The Dirty Truth

Anyone can pretend they like someone else.

People do it every day.

I lost track of how many times I checked my text messages yesterday, hoping for a smart-mouthed, flirty quip from West to magically appear . . . only to get nothing. By the time today rolled around, my hope had deflated faster than a dollar store helium balloon.

Sunday night, I felt special.

Today I feel like a fool.

I should’ve known better than to fall for a single word out of his mouth. He’s a skilled salesman. A professional liar. That’s how he made his millions—by selling the illusion of hope.

“Yeah,” I say to Scarlett. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

But that’s all I’m saying.

From now on, we’re getting back on track and making Scarlett our main focus.

Our only focus.

No more detours.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

WEST

“Hey, I’m back.” Scarlett raps on the door of my study at a quarter past seven.

“You’re home early. Where’s Elle?” I glance up from my book—an advance copy of some inspirational self-help tome I’m thinking of pushing in July’s issue.

Scarlett squints. “Walking home . . . why?”

I imagine her halfway down the block by now.

“No reason.” I play it off with a shrug, given the fact that chasing after her isn’t an option. It would only beg questions from my niece that I’m not prepared to answer, and given the fact that Elle is currently upset with me, I don’t know that there’s an answer to give at the moment.

I should have called her.

But I’m not used to having to do that, nor am I used to sleeping with women who represent more than a means to a sexual end.

“Don’t you have some homework to do?” I ask Scarlett after she cooks me with the heat of her stare.

“You’re acting weird.”

“It’s been a long week, Scarlett.”

“It’s only Wednesday . . .”

I close my book. “Thank you for that news flash, but I’m aware.”

She rolls her eyes, turning to leave.

I deserve that (for once).

Reaching for my phone, I compose a quick text to Elle.

ME: Was planning on inviting you up for a drink.

ELLE: If that’s code for hooking up, I’m good.

ME: It’s not code for anything. Just wanted to see you. Come back. You’re, what, three blocks from here by now?

ELLE: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

ME: It’s a brilliant idea.

We need to finish our conversation. I despise how we left off on opposite pages of the same book. A single kiss could clear up that misunderstanding; I’m certain of it.

ELLE: And how would you explain that to Scarlett? Me randomly showing back up to have a nightcap with you?

Fair question.

I’ve been so buried this week with City Gent miscellany that I haven’t had time to think about what I’d say to Scarlett if she caught on to any of this.

ME: Then let me take you on a real date. What are you doing tomorrow night?

ELLE: Not going on a date with you . . .

ME: Pick you up at eight.

ELLE: West . . .

ME: Eight o’clock sharp. And wear that blue sweaterdress . . .

She leaves me on read, which I interpret as a begrudging yes.

But a yes, nonetheless.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ELLE

I run my hand down the front of my navy sweaterdress, plucking the skintight fabric that suffocates my curves—and then I promptly rip it off and toss it on my bed. I didn’t want to go on this date in the first place, but he blew my phone up all day today until I gave him a solid yes. Wearing the dress would only reward his stubborn persistence.

Not only that, but it’s ninety degrees out.

I change into a creamy linen dress with buttons down the front—a number that skews more cute than sexy. And then I finger comb my curls back into place before digging a pair of heels out from under my bed. Only in my quest for shoes, I manage to find a wayward, wrapped Dove white chocolate.

Peeling the foil off, I pop the faux chocolate into my mouth and read the message: You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I laugh through my nose. Am I?

Is this exactly where I’m supposed to be? Running around my room like a crazy woman, getting ready for a date I have no business going on?

But it’s too late to cancel.

I wiggle into my heels, tuck my phone in my bag, and head out of my room to wait for Prince Charming to roll up on his chauffeured steed.

“I knew you’d go,” Indie says from the sofa, her computer perched on her lap as she grabs the remote to pause the TV. “You nervous?”

“I’m a little bit of everything.”

Peeking out our living room window, I watch car after car roll past our building. My stomach somersaults when I spot his shiny black car in the distance. Gathering a lungful of stale apartment air, I head down to meet him.