I’m a dick, but this girl makes me act out like I’m a teenager, and I’m just going to embrace it.
Me
I’m free right now. Come to my place.
She doesn’t reply to any of my messages, so I just fire off my address before cleaning my kitchen to keep my head busy.
Is she coming over?
Am I nervous?
No, no, no.
She’s just a girl …a girl I’m going to have to fake date for months.
I didn’t let myself think about this arrangement for a long time after our meeting. I didn’t want to dwell on it. There are more important things I need to worry about.
Like how I’m a recovering alcoholic who didn’t go to rehab …
But I’m pretty damn proud of myself. The urge to drink hasn’t dimmed; it’s always here, bothering the shit out of me. If anything, it’s just intensified. Yet whenever I crave the one thing I can’t have, I think of Stella. In my sick mind, I picture her being ripped away from me. I imagine her screams and tears streaming down her face. And how I would feel empty.Useless.That keeps me in check. Because if anyone ever finds out I’m an alcoholic, that’s exactly what would happen.
The doorbell snaps me out of my thoughts, and I spot Stella perk up from her chair. She always gets excited when someone comes over.
“Go to the family room and keep eating, princess. I’m going to get the door.”
I’m trying to teach her not to run excitedly to the door, just in case it isn’t anyone we know.
Nodding her tiny head, she runs off with her food. I shouldn’t feel as tense as I do. But as I get closer to my front door, all I want to do is walk in the opposite direction and hide.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Why, hello there, Meathead,” Amelia says when I swing the door open. Her smug smile makes me want to slam it shut right in her face. “If I walk in here, will you kill me?”
I gesture for her to come inside without saying anything back. She brushes past me, and I’m hit with the warm smell of vanilla. The sweet smell runs through my bones, making me ache to step a little closer to the girl I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
“Have you seen the picture we have to re-create?”
Her fingers, covered in gold rings, clench the strap of her purse, and I zone in on the slight tremble.
Shaking my head, I stride into my kitchen with her trailing behind me. “I haven’t seen the pictures.”
Dropping her purse on my counter, she sighs. “Do you not check your emails?” She raises her perfectly plucked brow. “That’s pretty unprofessional.”
I shrug. “I do, but only from important people.”
She laughs. “The more time we spend together, the more I understand why this agreement is necessary.”
Now, it’s my turn to raise a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t answer your emails and pay attention to what’s going on around you, you’re not going to reach the top.”
“We’re hovering right below you on the charts.” I snort, getting irritated at her cockiness. “I don’t need advice from you.”
“Well”—she shrugs, looking at me with a soft smile—“then why am I here? You obviously need me.”
If my life has proven anything to me, it’s that I don’t need anybody. I got here on my own, and I’m doing just fine.
“None of this”—I gesture between us as we stand on opposite sides of my kitchen island—“was my idea. And cockiness doesn’t look good on you.”
