Well, no, scratch that. I hadn’t wished to be invisible, just maybe slightly less visible than I was now. College-level visible would be nice right now.
Half the night buried in the minibar of my room, thinking of how hard I’ve worked to get to where I am, and knowing damn well how fucking stupid it would be to throw that away for a hummer from the junior commissioner’s daughter and a pending DUI.
Derek’s idea is fucking ludicrous, but it honestly might save my ass. Also my career’s ass, and my bank account’s ass.
Except Derek’s idea involves a portfolio full of…what, ‘professional fake wives?’ Jesus Christ, that’s a hard no. Going through a damn resume and picking some girl based off what I can’t even imagine are criteria for a job like fake wife sounds depressing as shit. It’s medieval is what it is.
Yeah, I’m willing to humor the idea of Derek’s plan, but I’m doing it my way. And my way does not involve resumes and headshots and fucking references.
Oh, and the other half the night? I smirk to myself. Well shit, the other half the night I’d spent thinking about the crazy girl in the little black dress who’d rocked my damn world with that kiss. I’d been up ‘til fucking dawn thinking of those honeyed lips tasting vaguely of gin and the promise of something wild. Those big blue eyes - the ones that looked right through me and didn’t seem to give a fuck who I was, or what news headlines I’d commanded that day.
Okay, in fairness, it was more her somehow having no fucking idea who I was than the ridiculous notion of “looking through who I was”, but who’s counting.
Like I said, it’s been a weird fucking morning.
“Ice cream?”
I shrug at the disheveled girl in the passenger seat - disheveled, I might add, in the most alluring way freaking possible.
“Yeah, ice cream. It’s this frozen dairy thing you eat out of a-”
“Yeah, no, I know what ice cream is.”
I grin at her. “Well good, we’re on the same page.”
She gives me a look, arching a brow at me.
“What’s wrong with ice cream?”
“Nothing, it’s just-”
“Awesome? It’s just awesome?”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
I shrug. “We could go get a beer instead.”
Natalie’s face scrunches up as she grimaces. “Ugh, hard pass.”
“Ice cream it is, then.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to look out the side window, and I shake my head again at the idea that she doesn’t even know who I am. I was willing to chalk it up to her being drunk, or me being out of place in that bar last night, but as the morning played out to this very moment, it’s becoming more and more obvious that I was right the first time.
She legitimately has no idea who I am, and shit is that refreshing.
We drive in silence before I pull up to the road side ice cream spot out by the beach. Natalie gives me a strange look, but still doesn’t say anything when I pull on a baseball hat and big sunglasses before stepping from the car.
I grab a cone - her, a cup - and head over to this little picnic table way off to the side away from everyone. For the fourth time that morning, I catch myself staring at her. Damn is she gorgeous. She’s got this broken Cinderella look going on, and not just because of the party dress, half-wet hair, and those heels she’s still carrying around instead of wearing. She’s got class, and poise, however hungover she is, that much is obvious. This girl comes from somewhere and something important.
“You need someone who fits the part…someone classy, someone with poise.”
Derek’s words from our ridiculous conversation rattle through my mind as I watch Natalie eating her ice cream with a plastic spoon, licking at it daintily - furtively. It’s almost hot, in this weird sexy way, but also fucking hilarious to watch.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
She frowns. “What, eat ice cream? Yeah, of course.”
“You sure about that?”
She stops, licking strawberry from her pink lips before narrowing her eyes at me.
“Look, why do you keep stepping in?”
I snort. “Hey, eat it however your little heart desires, princess.”
“No, I mean, why do you keep stepping in and trying to save me?”
I frown at the word “keep”, like this is some routine thing I’m doing to the point of annoying her.
“Well, last night I was watching a douche get handsy with a cute, drunk looking girl at a bar.”
She blushes.
“And today, because why not. You looked like you were getting shafted, so I ‘stepped in.’”
She raises a brow at me, like she’s trying to figure me out. “You paid twelve-hundred dollars for my hotel room.”