Page 11 of That Fake Feeling

Idon’t know anything about real estate, but everything around here must be worth double-figure millions.

Neverin my wildest nightmares didIever imagineI’dtake a job as the clean-cut fake girlfriend of a bad boy billionaire.ButonceI’ddecided it was my best—okay,only—option,Igritted my teeth and calledSterlingback.

Inthe week since then, it hasn't felt real.Butit does now.NowthatI’mthis close, the true horror of it is sinking in.

HowdidIget here?Howthe hell has it come to this?

Theonly consolation is thatIhaven’t signed a contract yet.Sterlingwill go through all that with me today.So, there’s still time to back out.

Icall up his text to double-check the house numberI’mlooking for.I’vesomehow resisted searching for pictures of it sinceSterlinggave me the address.MaybeifIdidn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real, andIwouldn’t actually be doing this.OrmaybeIwanted to keep it as a surprise.OrmaybeIwas scaredI’dhate it.OrscaredI’dlike it.

It’sbeen a confusing week.

Ikeep telling myself that at leastI’llhave somewhere to live for three months.I’vebought myself some time.Andright now, that’s good enough.

Thetext says it’s number 372.

Thelarge black-and-white plaque on the house opposite says 368, soConnor’shouse is two doors down, which makes it…Oh, holy hell in a handcart, look at that.

I’dfigured a youngish business dude with a house inChelseawould have torn down some classicNewYorkCityarchitecture and replaced it with one of those shiny, boxy, new things.

Apparentlynot.

Thisis a beauty.Allcream stone and mullioned windows, with a classy blue front door.Wroughtiron railings separate the tiny garden in front from the sidewalk.Itip my head back and look up.That’sfour floors.Andit looks like it has a basement as well.

Okay.Thisis not whatIwas expecting.

Myphone buzzes in my hand.

AUNTJEN(11:52AM)

Can’tstop worrying about you.Sureyou don’t want to come out here? #homelessniece #missyou #sadaunt

Mymom’s sister lives in a log cabin in a forest-y part ofWashingtonstate.Everytext is accompanied by amusing hashtags.She’sa bit bonkers.Andmy only biological relative.

Sincewe lost my mom, we text all the time and call or video chat about once a week.Afew days ago,Itold herIwas going to have to move out ofBrittney’splace.Shewas worried enough about that, soIleft out the part about the whole fake-girlfriend-for-a-billionaire job thing.Imean, how do you explain that without it sounding even more worrying?

Thisis my chance to put her mind at rest, though.

Iquickly turn my back toConnor’shouse, slap on a giant smile, and snap a selfie of me pointing at it.

ME(11:53AM)

Don’tworry!Gotnew summer job with great pay.Andit’s live-in.Here!

Iadd a shocked face emoji.

AtleastIcan ease her worries, if not my own.

AsIpress send, a splodge of rain hits my phone.Adark cloud’s moved in and is about to dump its load in one of those heavyNewYorksummer storms.

Well,Iguess there’s only one place to shelter.

Igrab my suitcase and trundle it across the street, unlatch the little wrought iron gate, walk between two perfectly trimmed shrubs, and ring the bell next to the shiny blue door.

Isquish myself against it to get as far under the little portico as possible, right as the cloud bursts and fat drops of rain bounce off the sidewalk.

Thedoor swings open, andI’mgreeted by a man wearing a blue-and-gray-checked suit with a tangerine shirt and a yellow tie.