Wife Wanted (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance)(82)

 

 

 

I lay on my bed twiddling with the pre-invitation, or was it a save-the-date card? I knew better than to let Amy's crazy decisions override my common sense. It didn't make sense to dress up, wear a necklace that wasn't for me, and attend a party I wasn't technically invited to. Alarms might go off as I stepped into the building. Nick Saunders could rip the necklace off my neck and call the cops on me.

 

 

 

If I ever had a chance of working for his empire, impersonating someone else at his ball would destroy it. Saunders owned most of the city, so if I ever wanted a decent job in this town, the sensible thing to do was place that call and return everything to the right Sara.

 

 

 

Unless I wanted to work at the coffee shop until my hair turned gray.

 

 

 

I grabbed my cell phone and punched the numbers on the card but hesitated to push the "talk" button. I stared at the phone until it timed out, then I did it again. What if Amy was right? All the good breaks I've had in life were due to Amy's input. She helped me get accepted into the college of my dreams and obtain a scholarship that covered most of my expenses. I still had to get student loans, but it would have been worse without the scholarships. She encouraged me to apply for jobs that I would never have had the courage to consider. Unfortunately, due to the economy souring, I wasn't able to get the job of my dreams with Saunders. So she had gotten me a job at the coffee shop while we looked for other jobs.

 

 

 

What was the worst that could happen if I did go to the ball? It wasn't my fault I got an invitation card addressed to me. If Nick Saunders got mad, I would simply return the necklace, apologize, and let myself out. Maybe if they needed a waitress, I could volunteer to help and earn some extra money while I was there.

 

 

 

Common sense, which had been escaping me more often recently, demanded that I call and inform them I had been accidentally invited. I punched the numbers on the phone again and pressed send. It rang a few times and went to a voicemail.

 

 

 

"This is Nick Saunders. Please leave a message."

 

 

 

Shit! The number was Nick's personal cell phone? The real Sara Nolles must be important enough to have direct access to him. I quickly hung up the phone as the beep sounded to leave a message. I was not going to leave a message for the richest man in town. What would I say to him? Hi Nick, you invited me to a party and sent me this lovely necklace, but I can't go and I can't wear it because I'm not the real Sara Nolles. But my friend Amy thinks I should go, so I wanted to make sure it was okay with you.

 

 

 

Okay, that sounded dumb. Real Sara Nolles? When did I become the fake Sara? Maybe if I dialed again and just said that I got an invitation by error and wanted to get a return address? That sounded more reasonable and more adult.

 

 

 

I picked up the phone again and punched the number for the millionth time. What if he picked up? Was I ready to talk to him? Rich men frightened me. Maybe all that money and fame rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn't going to call him. I'll just drop by one of their offices on Monday and drop off the card with a note. I could ask him to have someone call me to arrange to pick up the necklace so I made sure it got back to him. I couldn't imagine how expensive the necklace was and how much trouble I could be in if I lost it.

 

 

 

With my decision firmly made, I got out of bed and put on some shorts and a tee. It was still early enough to go for another walk or even run a mile or two. As I laced my sneakers, strapped on my running watch, and cranked up the music on my headphones, I knew I had made a good decision regarding the party.

 

 

 

When I returned from my run, three miles and thirty minutes later, Amy was sitting in my apartment. I swear the way she showed up at my apartment as she pleased, it's hard to imagine she didn't live there.

 

 

 

"Running away from home?" I asked as I opened my door and found her sprawled on my bed flipping through the latest copy of Fashionette magazine. "Blueberry pancakes," I murmured as the familiar smell of her delicious pancakes hit my nose. Amy was the cook between the two of us. I always opted for carry-out and didn't think twice about ordering food for every meal.

 

 

 

"Vanilla blueberry pancakes," she corrected. "You didn't have any sausage or bacon."

 

 

 

"Maybe because I hardly cook," I pointed out. “And maybe because I’m not a big meat person.”

 

 

 

"Maybe you should cook once in a while," she said as she got out of the bed and walked to the tiny kitchen. “And maybe you should buy sausage.”