The Husband Game

Still.

Eventually, I settle on one of my old standards: a little black dress with one strap, knee-length but tight and rouched, so it shows off my curves without being scandalously skintight. It’s a standard for a reason, one of those dresses you can make look super fancy or pretty sexy, depending on the accessories.

Tonight, I pair it with kitten heels—not too high, or at least, not so high that I’ll trip over my own two feet, since I can be a bit clumsy in high heels—a simple gold necklace and a clutch bag I got from Fiona. One of the big designer brands that occasionally send her free stuff in a bid to get featured articles about their products on the website. Whenever she doesn’t like the stuff they send, she always passes it along to me. Sometimes I keep them for myself; other times I resell them to make a little extra cash, because hey, a girl’s gotta eat, and a writing salary doesn’t exactly make me bank.

As if she’s reading my mind, my phone dings with a text from Fiona. How’s it going?

Going on our first date tonight. So far so good.

Great. Make sure to take note of all the details for the first installment of the article. I’m thinking you’ll want to really play up the romance and the sweetness in the first article, to make it really hit home when things fall apart in the final installment.

My stomach surges with nerves. She’s giving me editorial notes on my whole relationship. I chew on the corner of my lip for a moment before I respond. I feel a little weird about all of this. Like I’m setting up some kind of… I don’t know, straw man relationship to trick people into rooting for.

Hey girl, business is business. Trust me, everyone does stuff like this. It’s how you make nonfiction really sing.

Maybe, I reply, still not sure.

Don’t worry. This will all pay off in the end, Fi writes back, along with a little hug emoji that does nothing to soothe the nerves pounding in my skull.

But she’s right. I need to stop viewing this as a romantic relationship. Just like I told Charlie earlier today when I went to ask him about doing this. This is business. Nothing more. I need to view tonight as a writing assignment, the way I’d plan for any other interview or assignment.

Somehow, telling myself that does not decrease the amount of angry butterflies bashing against my stomach’s walls, though.

By the time I have the outfit together and my nerves soothed, I barely have time to dash on some makeup before my phone timer goes off, announcing it’s 7PM. Barely a second after that, my intercom rings, and my stomach does a funny little lurch in anticipation.

There’s Charlie. Right on time. For some reason, even though I haven’t known him for long at all, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s the punctual type.

I flash myself one last once-over in the mirror, grab my coat, and then I hurry out of the apartment, doing my best not to stumble in the unfamiliar heels, one hand on the stairwell banister the whole way down. At the bottom, in the hallway, I straighten the hem of my dress one last time and fling the door open, then…

Freeze.

Because damn.

Charlie Cross cleans up fucking well.

I see him through the glass doors in the lobby, in a suit and tie, one hand in his back pocket, that little smirk of his playing around the edges of his lips. It widens the second he catches sight of me, and his eyes do that slow drag thing down my body, making me feel warm and hot all over, like I can feel every place where his gaze lands on my skin. I suck in a sharp little breath and open the lobby door, and have to suppress a shiver. To disguise the latter, I go to put on my coat—or at least, I try to. But I’ve barely moved before Charlie offers a hand, and I realize what he wants.

I swallow and pass the coat to him. He holds it out, letting me slide my arms easily into the sleeves. As he pushes it up to my shoulders, he leaves his hands there, lingering for a moment as he leans in close, his lips grazing the edge of my earlobe as he whispers.

“You look incredible tonight.”

I force what I hope looks like a casual smile of agreement and turn to flash him the same lingering up and down look, pointed. “So do you,” I reply, and I really fucking mean it.

He laughs softly. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.” He actually holds the door for me to pass, then draws it shut behind us. He walks ahead to the curb, where I notice his little sedan parked, a sporty model—nothing top of the line, but expensive enough that I’m pretty sure he’s not at college on a scholarship, I’ll just say that.