Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Oh, you know, something simple.”
She narrows her eyes. “A little more info would be nice. Don’t you think?”
No, Bibi. I don’t think it would be nice. I have no idea what you’re talking about. “Simple and stylish,” I say with a smile that masks my confusion.
She taps her chin. “Red? Black? Green? Fur-lined?”
“Not fur,” I say, aghast. “Does anyone wear fur? Never fur.”
She stares at me like I’ve lost it. “Fake fur, Fable. Fake fur. Do I look like a murderer?”
“No. Of course not,” I say, chastened. “Definitely not a murderer.”
“So, fake fur then,” she says. I still have no clue if she’s asking about a fun new coat or a saucy Mrs. Claus dress. “Now, what about shoes?”
“Something fun but comfy. You know,” I say breezily. But inside, I’m stewing about how Wilder might need some lessons on timely texting. Like, oh, say, providing relevant info before his aunt ambushes me.
“Well, isn’t that always the goal?” Bibi pauses to look at her phone, I suspect to check her calendar. “Are you free tonight, then?”
I can’t pretend I know what she’s talking about anymore. “For what exactly?”
She flashes a soft smile. “For an appointment with my stylist of course. Arbor will make sure you have a fantastic dress for the team party Thursday night. Mac brought it up this morning on the way to the office. She said you’d mentioned you’d need something to wear.”
Ah, that’s it! The team party! And I must be going with my Christmas boyfriend. And his clever daughter covered for me this morning. Damn, that’s impressive espionage for an eleven-year-old. But Thursday night is my paint-and-sip class with Josie, Everly, and Maeve. Josie finagled her way into that class with her double kidney sale. I’d hate for both of her kidneys to go to waste.
But telling Bibi I can’t go to the event could topple this fake-dating plan like a flimsy house of cards.
Weighing my options, I decide I’ll have to miss the class. “Of course. My bad. I had so much on my mind with the launch of the new merch I forgot it was coming up. And I definitely need a dress.”
Well, I don’t want to make a liar of Mac.
Bibi pats my arm sympathetically. “I’ll send a car for you tonight. I’ll make sure Arbor has a nice glass of Veuve Clicquot waiting. You deserve to relax as he styles you for such a big party.”
Tension slams into me at those words—big party. It’s one thing to pretend to be a billionaire’s girlfriend at a bridal shower amongst a few dozen friends (and one terrible ex). But in three nights’ time we’ll be among million-dollar athletes and the glitterati of the city. That’s who goes to the team holiday party—chairpersons of Fortune 500 companies who sponsor the team. Heads of charities that partner with them. Players and partners of players.
I don’t know what to say. Except—“Thank you.”
It comes out awkwardly. I feel a little awkward.
“I’ll be there too,” she adds in a reassuring whisper, perhaps sensing my nerves. “Don’t you worry one bit.”
It’s kind that she offers me support for a party, but it also makes me wonder—am I a little My Fair Lady in Wilder’s glittery world?
The second Shay shuts the door to Wilder’s office behind me, I wheel on my fake boyfriend. I’m a little irked that he left me hanging. “You need lessons in texting,” I whisper-hiss, shaking the gift I’m holding for him.
“Why?” he asks with genuine confusion as he comes around his big desk, walking toward me, looking like a million dollars in dark slacks, a crisp burgundy button-down, and a tie that’s almost silvery in color. “Do I need to use lingo like HMU?” He sounds horrified at the thought of shortened lingo for hit me up as he gestures for me to take a seat on the dove gray couch.
“No, you need to use words and sentences and give me info,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I’m still sweating from that encounter with Bibi as I grip his gift, sending all the tension in me into the bag containing a crocheted ornament. “Your aunt ambushed me about the team party!”
As he sits on the navy-blue chair, I relate what went down in the hall with the fake fur and the stylist and Mac saying I needed a dress.
He alternates between chuckling and wincing, before asking with an amused lift in his brow, “She actually said that? Do I look like a murderer?”
“Yes! She did. And I still had no clue it was the team party,” I say, plucking at my blouse.
I slump farther onto the couch, wishing I could curl up and nap. That was exhausting.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says with genuine remorse. “It truly slipped my mind.”
“And she’s sending me to her stylist. He’ll probably hate my hair and tell me to do ten million crunches.”