“From this brief conversation, I’m going to assume you found no takers in your rich husband search.”
“Nope.” She pops the P. “You’re actually the first guy I’ve run into today. Imagine that. Received plenty of judgmental stares from the ladies around here, though.”
“It’s probably because of your four-seasons-ago-Target leggings,” I joke.
“Yeah, they can totally tell that kind of stuff.” She tilts her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I answer, sort of enjoying this odd encounter.
“You’re rich, right?” When I don’t answer, she rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m not going to pull out a nail file and try to stab you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I read this article on how to snag a rich guy, and I feel as though one of the suggestions was wrong.”
I stick my hands in my pockets and casually say, “I have money.”
She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you just have it.” Shaking her head, she says, “Okay, you’re loaded, let’s go with that—because it’s obvious. I want to know, do rich guys like braids?”
“Braids?” I ask, confused.
“You know.” She points to the side of her head, where there’s a small braid stretched across her head and then tied into her ponytail. “Braids. Do you like these?”
“Uh, I mean . . . sure? It’s not like I’m super excited about it, but I don’t hate it, either.”
“I knew it,” she whispers while snapping her fingers. “That article was total clickbait. I could tell by the millions of ads on the page that kept popping up every time I scrolled down. Duped again.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
I rock on my heels. “So, looking for a rich boyfriend, huh?”
She eyes me skeptically. “Yes.”
“You know, I’m single.”
I know, I know. What the hell are you thinking, Huxley? This is a random girl on the street, looking for a rich boyfriend. For all you know, she could very well be a gold digger. She could be bad news. She could be a decoy for someone to drive by with a van and rob you. It’s happened before in this neighborhood.
And, from the way her leggings fit tightly against her flat stomach, it’s a solid guess that she’s not pregnant, therefore making this plan of mine exponentially worse. But I don’t see any other options at the moment.
She’s single, and she’s a woman, the only two requirements I’m truly looking for at this point.
Still looking skeptical, she folds her arms over her chest. “You’re single.”
“Yeah. Single as they come.”
“And you’re telling me this because . . .”
Yeah, why are you telling her this, Huxley? Why are you telling a complete stranger that you’re single, with the intention that you can use her to your advantage?
Because she seems to need help like I need help, and if I’ve learned anything about business, it’s that business deals can go a long way if made properly, if they can benefit both parties.
And I very well might have a business deal in the making.
“You know, I think we should go grab something to eat.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “Okay, what kind of creep are you?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
She motions at me with her finger. “I told you I’m looking for a rich boyfriend. You should be running away. You should probably be calling the cops to escort me out of here and back to my mom’s modest bungalow. There’s no way in hell you should be asking me to grab something to eat. So, what’s your game, man?”
She’s spunky, outspoken, unlike any girl I’ve met, that’s for sure. And she’s right. I should be scared. She seems to have the kind of tenacity that would bring a man to his knees, but she also is a qualified candidate for what I’m looking for, and I’m three days away from a dinner date. I’m willing to roll the dice.
“I have no game—”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
Wow, she really calls it like it is.
“Just tell me what your endgame is.”
“Fine,” I say, seeing where this is going. “I might be in the need for a fake fiancée.” I’ll keep the pregnant thing to myself for now.
“A fake fiancée?” she asks. “Why?”
I glance around at our surroundings. “I don’t tend to talk business in the middle of the neighborhood. If you’re interested in talking about this, then why don’t you meet me at the Chipotle on Santa Monica and Beverly in an hour?”
“Chipotle?” she asks, dumbfounded. “You’re rich—supposedly—and that’s where you want to meet for dinner?”
“I like burritos,” I say with a shrug. “Plus, anywhere else isn’t going to accept someone wearing four-seasons-ago leggings and a sports bra into their establishment.” Even if the sports bra makes her tits look amazing.
She doesn’t answer right away, instead, takes her time, but when she does answer, she says, “That’s fair. Care to direct me back to my house so I can put on something more suitable for Chipotle?”
“Sure.” I pull out my phone and open the Google Maps app. I hand her my phone and let her figure it out on her own. “My name is Huxley, by the way.”
Her eyes flutter up to mine. “Huxley, huh, that’s an interesting name. Any inspiration from Huckleberry Finn?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” When she goes back to the phone, I ask, “And you would be . . .”
“Lottie,” she says, zooming in on the phone and gaining her bearings as she glances around the streets.
“Lottie. Any inspiration from a lollipop?”
Her brow raises when she looks up at me. “No. It’s actually short for Leiselotte. But no one, and I mean no one, calls me that. Not even my parents.” She points at me. “And don’t even think about calling me that. Got it?”
I hold up my hands in defense. “Got it.”
“Good.” She hands me back my phone and says, “I know where I’m going now. I’m about a mile away.”
“Will an hour be long enough for you to get back?”
“Do you think I’ll be crawling?”
So fiery.
So fierce.
“No, just not sure how long it would take you to, you know . . . shower.”
Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Are you implying I stink?”
Jesus.
I drag my hand over my face. “No, I just . . . I don’t know what you need to do to get ready.”
She holds up one hand. “Trust me, it won’t take long. I’m not here to impress anyone.” She takes a step back. “Chipotle, in an hour.” She points at me. “You’re buying.”
And then she takes off at a jog, and for some reason, I keep my eyes trained on her heart-shaped backside.
Business. Opportunity. Cane. That’s what I need to focus on, because Little Miss No-One-Calls-Me-Leiselotte might be just the woman I need. Smart. Quick on her feet.
Desperate.
“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” JP asks from my dining room table. “And why are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?” I ask as I adjust the cuffs on my button-up shirt.
“As if you’re about to go on a date,” Breaker answers before taking a sip of his beer.
“Because I am.”
Both of my brothers sit up in their chairs and set their beers down on the sandalwood dining room table, to which I have no attachment. My designer purchased it because it goes with my “design aesthetic.”
“What do you mean, you’re going on a date?” JP asks. “You were just outside, trying to dig yourself out of the mess you’ve made with Dave Toney. You went on a walk, and now you’re going on a date?”
“Yeah,” I say as I slip on my shoes.
“How?” Breaker asks.
“Ran into her on the sidewalk. She was looking for a rich boyfriend. I happen to be rich. Therefore, it works out perfectly.”
“What?” JP asks, his voice disbelieving. “Hold on. You met a girl on the sidewalk, she openly told you she’s looking for a rich boyfriend, and now you’re taking her out?”
I finish tying my shoe, stand, and adjust my slate-grey shorts. “Yup.” They’re about to open their mouths when I pin them with a steely glare. “Do you have any better ideas? Do you have any other women lining up for the job?”
“Is she lining up for the job?” JP asks.
“She’s aware that I need a fake fiancée.”