Faking It to Making It

“So, does your young man know how you feel about him?”

“My young who?” Saskia said, shoving her legal pad back in her bag and practically shoving her head in with it to hide the rush of blood to her cheeks.

“Darling, this is my field, and I make a fine living at it. Lie to me, lie to him—I don’t care. Just don’t be silly enough to lie to yourself.”

Saskia closed her eyes shut tight, stopped fiddling and with a sharp outshot of breath that flicked a curl skyward she looked at Marlee and asked, “How?”

“Take a breath. Still your mind. Forget yourself. Follow your heart.”

“Now you sound like the romantic.”

“Do I?”

Saskia left not long after, her head spinning with everything Marlee Kent had given her. There were nuggets of gold for the infographic, quotes galore she and Lissy could weave into the piece. But as for the rest?

She knew she wanted to love and be loved. Growing up near invisible to the only family she’d ever had, she’d known that since before she even knew what the want deep in her belly meant.

As for what love looked like? On that score she’d done what she’d always done and used her head. She’d played the numbers, and shortened the odds by choosing men according to how her skill set would complement theirs. She was energetic, organised, liked being in charge and was quietly terrified that she was unlovable. And therefore had gravitated to a string of losers who’d...proven her theory over and over again.

Forget yourself, Marlee had said. Follow your heart.

Once at her car, Saskia stuck her key in the driver’s-side door—the remote locking hadn’t worked since Stu had hit the thing with the moving truck—then bumped the crumpled panel with her hip to pop the door open.

Take a breath. Still your mind.

She’d tried that after Stu had left, she honestly had. Even going so far as to attend a couple of Lissy’s power-yoga classes, which had sounded like a contradiction in terms and turned out to be exactly that.

But she’d been burned so badly she’d not have found love if it had jumped up in front of her with a flashing sign telling her what it was.

At least she was back on her feet financially and would soon be able to cut back on her overwhelming workload. She’d have time to breathe, time to date again. And maybe this time she’d give herself half a chance; with a little less fear, a little more forethought, a little more faith.

After the wedding.

After Nate.

She stuck the key in the ignition and then let her hand drop.

Marlee had told her not to lie to herself, and the God’s honest truth was that with the swarm of foreboding the woman had whipped up inside of her, all she wanted to do was go to Nate.

It was the strangest feeling. In fact it close to feeling a heck of a lot like need. Her hand shook a little as she dialled his mobile number. Shaking her hair from her ear, she waited for him to pick up.

“Saskia,” he said.

And even while she told herself it was mental, financial, sexual, mutually helpful, at times frustrating, his voice sent happy goosebumps all over her skin. “Can I come over tonight?”

When silence ensued she clamped her eyes shut tight and said, “Ever since you described your place I’ve imagined a deer head on the wall above your bed. I can’t sleep for not knowing if I’m right.”

“Well,” he said finally, “I’d hate to be the reason you can’t sleep. How’s eight?”

“Eight’s great.”

“Bring your PJs. For helping with the sleeping.”

“One problem with that.”

“Hmm?”

“I never wear any. No word of a lie.”

* * *

“Texas,” Saskia said, her voice far away, drowsily running her finger around the edges of the birthmark on Nate’s naked thigh. “I honestly see Texas.”

“It’s roundish,” he murmured, lifting his heavy head a half an inch off the padded edge of his big deep tub before letting it drop. His fingers never stopped trailing lazily up and down her feet, which were propped on his shoulder.

Saskia slipped an inch lower, revelling in the hot water, the decadent bubbles, the dreamy sound of Nat King Cole playing through Nate’s fancy system, too deep in afterglow to do much more than blink fuzzily at the fake—as it turned out—rhinoceros head suspended on the stark grey wall over Nate’s shoulder.

“Unless you’re a contortionist,” she said, “or handy with a mirror, you’d never know.”

“I’ve been told. By women of good authority.”

“How’s that? Did your sisters pin you down and measure it out?”