Weekend Wife (Sassy in the City 1)

Then I saw he’d given me a dossier on our fake relationship.

This required wine. I stopped at the bodega across the street from my building and got a bottle of chardonnay. When I hobbled upstairs, huffing and puffing because of my bum ankle, I shoved opened the front door and almost nailed Javier with it. “Hey,” I said, breathless.

“What’s up?” He was microwaving something in our tiny kitchen, which meant I had to do a side step past him. “Is that wine? On a Thursday? You’re living on the edge.”

Javier was a clean-shaven aspiring fashion designer who was fastidious in his dress and appearance but domestically messy and the king of the microwave. He had graduated design school and worked both in a restaurant and dressing models for runway shows.

“I got a new role,” I said. “I need to study my lines.”

“That’s awesome. What is it?”

“I have to be a rich guy’s girlfriend.”

“That sounds fun.” He pulled a burrito out of the microwave. “What is the show?”

“It’s not actually a show. It’s real life. A rich guy hired me to pretend to be his girlfriend.”

Javier paused in ripping open the end of his burrito wrap. “Sweetie, that’s called being an escort. Acting, sure, but usually the ugly old men want a little something-something too, you know.”

Damn it. I had known he would say that. “One, he’s neither old nor ugly. He’s probably in his early thirties. Two, we’ve established no sex.”

“Now I’m confused.” Javier raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “So if he’s young, rich, and reasonably attractive, why does he need a fake girlfriend? And why won’t you have sex with him?”

“So I don’t feel like an escort. Obviously. And

I don’t know why he needs a fake girlfriend as opposed to just getting a real one. I think he’s allergic to commitment and he just wants his family off his back. They’re pressuring him, threatening him. The usual.” I set the bottle of wine down on the stove between the two burners. “Open this for me. I have a sprained ankle.”

“Girl, your hands aren’t broken.” Javier bit his burrito. “So when is this happening? Is it like dinner or a wedding or something?”

“Next weekend. His parents’ anniversary party in the Hamptons.”

“Take me with you. I’ll be your stylist.” He eyed my jeans and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. “What are you wearing?”

“Now or to the party? Right now I’m wearing vintage jeans with a sweatshirt nod to the iconic Flashdance film of the early eighties.” I stuck my tongue out at him and unscrewed my wine bottle. Thank goodness for screw tops on my chardonnay. World’s greatest thing ever after string cheese and online banking.

“You’re funny. And adorable. And not wardrobe ready.”

I shrugged, pulling a glass down off the shelf and pouring a generous glass. “If Grant has dress requirements, I’m sure he’ll tell me. He just sent me a bunch of information.” I opened the document on my phone and showed it to Javier. “It’s basically telling me what I need to do.”

He glanced at it, his mouth moving as he read the first few lines. “Wait, the guy who hired you is Grant Caldwell?”

I nodded. “The third.”

“He’s a fucking billionaire, Leah. He’s very well-known in the fashion industry for dating supermodels for like one minute before dumping them.”

I took a giant gulp of wine. “That’s reassuring. Not. Why would you tell me that? Supermodel I am not, if you hadn’t noticed.” I couldn’t compete with that and I didn’t want to. It was a good reminder. If a supermodel couldn’t keep Grant’s attention, I didn’t stand a chance.

“And he’s paying you?”

Javier said it like he thought I should be paying Grant, not vice versa. “Yes! Don’t sound so shocked. My job is to adore him.” I decided there was no way in hell I was telling Javier that I’d already had sex with Grant unless he asked me directly about it.

“I am so jealous of you right now. I want a weekend with billionaires in the Hamptons.”

“You’re making me nervous.” I walked to my room, carefully making sure I didn’t slosh my wine. “I’m going to study my lines.”

“All you need to know is ‘Yes, I would love another glass of champagne.’ The rest of the time you’ll just be staring at your hot fake boyfriend hating yourself for not being able to have sex with him.”

That sounded one hundred percent accurate.