Mister Fake Fiance

“No, no.” Erin waves her hand. “I don’t want to bother you. You need to expense this, remember? And I can’t leave my car, so… I’ll be fine.”

My mouth tightens. Why is she being so stubborn when she’s obviously unwell? “What if you get into an accident? Or feel too bad to continue driving?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be fine. I promise. Stay here with the team and have fun. I just need to go ho—I mean, your place—and lie down. That’s all.”

She turns and starts walking out. I hand my corporate card to Bart, my right-hand man in marketing. “I need to leave. Enjoy yourselves and charge it to my account.”

“Hope nothing’s wrong,” he says, taking the green AmEx.

I force a smile. “It’s fine. Just a small personal emergency.” I clasp his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Hey, thank you.” He salutes me with the card.

I head out. Erin’s already in her car. For a woman with a headache, she’s moving awfully fast.

“Erin!” I say. “Wait.”

She starts the engine. Is she ignoring me?

She might’ve not heard you.

Possible. But from the way she’s behaving, I’d also say it’s also very possible she’s just pretending not to hear me.

She takes off. I climb into my Lamborghini and follow. Just what the hell is up? She’s been cold, hot, cold… If she’s really sick, maybe she should go to the hospital. I remember Grandma Terry. She wasn’t feeling well, said it was just a headache…and then she keeled over. Aneurysm. That was scary as hell. And Mom blamed herself for not dragging Grandma Terry to the doctor’s to get checked out.

Not that I think Erin is going to keel over. But she’s very pale. And her eyes couldn’t seem to settle on anything when she came back from the bathroom.

Erin and I park next to each other more or less simultaneously in the garage. We climb out of our cars.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital,” I say, following her into the living room.

She stares at me like I’ve lost my mi

nd. “No.”

“Erin. You’re still really pale.”

“Of course I’m pale. I’m almost always inside. When do I have the time to get a tan?” It’s a poor attempt at joke.

I search her face. Her gaze is steadier now, which is good. But her trying to make light of her condition is annoying the crap out of me. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I know what’s wrong with me better than anybody. Like I said, I just need to lie down for a bit. You shouldn’t have left the bar.”

“Bart has my card. It’s fine. They’ll have more fun without the boss watching.”

She shakes her head. “I’m just a little stressed, and I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m going to head to bed now. You should go back. Have some fun with everyone. Seriously.”

Then she heads upstairs, her shoes clicking on the hard floor.

I stare after her, then shove my fingers through my hair. A little stress? Can it make her go pale that fast or make her feel bad enough to leave early?

On the other hand, I saw the way her chin and mouth firmed up. She isn’t going to go to the hospital. It’s clear that the more I try to talk about it, the more she’s going to dig her heels in. I don’t want to pull the boss card and order her to go. It’d be a dumb move anyway, since we’re off the clock.

I pour myself a finger of scotch and lean against the kitchen counter. Maybe her stress and insomnia really aren’t that serious. It could be she’s just worried about Grandma’s upcoming birthday party. She really doesn’t have many clothes, and could be thinking about that more than she lets on. Based on her wardrobe, I suspect maybe she doesn’t know exactly what to pick. Otherwise she wouldn’t have work clothes that all look so similar in style and color.

Maybe I should hire her a personal shopper and fashion consultant who can help her pick out some nice items, not just for Alexandra’s birthday party, but to make herself look good. People often feel better when they look their best.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. It’ll be my gift. A personal bonus for the huge improvement she’s made at work and especially for speaking up and salvaging the presentation.