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UNKNOWN
If you want to talk to a billionaire, I can help.
Me
Who is this?
UNKOWN
Consider me your Fairy Godmother. Are you busy tonight?
I briefly consider saying yes, but I’m pretty sure cuddling up in bed and watching Love is Blind doesn’t actually constitute plans.
Me
No...
UNKNOWN
Good. Be at 5515 Broadway Street at 8 pm for your date.
Me
Date? ! I didn’t agree to a date! I don’t want a date!
Whoever is texting me has lost their mind. I don’t date! I’ve never dated. I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin hurtling toward cat-lady status at the speed of light. I have more important things to do. Like my job. And watch TV. And be allergic to men and dating.
Okay, I’m probably not allergic, but I might as well be. The thought of dating makes me want to pass out and throw up. That’s basically the same thing as an allergy, right? Right.
Who the heck is texting me? How do they know about my story?
UNKNOWN
You want this one. Your date is a billionaire.
Well… crap. My Fairy Godmother may just be an evil genius.
"What did I get myself into?" I groan, pulling up in front of the cozy building in downtown Silver Spoon Falls a few minutes after eight. I’m running late… mostly because I considered chickening out. And because I changed my outfit five different times.
What do you wear to a fake blind date with a billionaire? I have no idea. Google wasn’t any help, either. It kept suggesting dirty romance novels to me. I looked at one. She ended up tied to his bed.
By the time I finished reading that scene, I was even later. And I still didn’t know what to wear. I settled for the only thing in my closet that looked remotely like it might pass as presentable to a billionaire—a simple black dress that makes me look like I have an hourglass figure even though I definitely don’t. I have a shape—round. It’s a shape. But the dress looks gorgeous on me.
I quickly apply a fresh coat of lip gloss, try to tame my unruly hair into something resembling elegance, and then climb from the car, heading toward the doors of Palette and Vino. I briefly consider hiding a recorder in my bra but figure that’s probably overkill. I need to charm the pants off this man—not literally.
“Definitely not literally,” I squeak, my mind flitting back to that darn book.
As soon as I step inside the art studio, the scent of paint assails me. It’s strong but not unpleasant. Easels with small canvases are set up in pairs around the large room, with wine glasses and bottles of wine chilling on small tables between them. There are couples seated in front of most of the easels, chatting back and forth. Soft music plays in the background, setting the mood.
“Ginerva Valentine?” a blonde at the front desk chirps, beaming at me.
“That’s me.” I swallow, smiling at her. “Um, Ginni. You can call me Ginni.”
“We were worried you weren’t going to make it,” she says, circling around the desk toward me. “Your partner is here. Let’s get you back to your seat.”
My heart slams against my ribcage, a fresh wave of anxiety churning through me as I follow behind her through the maze of tables, trying not to freak out.
I can do this. It’s not a date. It’s a job. Just a job.
