But if this was happening—if selling a weekend of my life to be arm candy for a drunk cowboy was actually on the table—might as well make it count.
"Five thousand," I heard myself say.
His head snapped up. He focused on me with sudden clarity. "Seriously?"
"You heard me." I gripped the wheel tighter, not quite believing the words coming out of my mouth. "Five grand to be your date for one weekend. Otherwise, I'm sure you can find someone else cheaper."
He studied me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling he saw right through me—saw the desperation I tried to hide, the calculations before bed every night, the fear that one unexpected expense would bring everything crashing down.
"Five thousand," he repeated slowly. "For one weekend. You'd have to come to all the wedding events—rehearsal dinner, ceremony, reception, Sunday brunch. And you'd have to act like we're actually dating. Convince my family this is real."
"I can be very convincing." Not entirely a lie. I'd been acting like everything was fine for two years now. What was one more weekend of performance?
"My family's not easy. My mother will ask invasive questions. My father will assess your suitability. And the wedding's going to be over-the-top ridiculous. My future sister-in-law's been planning this since she was six years old."
"I can handle ridiculous."
"Can you handle acting like you're in love with a guy you just met? Because that's what I'm asking."
"For five thousand dollars? I can act like I'm in love with a cactus."
That startled a real laugh out of him, and the sound transformed his whole face. He looked younger, less burdened. Almost boyish.
"You're something else."
"I'm practical." I turned into the long driveway leading to Massey Ranch, gravel crunching under my tires. "And I'm guessing you're going to wake up tomorrow, realize you offered your Uber driver five grand to be your fake wedding date, and pretend this never happened."
"Or," he said, leaning forward, "I'm going to wake up tomorrow and realize I found the solution to my problem."
"Big talk from someone who can barely walk straight."
"I'm more sober than you think." His gaze found mine again, holding it. "Give me your number. I'll call you tomorrow when I'm not drunk off my ass."
I rattled off my number, watching him type it into his contacts with the exaggerated care of the plastered. When he looked up, his expression had gone serious.
"I'm actually going to call. This isn't just drunk talk."
"We'll see." I stopped in front of a smaller house set back from the other ranch buildings, warm light glowing from the windows. "This you?"
"Home sweet home." He stuck his hand between the seats. "Deal?"
I looked at his outstretched palm, callused despite the obvious wealth. This was insane. Getting involved with a rich cowboy, even for one weekend, felt dangerous. Handsome guys making promises—I'd believed those before. But this was different. This was business, not romance.
"Deal." I shook his hand, his grip warm and stronger than I'd expected. "But I don't even know your last name."
"Hunter Massey." He smiled that dangerous dimple smile. "And you are?"
"Dixie Lane."
"Well, Dixie Lane." He climbed out with only slightly more grace than he'd gotten in, then leaned down to look at me through the window. "Five thousand dollars. One weekend. You really going to do this?"
"If you call." My voice stayed steady even though my hands were shaking. "Big if."
"Oh, I'll call." He straightened, swaying slightly. "This is either the best idea I've had all year or the worst. But it'll definitely be interesting."
I waited until he made it safely inside—stumbling only once on the porch steps—before driving away.
Five thousand dollars.
