Even if she wanted one, rejection was inevitable for the same reasons the bank declined her loan application. No credit history. No job, therefore, no income. Blah, blah, blah.
As she stuffed the receipt in her coat pocket and took the hanging bag from the saleslady, regret was already gnawing at her. By the time, Brooke pulled up outside her apartment building, she was in full-blown panic mode. But no matter how many ways she looked at it, she couldn’t think of a better way to get what she needed to move forward with her life.
Brooke put the car in park and reached across the console to grip Jo’s hand. “Get out of your head.”
Clinging to Brooke’s hand as if it were a lifeline, Jo forced herself to relax. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” Brooke said with a decisive nod, giving Jo the push she needed to open the door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?”
“I’m sure. I’ve got this.”At least I hope so.
As she opened the back to grab her dress, Brooke jumped out of the driver’s side and ran around the car to drag Jo into a quick hug. When she pulled back, she latched onto Jo’s arms. “You’re gonna knock his socks off with that dress.”
Jo scrunched her nose. “I’d rather he keep them on.”
Brooke giggled. “Socks on. Socks off. Clothes are optional.”
Rolling her eyes, Jo grabbed her dress. “I’m not having sex with Avery Preston.”
With a dramatic huff, Brooke walked back around the car and stopped short of getting in. She looked at Jo over the roof. “Just promise me you’ll try to have fun.”
“I promise.”
“And call me when you get home. I want deets.”
“I will,” Jo promised and, with a wave, turned toward her apartment. She checked the time on her phone. Avery would be here in just over two hours.
Shit. She had to pick up the pace.
In record time, Jo stood in front of the bathroom mirror, humming to the playlist on her phone and adding the finaltouches to her makeup. Just a little more mascara and…done. Now, for a little frosting—diamond earrings she’d picked up at one of the consignment shops. Fake, but hopefully, no one would know.
But isn’t fake the theme of the night?
And you’re the biggest fraud of all.
In the reflection of the mirror, the dark green designer gown hanging from the top of the bathroom door mocked her. This was a dress for someone like Charlotte Reese. Rich, beautiful, sophisticated.
“You can do this.”
Slowly turning, she ran a hand over the soft velvet. The gorgeously extravagant dress slipped over her head like water over a statue, the silk underlining slinking over freshly shaven legs.
As if anyone would have seen the forest growing there.
With the bateau neckline, her collarbones gave the illusion of elegance and fragility, which she was neither. But she was rolling with it, wearing her hair up to show them off, with loose strands framing her face.
She sprayed perfume to one side of her neck and froze. A rattle of flatware came from the kitchen.
Her lungs refused her next breath as fear rose to strangle her. Had the robbers come back?
Hands shaking, she grabbed her phone and pressed her back against the open bathroom door. She fumbled to punch 9-1-1. Her finger poised over the Send button, she heard a familiar whistle.
What is he doing here? How dare he just let himself in?
She snorted. Why wouldn’t he? The man had no concept of boundaries.
She glanced down at her phone. Twenty minutes ’til six. Avery would be here soon, and fake dating meant not dealing with each other’s baggage. At least not her overstuffed trunk of dysfunctional shit.
Tucking the phone into her pocket—gotta love a dress with pockets—Jo stepped into a pair of black stilettos and hurried down the hall, anger snapping at her heels.
