"Sure. I have no intention of ruining a good thing." Blair gestures around the lounge. "This is amazing. Free food, premium alcohol, good company." She tilts her head as she regards me. "You must be doing pretty well for yourself to afford this lifestyle."
"I do okay," I say. "But I've worked my ass off to get here. Sixteen-hour days, sleeping in my office during wedding season, building relationships one event at a time. Nothing was handed to me."
It's true. My business, my reputation, my bank account that allows me to fly business class without checking the price—all of it earned through relentless work and an obsession with perfection that often keeps me awake at night.
"What about your personal training business?" I ask. “Do you have a website?”
Something flickers across her expression—so brief I almost miss it. "No, I'm not very good on the business side," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I just talk to people in Central Park. That's how I get most of my clients. Word of mouth, you know? And I flyer when things get slow."
"Flyering in Central Park?" I frown, surprised that’s still a thing.
"Don't look so skeptical," she says, leaning toward me. "Not everyone builds empires, Liv. Some of us are just trying to pay rent and maybe have enough left over for a decent coffee now and then."
Her comment makes me feel like an ass. I've become so used to the wealthy people in my professional orbit that I've forgotten what it's like to struggle financially.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to sound judgmental."
"It’s okay." Her smile is easy, forgiving. "But sometimes the simple approach works too." She takes a sip of her wine and looks out at the planes taxiing on the tarmac before turning back to me. "Are you nervous?"
I consider giving her my usual composed, everything-is-under-control response, but something about the way she's looking at me—genuinely curious, not judging—makes me abandon the pretense.
"Yes," I admit. "I'm seriously fucking nervous. I'm not even sure we can pull this off, and if we can't..." I pause, running my finger along the rim of my glass. "If we can't, I'll not only look like a total fool, but my family will be hurt because I've been lying to them."
My own vulnerability surprises me. I don't usually admit weakness to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.
Blair's expression grows serious. "Hey, look at me." When I meet her eyes, she says, "I won't fuck this up. I promise.Whatever happens this weekend, it won't be because I didn't hold up my end of the bargain."
8
BLAIR
The seats are spacious enough that I can stretch my legs without touching Liv's, but close enough that I catch another hint of her perfume when she settles in beside me. She looks different today dressed in jeans, a simple gray T-shirt, and a soft cream-colored cardigan. Less New York powerhouse, more approachable. More Maryland, I suppose.
I remind myself to look appropriately impressed as the flight attendant demonstrates the seat controls. The lie detector in my head keeps pinging—I should be awed by the personal entertainment screens and the champagne service. Blair Miller from the Upper West Side, struggling personal trainer, would never have experienced anything like this. The thing is, I usually charter private jets for trips longer than two hours.
I could tell Liv the truth right now. It's not too late. I could admit that I don't need her money, that I was intrigued by her situation and offered to help on a whim because I was bored. That I'm actually Blair Davis, recently retired tech entrepreneur who sold her cybersecurity firm for an amount that would make her business look like pocket change.
But I like being Blair Miller. I like being accepted for who I pretend to be rather than what I have. Every woman I've dated over the past few years has done the math on my net worth before our second coffee. They've googled me, researched my company. By the third date, they're already planning the wedding for all the wrong reasons.
With Liv, it's honest, at least from her side. She's not trying to charm her way into my bank account. She's not pretending to love hiking because she read in Forbes that I'm an outdoor enthusiast. She's not laughing too hard at my jokes or agreeing with every opinion I express. She's the opposite. Sharp-tongued, demanding, and sometimes even a little unpleasant. I like that.
Of course, she'd never date a personal trainer in real life. I can see that clearly enough. Olivia doesn't date people who flyer in Central Park. But that's what makes this arrangement refreshing—there's no pretense that this could become something real. No expectations beyond a fake weekend performance with the best entertainment I've had in a long time.
"I have to say," I begin, mentally scrolling through her personal file, "that folder you gave me was truly impressive."
She glances at me and groans. "Please tell me you're not going to quiz me on your facts during take-off. I have a great memory, there’s no need; I know everything."
"Oh, I'm definitely going to quiz you. But first, I want to discussyou, because you’re much more fascinating. From what I’ve learned, you hate surprise parties, you're afraid of butterflies, and you once broke up with a woman because she put ketchup on a steak." I grin. "That last one particularly resonated with me. Also, I have to ask—'The Boss'? Really?"
I watch her blush. "That's just what people call me at work. I had to add it in."
"People whisper it, according to your notes," I say with a chuckle. "Should I be worried?"
"You’ll be fine as long as you stick to our agreement," she retorts.
"Well then, Boss," I say, "I promise to be on my best behavior."
She laughs. "About the ketchup... That was a perfectly valid reason to end things. Who puts ketchup on a good piece of meat?"
