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And yes, technically, I did apply for a job where I’d be working with him as my boss.
But I didn’t know he worked there.
And sure, you may think I’m bitter because he didn’t hire me, but I’m not.
I hate to admit it, but the rumor is true. He did find me working at a strip club the following week. Times are hard.
I understand why many may say he did me a favor by hiring me to pretend to be his fake fiancé.
But he only did it to fulfill the requirements of his trust, which is pretty self-serving in my eyes.
No, it wasn’t self-serving for him to recommend me for admission to your esteemed law school, but I only feel it right to let you know.
I hope this doesn’t affect my chances for admission.
Yours Sincerely,
Zara Hathaway
“Don’t be stupid, Zara,” I whisper to myself as I shift in the bed. A loud groan emanates from beside me, and I freeze. I look over to my left and see a bemused Jackson staring at me. A very naked Jackson.
Okay, so maybe I’m a bit stupid to write the letter while still in bed with Jackson. And maybe what we have isn’t just a one-night stand, but one thing I know for sure is that the engagement will end.
“Stupid doing what?” he asks as he grabs my wrist and pulls me down on top of him. “Because if the answer is riding me and then making my breakfast, I don’t think that’s stupid at all.” I groan at his bad joke and drop the invitation and letter to the side of the bed. It’s hard for me to resist this man, even though I can’t stand him.
However, one thing I know to be eternally true is that we will never get married because Jackson Pruitt is a man who can never be tamed.
1
Zara
Three Weeks Earlier
Dear Sandra,
I am too nice. I know you already told me that, but I now actually understand what you mean. When I told my sister, Elise that she and her two kids could visit, I didn’t mean they could stay for six months. Although, she did say that they would be out by the end of the summer. I won’t be holding my breath because that’s predicated on her making it as a reality TV star, and I don’t see that coming true for her anytime soon.
Just like I don’t see myself getting into NYU or Columbia Law School anytime soon. My college GPA was okay, my LSAT test scores are weak, and I have no good letters of recommendation. Save for an old professor who thinks my name is Lara and that I grew up in Spain. Which wouldn’t be a problem if my name wasn’t Zara and the fact that I’ve never been to Spain before in my life.
Lila, my best friend and roommate, thinks I need to kick Elise out and find myself a man. To her credit, Elise also thinks I should find myself a man. She thinks a good night of loving will make me less tense. I think winning fifty grand in the lottery will do the same thing. But it doesn’t look like a big dick or a big stack of money is coming my way anytime soon.
Miss you,
Zara
It’s one of those Wednesday nights that feels like the week will never end. I’m counting down the hours until I can crawl into my soft, cream linen-sheeted bed and feast on strawberry ice cream while watching Royal Pains on TV. The very thought of it fills me with bliss.
“Stay awake, Zara,” I mumble to myself, trying to ignore the ache in my back from the uncomfortable hard metal seat and the mildewy smell that permeates the small room in the Flatiron District that serves as the venue for the play I find myself watching. My eyelids feel heavy, and my stomach is empty enough that I’m just waiting for it to start growling.
“Wow, he’s a hottie,” my slightly obnoxious, fashionista wanna-be younger sister Elise whispers-shouts as she points at the tall blond man sitting on the other side of me. My stomach churns as I cringe, hoping the hottie has not heard what she’s said. I’m feeling slightly sick at how obnoxious she’s being, but I’m not sure if the two Snickers bars I ate during intermission are to blame.
I do not answer Elise and instead force myself to keep staring straight ahead. Even though my neck is stiff, my shoulders are tight, and my face is burning, I will not acknowledge her. I know if I do, she won’t stop.
It doesn’t help that something is tickling my left ear, and I want to scratch it. The seats in this theater are so close together that if I move an inch, I’ll practically be on Mr. Hottie’s lap. I can already feel his thigh pressed against mine, and while it’s warm and solid, it feels slightly uncomfortable to be so close to a stranger.
“I wonder if he’s single,” Elise continues even louder this time, and I cannot stop myself from turning to glare at her while simultaneously pressing my finger to my lips. “Hot, hot, hot.” She giggles, and I roll my eyes as I look back toward the stage. I don’t ask her how she can tell what he looks like because I don’t want to encourage her.
The room is dark and musty, and I’m struggling not to fall asleep. I suppress a yawn as I stare at the small stage filled with three actors dressed in garbage bags with leaves on their heads. Elise and I are in the audience of an off-off-Broadway play in which my best friend Lila has a starring role. I’m happy she got the role, but the play is awful. It’s opening night, and I can feel the hope that this play will be around for many years, seeping from my veins.
