he admits it…”
“Listen, Rebecca.” He stepped in front of the counter, placing his hands on either side of my knees. “we need to keep up the façade until we get to the island. Otherwise, there’s no point.”
I pursed my lips. “That seems fraudulent.”
“Of course it’s fraudulent, that’s the whole point. But there’s no reason why we can’t both get what we want.”
“Not fraudulent in general.” I slid off the counter, forcing him to take a step back, “I meant fraudulent to me. I thought we would spend one weekend together for cash—that’s it. And if you think I don’t know how prostitute-y that sounds, you’ve got another think coming.”
He ran his hands through his hair and chuckled. “It’s not prostitute-y if there’s no sex.”
“You know what I mean, Marcus.”
For some reason, he perked up when I said his name. “I need this, Rebecca. I need to keep this client. If it’s a question of wanting more money to see the whole thing through—”
“I don’t want more money—there’s only so much my Popsicles can hide.”
He cocked his head curiously, and I rubbed my temples, praying for the mocha to kick in.
“Look,” I continued, “I’ll do this for you. It’s a very generous offer of money, and despite the painstaking efforts you take to appear otherwise, I think deep down you might not be a total douche.”