The Real Deal

The Real Deal by Lauren Blakely



Prologue

Theo

I can be anyone you want.

I can transform into the boss you’re banging, your hot nerdy coworker who’s only a friend, your best friend’s brother you’ve had it bad for since he danced with you at prom way back when, the guy next door everyone adores since he mows your lawn, fixes your car, and repairs the sink. I can also pull off a fireman, a soldier, a cop, a billionaire, a rogue, an athlete, a pirate—yes, some women like to play with buried treasure—and the bad boy who will drive your family bananas.

How would you reach me if you needed me?

It’s not that hard. You just have to know what you’re looking for and plug the right terms into that trusty old search engine. You might even find me the next time you’re hawking a Cuisinart or hunting for a used exercise bike on GigsForHire. There, you’ll discover a menagerie of roles I can take on, characters I can play for you. The assignments rotate depending on the season, the needs, and what’s in demand for weddings, reunions, Christmas parties, barbecues, and any other occasion where you might need a date.

I’m not an escort, a gigolo, or a stripper. This isn’t about fluid exchange. My job is to become your arm candy, and you can pick the flavor you want. I’ve played them all.

And there’s one role that outsells all the others. By far, the most popular part has been the bad boy.

Trust me when I say I wasn’t your average bad boy. I was the goddamn dictionary definition, and this ad was my golden ticket:

Heading Home and Need a Buffer? I’m Your Man

I’m a good-looking, 28-year-old ex-con. But I swear the time I got nabbed, it wasn’t my fault. I was framed. I can play anywhere from 19 to 31, depending on if I shave or act like I love Ed Sheeran music. My most valuable possession is a scratched-up motorcycle one year younger than me that’s painted like a snarling leopard. I’m a bartender and work till 2 a.m. at a dive bar. If you’d like to have me as your date for a wedding, reunion, or work soirée, I can pretend you picked me up when my shift ended and I banged you in the bathroom or that we’re in a serious and committed relationship. Your choice.

I can do the following things at your request.…

1. Openly hit on other female guests, including your sister, any girlfriends, wives, or great-aunts. Moms aren’t off-limits either.

2. Start provocative and/or incendiary discussions about politics and religion. Preferably both, and ideally on the most inflammatory topics of the day.

3. Propose to you in front of everyone. I’ll even do it over the cake course and call you my sweet buttercream frosting girl.

4. Break up with you and then engage in a huge makeup lovefest involving (a) a ladder, (b) a megaphone, or (c) an announcement during a parade in your hometown. (Note: Public scenes aren’t new to me. I know the drill.)

5. Start a fistfight with any of the other guests, including but not limited to your mom, your dad, your sister, your brother, and/or any of the guys. (Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. That stint at County taught me excellent fight skills.)

6. Tell wild and risqué stories in front of everyone about our hot-as-sin sex life.

7. Leave in a huff with you over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, shouting, “It’s time for me to go full caveman and take my woman home!”

If any of these skills meets your needs, please respond and book me for the event. A wide range of accents is available. My services are strictly platonic. Fee is negotiable and based on whether you opt for all the items or an à la carte offering. Also, payment is due upon completion, and only if you’re thoroughly happy with my work. This is a 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed offer.

That’s what the carefree city girl with the offbeat sense of humor and the big small-town heart hired me for. Since we hit it off from the start, it should have been the easiest gig in my life. Instead, it was the hardest job I ever had, once she pulled the big con on me.





Chapter One

April

If the phone rings, it’s bad news.

Why else would someone call?

Texts are for topics both easy and emotional, from I’ll meet you at Jane’s at 7 to I got the new gig to Don’t let that jerk get you down.

An email means a friend snagged a great deal on makeup, a massage, or a flight out of town, so she’s forwarding it to you. It might also mean one of your crazy relatives is trying to pitch you on a blind date with her butcher.

But a ring-a-ling-ling? That means someone died, or someone’s going to disappoint you so badly, it’ll feel like death.

Fine, perhaps I’m being dramatic. Some might say I have a penchant for theatrics. But let’s get real—who the hell uses the phone function anymore besides telemarketers or the insurance company? And, for the record, insurance companies don’t call with good news.

Point proved.

When Xavier’s high-cheekboned, so-pretty-I-covet-it face flashes on my phone, my Spidey-senses flare.

I adjust the strap on my fifty-ton bag of paint, makeup, and brushes. It’s digging into my shoulder, but that’s what it does. It dents me daily as I walk around Manhattan. I slide a finger across the screen and answer. “You’re in prison and you need me to post bail?”

Xavier’s laughter rings bright in my ear. “Love, you know you’d be the last person I’d call. You never have enough cash on hand for that.”

“Not true. I always carry at least two hundred dollars.” I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and weave through the afternoon crowds on Seventh Avenue. “Usually in small bills, though. In case I need to slip any in the G-strings of hot men at strip clubs. Oh, look. There’s the Magic Mike bar. Gotta go make it rain for some hotties. But seriously. What’s up, handsome? Are you all right? You never call unless you’re bemoaning the loss of a hot date.”

Okay, fine. I’ve spoken to my good friend a few times on the phone, but we always make arrangements for a call via text first. See? My point still stands.

A loudspeaker crackles from his side of the call. “Attention in the boarding area. We’re about to begin boarding for Flight 405 to London.”

All the air leaks out of me as I stop in my tracks outside a wig shop in the Village. A mannequin sporting a purple bob stares at me.

“April, I have good news and bad news.” Xavier’s tone is cheery. It’s the official tone one adopts when delivering news that will feel terribly devastating to the recipient. Three, two, one, go: “The good news is I landed a last-minute opportunity and I’m heading to London for a photo shoot for the new Timeless Watch.”

His news is devastating to me, but even so, I shriek. A woman in a sharp gray suit raises an eyebrow as she marches past. “That’s amazing!” I can’t mask my excitement even if I would like to swat him with a makeup brush for leaving me high and dry at the worst possible time.

“The bad news—”

“You can’t be my date at the family reunion,” I say because, yes, this is horrible. But even if I’m out the hottest piece of arm candy, I’d be a total doucheberry if I wasn’t excited for this huge opportunity. Generally, I strive to avoid being a doucheberry, a douchecanoe, or douchenozzle. And honestly, if there are other types of douches one can be, I don’t want to be them either. “This is amazing for you. You’re on the cusp of breaking into the big time.”

“Do you really think this could be my big break?”

I nod resolutely. “Of course. The Timeless shoot is huge. It’s only the hottest watchmaker in the world. Have you ever seen a guy wear one of those watches? They basically send all women into heat.”

He laughs. “Some men, too.”