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With a quick look in the mirror, I decided I looked good enough to pull this off. I never looked very long in the mirror if I could help it. But I had to help Zeke with this deal we had made, and that meant trying my best to make people— well, my father—believe it.
I snapped a photo of myself, hand on my hip, bored look in my eyes. Posting it fast, I wrote a caption that would get attention.
Sometimes life throws you lemons. And sometimes it throws you pretty gold dresses that you get to wear out with the man you’ve been lusting after since you were too young to do so. XO—Layla
I put it out there and headed to find Zeke. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, and I caught my breath looking at him. I should have known he’d look like a million dollars. Zeke didn’tgrow up with the right clothes to look like he had money, but he’d clearly hired a better stylist than he had a decorator, because he didn’t ever look anything except exactly right. And gorgeous in the effect.
He wore dark denim pants, almost black but not quite. He didn’t have socks but expensive loafers that made him look casual. The pants were tight and well-fitting, showing off how muscular his legs were. The belt he’d slipped into was fashionable not necessity. The man would have no problems keeping up his pants. They were practically painted on his legs. The belt was a light brown that matched the light khaki jacket he’d put over a white dress shirt that he had unbuttoned to the top of his chest.
Fuck me, he was really, really handsome. He looked up from his phone as I came down the stairs, his eyes widening as he took me in.
I wanted to be complimented, to think that his gaze was because he approved of the outfit I’d picked out. Redheads didn’t always wear gold. Everyone had opinions. We shouldn’t wear yellow or gold or red or pink. But I believed anyone could wear anything as long as they felt happy in the outfit.
So I pretended to be joyful in whatever I wore and called it a day.
But his gaze might have meant he didn’t approve. He might be getting ready to say something shitty, in which case, I had to have my guard up and my I-didn’t-care attitude ready to go.
“Wow.” He put his phone in his jacket pocket and extended his hand for me to take it. “Layla, you look…incredible. Every guy in there is going to want to fuck you tonight.”
Not the compliment I would have hoped for, but not the worst either. “That was the idea. To make them notice that I’m with you. I guess mission accomplished. I posted to try to get us some attention. I don’t usually, but for this, I made theexception. We’re not going on your motorcycle, right? I’m not sure I could straddle it in this outfit.”
He squeezed my hand. “No, princess. We’re getting driven. Neither one of us is going to worry about driving tonight.”
“I can’t drive.” I shrugged. “But I guess I could try in an emergency.”
“We have a driver. So no emergency, and if you want to learn to drive, I can teach you.”
Maybe someday I’d learn, but I doubted it would be from Zeke. “Oh, I forgot my phone. Hold on.” I turned and rushed as best I could in the shoes I was in back up the stairs, where I grabbed my phone and purse. I had my wallet in the purse —not that I had any money—and then went back downstairs.
“All set.”
He put his hand around the back of my neck and drew me to him. “Are your feet all right in those shoes?”
“I suffer for beauty. I’ll be fine.” I smiled at him. “You look incredible, by the way. Every woman in there is going to wish they were me tonight.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s a better compliment than the one I gave you.”
“Yes.” I grinned at him. “But that’s okay. You can’t be good at everything. So if you happen to be bad at telling a girl that she looks pretty after she spent hours getting ready, then so be it. You’ll have to take the loss on that one.”
He rewarded me with one of his rare real smiles. “You don’t look pretty. You look beautiful. Hot. Sexy. And I meant what I said. Every man is going to want to fuck you. But they won’t get to. Want to know why?”
I swallowed. The answer was easy. Because I was pretending to be there with him. Still, I asked. “Why?” “They won’t dare to try when they know you’re with me.” That shouldn’t have been sexy. Only it was.
12
We had photographs taken of us on the way into the club. Real paparazzi snapped us and called out my name. Within minutes, they knew Zeke’s, too. I held his hand and smiled. Zeke was stiff. He’d thought he wanted this, but maybe he hadn’t understood what it would really entail. Amanda the vlogger would be talking about him within the hour if she weren’t already, since I’d posted my fake happy picture.
When we finally got inside, the music was loud, which was to be expected, and it made me clench my teeth. I hated these places. I didn’t dance well, didn’t want to, and it was all about everyone staring at everyone else, no matter what country you were in.
But that was what Zeke had wanted tonight. So I plastered my best socialite smile, shook hands with the man Zeke was meeting, who looked at me like I was the best piece of meat he’d ever seen, and sat down to spend the night being quiet and saying nothing to anyone.
I guessed the idea of these places was to be with the best looking guy in the room. I certainly was. All eyes were on us, andphones were out aplenty. I leaned a little closer to him so they could take a better picture.
He wasn’t paying attention. Zeke had gone into sales mode, and since they were speaking French, he could have been selling me to the man—whose name was Luc—for all that I knew. Maybe I should hire a translator. I chewed on my lower lip and then stopped. That was a terrible habit. This could actually be the year that I beat back some of my bad habits.
A waiter came by, since we had table service, and dropped off food and very expensive champagne. As I knew this wasn’t Zeke’s preference of alcohol, it must have to do with Luc. My pretend boyfriend—could I really call him a boyfriend if he was thirty-eight years old?—leaned over to me. “I have no idea if any of this food is good. We should have eaten before we got here.”
I took a sip of my champagne. “I’m sure this is fine. This is France. It’s all good food, right?”
