Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Her,” he said, staring right at me. Possibly the only time we’d made direct eye contact. It was like looking into the sun. I was all but blinded. The man was just too much.
“What?!” Angie shrieked.
I froze. He couldn’t be referring to me. Not unless it was in the context of a “you are totally clumsy and not getting a tip today” sort of thing.
“You cannot be serious,” Angie all but spluttered, looking me over, her eyes wide as twin moons. “She’s so . . . average.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with enthusiasm.
Wow, harsh. I was pretty in my own way. Beige skin and long, wavy blond hair. A freckle or two on my face. As for my body, not everyone in this city had to be stick thin. But whatever. The important thing was, I was a nice person. Most of the time. And I was kind. Or at least, I tried to be. Personal growth can be tricky.
“Enjoy your meal,” I said with a frown on my face.
“Sit down a minute.” Patrick gestured to the space beside him in the booth. “Please.”
Instead, I crossed my arms.
“I want to talk to you about a job opportunity.”
Angie made a strangled noise.
“I have a job,” I said. “Actually, I have two.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“You’ve got to be joking,” hissed Angie. “They’ll never believe it.”
“Norah,” I said.
“Hey, Norah. I’m Patrick.”
“I know,” I deadpanned.
He almost smiled. There was a definite twitch of the lips. For someone whose charm-laden devil-may-care grin had graced billboards all over the country, he sure knew how to keep that sucker under wraps. “How’d you like to make some serious money?”
“Don’t say another word until she’s signed an NDA.” With a hand clutched to her chest, Angie appeared to be either hyperventilating or having a heart attack. “I mean it!”
Patrick just sighed. “Angie, relax. I’ve been coming in here for years and she’s never once put anything on social media or taken a creeper shot. I bet you haven’t told a soul about me, have you, Norah?”
So I respected his privacy. So sue me. I also kind of liked hearing him say my name. Him just knowing it was a thrill. Definite weakness of the knees. “You seem to enjoy the anonymity.”
“Even stopped that girl from asking me for an autograph.”
“The owner’s daughter,” I said. “She’s still not talking to me.”
Another almost-smile. There was definite amusement in his pretty blue eyes.
Angie downed the last of her boxed wine in one large gulp.
Patrick and I stared at each other like it was a contest. Who would dare look away first? Me, apparently.
“What’s the job?” I asked.
“I’d need you full time for a couple of months,” he said.
“A year, and live-in,” corrected Angie.
Patrick cringed. “Six months and live-in. No more.”
With a wave of her fingers, Angie relented.
I cleared my throat. “Um, doing what, exactly? Being your gofer or an assistant or something? Or do you need like a housekeeper or a cleaner?”
“No,” he said, calm as can be. “I want you to be my fake girlfriend.”
CHAPTER TWO
Patrick Walsh lived in The Bird Streets in West Hollywood—which was about as exclusive and expensive as can be. The car dropped me at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac up in the hills above the Sunset Strip. I peered in through the bars of the gate at a private driveway disappearing around a bend. Lots of greenery, mostly succulents and olive trees. The only landscaping around my previous apartment building had been the parking lot with overflowing trash bins.
I took a deep breath and tried to summon some courage. Any would do. Because without a doubt, this was a bad idea. Just an awful, terrible idea. Yet here I was, contract signed and cash in hand. A great deal of it. And there’d be more to come. I’d already been able to move Gran into her own room at a much nicer nursing home with better care and facilities. I’d also quit my jobs and given up my apartment. Talk about standing on the edge of a precipice.
All of a sudden, the gate started opening, and I stepped back in surprise. Guess someone was watching the security cameras. The wheels on my battered suitcase rattled along the asphalt behind me. I’d brought along only a few of my favorite things and left the bulk of my belongings in storage. They’d be providing the necessary Hollywood girlfriend wardrobe. Whatever that entailed.
And this was fine. Everything would be great. I was a grown-ass woman who could totally do this. This was an adventure to be both embraced and enjoyed.
Heck yes.
I believed this right up until I saw him standing in the doorway of a white, sprawling single-story building that was either modern or mid-century, or a bit of both. The house was cool, but it didn’t compare to yet again seeing Patrick Walsh in the flesh. He was like a work of art, more than deserving of the pedestal he sat upon. You can’t grow up in LA without seeing celebrities, but this was different. How his presence hit me in the heart and loins. Maybe I’d never get used to him. Annoying and embarrassing, given that he was now my boss.