Faking It with the Frenemy

“I’d rather lick a fire hydrant in a dog park.”

“Do you want me to set up a date with him?” she asks.

Maybe the fire hydrant analogy wasn’t clear enough. The ear-to-brain filter that lets her hear only what she wants to is not only highly efficient, it seems to be indestructible.

“You know what, Mom? The reception here in the office is horrible. Oh, gee, I’m losing the connection.” I make some hissing static noises and hang up.

Unlike my mother, I actually have a career and a life, one that doesn’t revolve around prowling for and pursuing rich bachelors. Me kicking ass at my job proves I’m not like Mom, and I never am going to be like her.

Ever.

And as soon as I get my bonus, I’m going to tell her I need a sugar daddy about as much as a Chihuahua needs a kale salad.

My phone beeps with a new text. Ugh. Mom should just get the hint that I’m not interested. I pick it up, about to tell her I just dropped my phone and won’t be able to talk or text with her for the next decade.

–Salazar: Join me for lunch at noon. Éternité.

I stare at the message. Why does he want me to join him? If this were like even two years ago, I might’ve wondered if I was getting canned. Salazar has a certain…infamous MO. Step One: hire, as his assistant, a beautiful woman he wants to fuck, regardless of her ability or résumé. Brain definitely optional. Step Two: fire her for being incompetent. Step Three: screw her.

One of the reasons I have some respect and credibility is that he didn’t fire me. That, according to everyone I know, means I’m too good at my job, which means I’m likely to be his first assistant to get the bonus.

But lunch? At a place as fancy as Éternité? It’s the type of place you might take a date or maybe some business associates you want to impress, not your assistant. And it isn’t like today is particularly special—not my birthday or work anniversary or anything.

On the other hand, maybe Salazar thinks I’ve done something to warrant a nice lunch. I shouldn’t question the free meal. Éternité has the most amazing crème brûlée, worth at least an ovary or a kidney.

I check the time. Need to hurry if I want to be there five minutes before noon. I believe in being just slightly earlier than my boss.

Chapter Two

Wyatt

You’d think coming into a billion-plus dollars would make a person’s problems go away.

Fact is, it doesn’t.

People who I didn’t know were my friends are contacting me, and people who I didn’t know were my enemies are hating on me. My social media accounts are so flooded that I’m not even looking at them anymore.

But, most important, all my new money hasn’t found me a suitable date for my ex-wife’s wedding.

Normally I wouldn’t bother, because I don’t particularly wish her well. Not that I wish her ill. I just don’t give a damn.

But my ten-year-old daughter needs closure. The counselor she was seeing back in Corn Meadows mentioned that attending the wedding might do her some good. I’m skeptical, myself…but what do I know about child psychology?

So here I am, my butt planted in a plush booth in a fancy Japanese-French fusion restaurant. Éternité has a waiting list that probably stretches halfway to Kansas, but we got a table immediately because Dane arranged everything. One of his brothers owns the place.

I tap the edge of the cream-colored leather-bound menu and take in my surroundings. The place is airy and bright, with lots of natural light. Translucent hangings with intricate embroidery from the ceiling create an illusion of elegant privacy. Even though it’s not even noon, the place is already buzzing with conversation and the clink of silverware and glass. Probably corporate types with fat expense accounts and people with lots of money.

I don’t like it. Not even a little.

Dane glances in my direction, his blue gaze sharp as a straight razor. “What’s wrong?”

“Not to be ungrateful or anything, but some of this stuff looks a little…iffy.” I gesture at the menu.

Nothing in his expression changes. But that’s him—Mr. Poker Face. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, his voice cool.

“Just listen to this.” I read off the menu to make sure I get it right. “Seared sashimi-grade otoro drizzled with wasabi-infused citrus sauce. Just what the hell is otoro, and…do people actually eat it?”

“It’s a high-grade cut of tuna. Tasty.”