“No more than what you read about in that Wiki article. There’s no information at all about his younger years. He’s an extremely private guy. People try to get details about him from those he’s closest to, but they all stay tightlipped. There’s a great deal of speculation about why he’s never had a serious relationship, although he’s been photographed with plenty of gorgeous women, as you see. My vote is he’s gay.”
I choke on my coffee. “I accused him of the same thing,” I say through a fit of coughing.
“You did?”
The tense atmosphere slowly wanes. Now we’re just two friends dishing about my date last night. Who cares if Julian has a Wikipedia page? Hell, even I have one because of my position at the magazine, although there’s not much information on it. That doesn’t make me someone worth knowing. Granted, Julian probably has a few billion reasons why he’s worth knowing, but that doesn’t make a difference to me. I’d still find him endearing, regardless of the size of his bank account.
“Trust me. There is absolutely no way that man is gay.”
This catches Chloe’s attention and she smirks. “Is that so?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I thought you weren’t going to sleep with him. Hell, you said even kissing was off the table.”
“I didn’t sleep with him. We didn’t even kiss.” I waggle my brows.
“You didn’t? Then—”
“I told him my conditions, and he agreed to all of them. I thought for sure he’d insist on kissing me if we’re pretending to date.”
“It is a bit of a challenge, isn’t it?”
“Not to him, apparently. He said kissing’s for amateurs. And after the goodnight kiss that wasn’t last night, I’d say he’s right. Kissing is for amateurs.” I bite my lower lip, reeling in my smile. “And Julian Gage is certainly no amateur.” I fan myself, causing both of us to break out into a fit of giggles.
When our laughter fades, her expression turns serious once more. “So you’re going to do it? You’re going to be his fake girlfriend?”
“I am,” I respond thoughtfully before my eyes harden. “But you can not tell a soul the truth, that it’s just for show. You can’t use this in any of your articles. This is incredibly off the record.”
She reaches across the couch and clutches my hand. “You have my word. If you say it’s off the record, it’s off the record. I like my job.”
I laugh slightly, knowing how seriously Viv takes this kind of thing.
“But I value our friendship even more. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t—”
She quickly holds up her hand. “I know you, Evie. You get attached to people. Hell, you were with Trevor for twelve years.”
“That’s different.”
“Still, you’re not the type of girl who does random hookups. You’re either all in or all out. There’s no in-between with you. I just…” She blows out a breath. “I don’t want you to fall for this guy and end up getting hurt because this is only a business deal for him.”
“It’s nothing more than a business deal for me, too. Weren’t you saying I deserved to have some fun this summer?”
“That is true. And Trevor certainly does deserve to have the fact that you’re dating one of the most eligible men in New York shoved in his face.” Her eyes focus on me. “And it will be shoved in his face. Not by me, but Hamptons’ parties are a hotbed for gossip columnists. Gossip websites will publish photos of you together. You won’t be able to keep it quiet for long.”
“Julian doesn’t want it to be kept quiet. He wants us to act as if it’s real.”
“And there’s no part of you that wishes it were?”
“Of course not,” I respond quickly. “I’m not interested in him.” I straighten my spine, exuding all the confidence I can muster just as the sound of my phone ringing rips through the space. I dart my eyes to the screen, a warmth filling me when Julian’s name pops up.
“Not interested, you say?” Chloe teases, getting up from the couch. “Your wide smile and increased breathing indicate otherwise, Evie.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Just be careful.”
With that, she disappears into her bedroom, allowing me to speak with Julian in private.
Not wanting to sound overly eager, I blow out a long breath, then bring the phone to my ear, answering in a sultry tone.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Guinevere. As requested, I’ve emailed you an itinerary for the next two months.”
His tone is clipped, formal, almost as if I’m merely another call he has to make in conducting business. It’s like he’s a different person than the man who left me a panting mess on Chloe’s front stoop last night. Did I imagine it all?
“Please check your calendar and let me know what conflicts you may have. I prefer to know in advance. Like you, I’m not fond of surprises.”
“All I have planned this summer is work,” I answer in a tone matching his own.
“There are some events that may occur during the week, so I’ll need you to take the time off, if it can be arranged.”
“I don’t foresee a problem. Like I said last night, my boss doesn’t mind if I work out of the office, as long as all my work is turned in by my deadline.”
“Also, my personal stylist needs your measurements to pull things for you. She’ll be reaching out to you sometime today. She’s located in Midtown. You can either go to her or she can come to you.”
“Personal stylist?”
“If you’re to act the part of my girlfriend, you need to dress the part. Don’t worry. You can keep the clothes when the summer is over. My stylist has a list of things you’ll need. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?” I ask, feeling overwhelmed as I not only attempt to absorb the difference in demeanor, but the reality of what pretending to be this man’s girlfriend will entail. "But—”
“Take a look at the itinerary. I’m sure it will answer all your questions. If not, the number for my assistant is included. Goodbye, Guinevere.”
“Goodbye, Julian.”
But the line’s already dead.
Chapter Sixteen
The Steam Room is particularly busy Monday morning as I sit at my usual table with the perfect view of the counter and dining area. The murmur of low conversation competes to be heard over coffee beans being ground and employees shouting orders to each other. I’ve yet to indulge in any of their pastries, but I feel my hips getting bigger simply from sitting here these past few weeks… Calories by osmosis or something like that.
I do everything I can to focus on how to determine which of the men on my list of possibilities is the real August Laurent, like I’m playing my own version of To Tell the Truth. Instead, all I can think of is Julian. How sweet and charming he was Friday night, then how cold and distant he seemed during our brief phone call. All weekend, I reminded myself it shouldn’t matter, that it’s only a business relationship, that it’s not real. But I felt something. Was he really that good of an actor?
The itinerary he sent is quite extensive. There’s something requiring my presence every weekend. It boggles my mind to think people live this way. Galas. Fundraisers. Art auctions. Pool parties. Bonfires. And this is a normal summer. I already feel like I don’t belong, and I haven’t even stepped foot in the Hamptons yet.
I try not to think too much about it, concentrating instead on the copious notes I’d made the previous week. As I flip through them, I’m unable to shake the feeling I missed something. None of the men on my list scream escort. Maybe August Laurent isn’t in town. Maybe something came up and he had to take some bored housewife off to a remote island in exchange for a ridiculously obscene amount of money.
As I’m about to pull up the web browser on my laptop to sort through another one of the dozens of articles I found online theorizing about who he could be, my cell rings, the number to my work line popping up, indicating it’s a forwarded call.
“Evie Fitzgerald,” I answer. There’s no immediate response. When I’m about to speak again, a voice interrupts.