The Fortunate Ones

He rocks back on his heels and glances away. His eyes narrow, and I almost think he’s mulling over what he’s about to say before he finally admits, “I could really use your help.”

That’s how he says it, just vague enough that I have no way of knowing what he’s referring to.

“With what?”

He graciously ignores the high-pitched inflection of my words as he replies, “I’m attending a party soon, and I’d like you to accompany me.” A DATE? THIS IS AN INVITATION TO GO OUT ON A DATE. “My company is in need of a new CFO and the man I’d like for the job will be in attendance, as will his French girlfriend.”

I shake my head, confused. Why is he giving me all these extraneous details? It’s a date—tell me what time you’re picking me up and let’s get this show on the road!

He smiles gently before he continues, “You mentioned the other day that you’re fluent in French…”

Of course. Duh. He doesn’t want me for romance, he wants me for my Romance languages.

“So you want me to keep his date company for you?”

A normal, decent human would at least act embarrassed by the bluntness of my question. Not James.

He gazes directly at me as he replies, “Exactly.”

I spend a moment trying to decide how his request makes me feel. It’s not a date, that much is clear, but that doesn’t mean I should turn him down. For the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been replaying our conversation in the bar so often that I could recite it word for word on a Broadway stage in sync with music. But, if I’m going to agree to this, I want to know exactly where I stand.

“So I’d be some sort of secret linguistic weapon?”

He smiles and then wipes it away, like he’s entirely too amused by the question. God, he’s good-looking up close, all hard lines and contours with a pair of lips he can maneuver into one hell of a tempting smile.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I continue on a shaky voice. “It feels a bit like being used.”

“Would you rather I lied?” he asks with an arched brow.

Yes.

“No.”

“Good, because I think honesty is important. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”

I nod and do my best to slip into the persona he wants from me. “What’s in it for me? Will there be good food?”

He chuckles. “Plenty, and of course, Jack and Coke.”

He’s alluding to my drink from the other night. I’m surprised he remembers; maybe he’s replayed our encounter a time or two as well. The thought emboldens me.

I shrug. Cool. Effortless. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Still, I need to know my role. Online, I wasn’t able to find anything about a girlfriend or wife, but it’s not like his entire life is plastered on Google. He’s not a celebrity, at least not outside of Austin.

“So you’ll introduce me as your friend then?” I ask before quickly adding, “I just want to play my part right.”

Beneath dark brows, his coffee-brown eyes regard me with bold interest. “I’ll introduce you however you’d like.”

The way he says it ensures I catch his meaning. It’s an invitation.

But then he’s tugging out his phone and tapping away, dowsing the tension between us with a big bucket of ice water.

“I’ll have my assistant drop off something for you to wear. What’s your email address? She’ll need to know your dress size.”

I’m offended. “I can pick something up myself.”

Thanks to my dad and Martha, I’ve attended plenty of fundraisers and galas. I know how to dress for an occasion.

He shakes his head, no room for negotiations as he hands over his iPhone, open to a new contact page. I fill in my name, and though he only asked for my email, I give him my number too. Maybe it’s forward, or maybe it’s expected. I’ll never know, because just then Little Miss Virgin Piña Colada shouts about how slow the service is here. I have to get back to work.

The moms stationed by the kiddie pool spend the rest of my shift trying to pry details of our conversation out of me. I keep my lips zipped, but it doesn’t help. By the end of the day, the entire club has heard about my poolside rendezvous with James.CHAPTER SEVENIt’s Saturday, and James’ party is tonight. I know this thanks to Beth, his assistant. She and I have been in constant communication since I agreed to be James’ secret weapon. Thank goodness for her, because the man himself has yet to use those nine digits I programmed into his phone. Would it have killed him to call or text to confirm that I still wanted to go? Maybe that way we could have gotten to know each other a little better and I wouldn’t be so freaking nervous about tonight. The details I’ve gleaned from Beth aren’t nearly sufficient.