Weekend Wife (Sassy in the City 1)

Unless I opened my mouth and made something different happen.

But before I could think of what, if anything, I wanted to say, Leah climbed out of bed. “I need coffee.”

I wasn’t ready to change her mind.

And I didn’t think she was ready to hear it.

For now, we were still faking it.

“This is Sagaponack,” Grant said as we drove through a quaint little town of restaurants and shops.

There was lots of clapboard and cedar shingles. It didn’t look outrageously wealthy, just very New England and for sure upscale, but not the flash of the West Coast.

“It’s very cute. Did you spend a lot of time here?” I was glad he’d chosen to drive us personally instead of having his driver, though the interior of his sports car was like nothing I’d ever seen. There was no propping my feet on this dash in this luxury machine. It had been a calm drive, with easy conversation between us. It was always easy to talk to Grant.

“In the summers, yes.”

As Grant drove through the town and out onto a road, the water appeared, along with massive houses sprawling behind manicured lawns and seafront grasses. “Wow. Okay, these are mansions,” I said.

Grant glanced over at me. “These are bungalows in Sagaponack terms.”

I was bouncing on my seat, excited. “This is like being on a movie set. It’s so perfect it doesn’t even look real.”

“The water is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Is your parents’ house by the water? Can we take a walk later?” I felt like a kid on vacation. I was out of the city. I hit the button so the window went down halfway. “I can smell the water, this is amazing. Fresh air. It’s real.” If anyone tries to tell you New York doesn’t frequently smell like garbage and old fish, they’re lying. Or they don’t work on the block I do.

“The house is on the water. Trust me, my mother will tell you the house is shit. That she wants to tear it down and rebuild but they can’t get the proper permits, and she only bought the house from her parents for the view. The truth is there is nothing wrong with the house, it’s just not what she wants, but she actually prefers complaining to remodeling.”

“Good information to have. So I should talk about how dated it is?” I gave him a grin.

“Oh my God, please don’t.” Then Grant tilted his head a little. “Actually, that might be funny. No, never mind. I don’t want you to be intimidated by my mother but I don’t want you to be outright rude either. That’s her style.”

“Got it. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t be rude. Got it. I’ve auditioned in front of some of the biggest egos in New York. I honestly think I can handle it.” I did. If Grant and I were an actual couple I might be more nervous. Since we weren’t, I just had the usual pre-show jitters that were more excitement than anxiety.

“Did I mention that my family calls me Eddie?”

“Eddie?” That did not fit him at all.

He nodded. “Too many Grants. Edward is my middle name.”

“I’m not calling you Eddie.”

“I don’t expect you to. It was just a heads-up. Here it is,” Grant said, pulling into a lane that led to an enormous Cape Cod. “Prepare to earn your paycheck.”

Oh. Right. The money. For being a fake girlfriend.

Because this wasn’t real. We weren’t even actually friends. We weren’t dating, getting to know each other. I’d been reminding myself of that the entire time, but why was it jarring when Grant said it?

I knew why and I’d been wrestling with it for twenty-four hours like it was an alligator and I was knee-deep in the bayou.

It was jarring because I didn’t want it to be fake anymore. I wanted it to be real. Not kind of, but from the depths of my soul. Which was stupid, because nothing was different than before. Yes, I’d gotten to know Grant a little better and I enjoyed his company, but he was still a rich workaholic who was used to buying whatever he wanted and was resistant to a relationship. I was an optimistic financially strapped actress (though not so much anymore thanks to him, hence half the issue) who also didn’t want a relationship because I needed to focus on my career now.

And yet?

?? my insides felt like the creamy center of a truffle. Gooey.

But not only was it fake, it was a contractual agreement. That I had signed, insisting that we not have sex the entire weekend.