Weekend Wife (Sassy in the City 1)

Did he have a right to withhold information from me?

I didn’t know. Maybe he did. At that point he had just wanted to hire me for an acting position.

Except we’d already had sex.

And now? It felt like he should have told me about the theater at some point in all those phone calls and days spent together.

What it told me was that if he wanted something, he was going to get it, even if he had to withhold information.

That was an unnerving thought.

I pulled my phone out of my dress pocket (pockets in a dress are the best thing ever) and saw that I had a text from Savannah.

Your video is BLOWING UP. I’m so happy for you!

Savannah was prone to exaggeration but out of curiosity I went and looked at the Ava Maria video. Suddenly it had over two hundred thousand views. What the hell? I was both thrilled and weirded out.

The second text from Savannah read: Also. JEALOUS. Look at how hot and cool you look.

She’d attached a picture of me. I was standing next to Grant in what had turned into a makeshift receiving line. Grant looked every inch the billionaire in his suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a crystal cocktail glass filled to the brim with expensive whiskey. I was smiling at a guest, acting the gracious hostess, like I belonged here. The backdrop was the wall of windows with a view of the water beyond. You could see the marble floor and other guests wandering past in designer clothing.

I saw that Savannah had found it on Grant’s cousin’s social media. The cousin I hadn’t even met yet. The caption was: Cuz and his bitch. Aunt Tiff’s anniversary party. #happyanniversary #35yearsoffuckingthesameguy. #dontdoit.

Charming. I was “his bitch.” I knew she meant it as an attempt at humor but it ticked me off.

My phone buzzed with another text message.

It was from Lou, my manager.

Partying with the rich guy in the Hamptons, huh? You said you were sick. After you taking all those days off with your ankle, sorry, kid, I have to let you go. Did you even really sprain your ankle? That’s the same guy who took you home that day.

My heart sank to my gut. Let me go? Was I fired?

I had lied about the weekend. I knew I couldn’t get more days off, so I had claimed I was sick. How the hell would Lou know I was in the Hamptons?

Fucking social media.

Savannah sent another picture of me and Gigi, arms wrapped around each other. I did pose for that one. Grant had taken it.

I was all over the damn internet looking like a socialite. A weekend wife. The kind a rich billionaire ignored all week, then trotted out at parties on Saturdays.

I texted my boss back, heart racing. I couldn’t lose my job. I’d been there three years and the tips were what kept me afloat.

I’ll make it up to you. Please don’t fire me. You know I’m a good server.

You used to be reliable. You’re not now. Sorry, but this is like a no-call/no-show. My hands are tied.

Frustrated and scared, I shoved my phone back in my pocket. I shivered and turned to stare into the living room of the Caldwells’ house.

Maybe I didn’t belong here.

The door opened and Grant stood in the doorway, the light behind him keeping his face in shadows. “Are you okay?” he asked. “It’s freezing out here.”

He started to peel his suit jacket off, clearly to offer it to me. My heart broke a little. He was a kind man. Or tried to be, despite being raised the way he had been.

Maybe we could talk. Maybe we could sort all of this out.

But at the moment all I could feel was a sense of panic that everything was changing and I had no control over any of it. I had lost my job and that terrified me. “I’m coming in. You can keep your jacket on.”