“I don’t think that I did, actually,” I told her. “But I’m willing to change the subject. That’s a small backpack. Do you have everything in there you need for the weekend?” The door opened on my floor and I put my arm across it so Leah could exit first.
“I hope so. I have toiletries, makeup, a bra for that cocktail dress, and three thongs.”
“No pajamas?” If she intended to sleep naked, that was both amazing and brutal. But I’d made a promise not to touch her. I opened my apartment door for her.
She gestured to her current outfit. “I can sleep in this.”
That was fucking disappointing. “You’re going to get hot in that sweatshirt.”
“Nah. I don’t sweat.” She looked around my living room. “Oh my God, is this the clothes you got for me to wear? It’s like twenty-five boxes!”
“It’s just a lot of tissue and packing materials. After we eat, we can put everything into your luggage.” I eyed her backpack again. “Did you pack shoes? I know you’re in a committed relationship with your slippers right now, but I would prefer you not wear them all weekend.” I couldn’t even picture how much attention she would receive—and none of it good—if she shuffled around the Hamptons in slippers.
“I brought one pair of ballet flats.”
I eyed her ankle as I closed my door and kicked off my sandals. “How is your sprain?” I could make a phone call and get her some heels for the actual anniversary party. It had been ten days and I didn’t want her to reinjure herself, but we needed a slipper alternative.
“It’s fine.”
I didn’t believe her. She looked like she was trying to say what I wanted to hear. I decided I would get some sneakers and she could go for a very cool and young Rihanna kind of look, with a sexy dress and Kicks. I set her backpack down on my sofa.
“Are you hungry now?” I asked as I went and poured her a glass of sangria. It wasn’t my best work, but it was short notice sangria. I handed it to her.
Leah took a sip and said, “I’m starving. Let’s do this thing. How can I help? Though I have to warn you I never cook. You saw my kitchen. We pretty much have an Easy Bake oven.”
“I’m not a great cook either but this is just vegetables in a wok. We can’t screw it up.”
“You underestimate my ability to screw things up.” Leah gave me a grin. She sipped her sangria.
I made myself a Sazerac because that’s what I had said in my text. I had a decent at-home bar because while I don’t usually have more than one drink, I wanted the option of being able to make whatever I was in the mood for.
“This is a nice apartment,” Leah said. “Your kitchen is amazing.”
“Thanks. I’ve been happy with it. It’s the open concept I like.”
Leah leaned on the island and watched me. “What is that?”
“A Sazerac.”
Understanding dawned on her. “Of course. What’s in it?” She reached for one of the bottles I had set down.
“Rye. Bitters. Sugar. Lemon. Absinthe on the rim if you have it, which I don’t.”
“Can I taste it?”
“As my fake girlfriend, whatever’s mine is yours.”
“I think that applies to spouses only.”
I handed her my mixed drink. “Maybe we’ll have to upgrade our status.” That would get my parents off my ass for years. In the meantime, I could take measures to secure my position at the company and make sure my father’s stipulations were null and void.
Leah choked on the Sazerac. “Are you serious? Grant. Marriage isn’t something to joke about or fake. It’s a serious commitment.”
I shrugged. “Not to my parents. They’ve made their own rules up as they went.”
She studied me. “That doesn’t mean you have to behave the same way as them.”
“I haven’t. That’s why I’m not married. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” I was a lot of things—workaholic, aggressive, confident—but I wasn’t dishonest.