I stand from the table, and Huxley says, “Wait. We can come up with something that benefits both of us.”
I shake my head. Ultimately, this is another situation where a rich person gets what they want by using a poor person. Even though I’m currently lying to my mom and Jeff, I hate lying. You have the intellect to be more, to find a job that utilizes your skills. “I know this is going to sound prideful, but I’m not sure I should be taking handouts right now. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life.” I look at the bag of chips and snag them from the table. “But I’m not too proud to take free food.” I pat the bag. “Thanks for these and thanks for your time. Good day, sir.”
And then I turn on my heel and take off. I last only until I reach the crosswalk before I dip my hand inside the bag and pop a chip into my mouth. Lime salt is my only comfort right now.
Lottie: I’m alive.
Kelsey: Well, thank Jesus. Do I dare ask, are you engaged?
Lottie: No. It was tempting, but I really need to focus on my career. That’s what’s going to move me along from this nightmare, not some stupid fake fiancée bullshit.
Kelsey: You know . . . maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Lottie: You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Have you lost your mind?
Kelsey: I was thinking while you were eating dinner—maybe you could do this fake fiancée thing and work for me at the same time. I’m so close to expanding, I could really use your help on the business side. I’d be able to pay you soon, and you could live with me for a few weeks. We could make it work. And he could help you.
Lottie: You’ve lost it. It’s okay, sweetie. Get a good night’s rest and then call me in the morning. I love you.
Kelsey: I’m serious.
Lottie: Night night.
“Hey, honey, how was work?” Mom asks from the kitchen, where she’s preparing dinner.
Pretending to be whupped from a tough day of dealing with Angela, I say, “Same old, same old.”
“Still no news on the promotion?”
I swallow hard. “No news.” I take a seat at the island in the kitchen and watch my mom stir the pot of spaghetti sauce she claims is homemade, though I know isn’t. She says she adds her own spices, which makes it homemade, but the empty Prego jars next to the sink suggest otherwise.
“Well, I’m sure it’s coming soon. What about the apartment hunting? How’s that going?”
Yup, I get it, Mom. You want me out.
“Found a cute place near Kelsey. Thinking about it.” The lie slips past my lips flawlessly.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, you two living close to each other.”
“Yeah,” I mutter as Jeff comes through the front door from where he’d once again been tending to the landscaping in the front yard.
“Lottie, care to explain these?” he asks, holding a large bouquet of red roses.
What the actual hell?
“Are those for me?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, they have your name on them.”
“Oh, maybe it’s Angela promoting you.”
Jesus, one-track mind, anyone?
I hop off my stool, take the bouquet from Jeff, and set it on the table. I remove the tiny white envelope from the holder and take out the card. Written in very manly handwriting—slanted, almost illegible—it says “Please reconsider. H” and then there’s a phone number beneath it.
How on earth did he know where I live?
I know rich people have access to things us peasants don’t, but the man doesn’t even know my last name, nor enough information about me to put together who I am.
“Who are they from?” Mom asks, coming up behind me.
I clutch the envelope to my chest. “No one,” I say quickly, and then I grab the flowers and run to my room. I shut the door and, once again, slide to the ground, flowers in hand.
What the actual hell?
Chapter Five
HUXLEY
“Dave Toney is on the phone,” Karla says as she knocks on the doorframe of my office door.
“Send him through,” I say before turning to JP. “Can I get some privacy, man?”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather be here for this conversation.” When he doesn’t attempt to move, I realize he’s not kidding.
Rolling my eyes, I pick up my phone. “Dave, good to hear from you,” I answer in a casual voice. “How are you?”
“Doing great. I was speaking with Ellie last night and she was adamant I find out if your fiancée has any allergies or aversions to food. Ever since Ellie got pregnant, she can’t even be in the same room as French fries. They absolutely repulse her. But potato chips are fine. I don’t get it, but I go with it.”
Great question.
Really great fucking question.
Well, if this were an alternate reality and I really was engaged to a pregnant woman, I’d assume she’d have some sort of pregnancy craving, as well as something she couldn’t possibly be around, but because I don’t have a pregnant fiancée, I don’t have an answer for him.
But I’m still counting on Lottie, even though I’ve yet to hear from her. I know the flowers were delivered, I asked for a delivery receipt, so I should’ve heard something from her. At least, that’s the narcissistic side of me talking. And I’m going to keep holding out, because I could see she was interested. She needs the help. I just need to find the right way to pursue her. I’m also not opposed to playing dirty to get what I want. That’s obvious from this entire predicament I’m in.
So, instead of answering about allergies, I’m going to answer about cravings, because if I can nudge them toward something I know she’ll eat, then that will guarantee I don’t make her eat something she might have an allergic reaction to.
“No allergies that I’m aware of—thank God for no allergic reactions during the time we’ve been together, am I right?”
Dave laughs. “Talk about ruining a date.”
It’s sickening how jovial the man sounds. How relaxed. It’s as if he’s been walking around, doing business with a stick up his ass, and then I come around with a pregnant fiancée, and he’s Mr. Dad now, happy-go-lucky, wearing his New Balance 409s and living his best life.
“Yeah, we haven’t had that happen. Thankfully. But I do know that she’s craving burrito bowls right now. I just had to get her one from Chipotle yesterday.” Not a lie, the truth. And she shoveled that thing into her mouth.
“That’s crazy. Ellie has been craving Chipotle lately. We had it last night. I’m wondering if we should just get that for dinner. I know Ellie spoke of making a southern meal, but she’s been exhausted lately and this might be an easy out for her. Do you know what your girl likes from Chipotle?”
That I do.
I smile and for the first time since I picked up the phone, I remember JP is sitting across from me. His arms are crossed, one leg crossed over the other, and he has a huge smile on his face, enjoying me squirm way too much.
“Yes, I do know what she likes,” I say while turning my back toward him. “She likes the burrito bowl.” JP snickers behind me. He can fuck off. “Chicken, black beans, lettuce, and she likes to pile on the guac. She’s always worried because it costs extra, but you know”—I swallow hard—“what my baby wants, my baby gets.”
JP snorts.
Red-hot embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck. I’m going to get so much shit for this.
“Perfect,” Dave says. He drags it out, as if he’s writing it down. “And what about you?”
This is what my life has become, me giving another man my Chipotle order, but not just any man, the man I want to do business with. We’ve succumbed to no longer talking business or being sharks in the office, nope, we’re handing out Chipotle orders.
I give him my order, and then he asks, “Do you guys like the chips?”