I checked the app. He'd rated me five stars and left a twenty-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar fare. Definitely plastered.
The number kept looping through my head as I drove. Five grand would change everything. Pay off the credit card I'd been carrying since Daisy was born. Buy her the winter coat she required instead of making do with last year's too-small one. Maybe—finally—stop living paycheck to paycheck with nothing left over at the end of the month. Maybe even start saving for that culinary program I'd looked at online late at night when sleep wouldn't come. The one that specialized in pastry arts.
Baking—I'd always loved it. Before Houston, before everything went sideways, I used to help my grandmother make pies every Sunday. She'd had hands that transformed flour and butter into magic, and she'd been patient with me when I'd inevitably make a mess of her kitchen. She'd died while I was in Houston, and I hadn't made it back for the funeral. Some mistakes you just had to live with.
But the cautious voice in my head whispered warnings. Handsome guys making promises—yeah, I'd seen how thatmovie ended. Different city, different name, but same bad-decision energy.
Hunter wasn't my ex. My ex had been all charm and good times in Houston until I got pregnant. Then he was all gone. Hunter was asking me to play a role at a wedding—smile pretty, collect my money, walk away clean. No feelings, no complications. Just business.
This—I had to do this.
I pulled into Mom's driveway. The porch light glowed—she always left it on when Daisy stayed over. On nights when I drove for the rideshare, my daughter slept here. Easier than waking her up past midnight, and Mom never complained. But every time, guilt twisted in my stomach. Mom was getting older, already stretched thin running her in-home daycare. She shouldn't have to handle overnight duty too.
That's why I'd gotten my own place six months ago. Why I was determined to make it on my own. I wouldn't be another burden on her.
I let myself in quietly. The house was dark except for the nightlight in the hallway. I tiptoed to the small bedroom where Daisy slept when she stayed over.
My three-year-old daughter lay sprawled across the twin bed, her curly blonde hair spread across the pillow like a halo, clutching Mr. Bun-Bun, the stuffed rabbit she'd had since birth. His left ear was nearly loved off, and one of his button eyes barely held on, but she'd scream if I tried to replace him.
She looked so peaceful. So innocent.
So worth everything.
I kissed her forehead, breathing in the sweet smell of her baby shampoo, and whispered, "Mama loves you."
I left a note on the kitchen table—"Picking her up at 8 AM, thank you"—and slipped back out into the cold night.
The drive to my apartment took ten minutes. The complex was nothing special—a 1970s two-story building with peeling paint and a flickering vacancy sign. But it was mine. Unit 2C. One bedroom, one bath, a kitchenette barely big enough to turn around in. Daisy's bed took up half my bedroom, her toys overflowed from a plastic bin in the corner, but I was making it work.
Inside, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the secondhand couch that sagged in the middle. My phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark. Would he call? Part of me hoped he would. Part of me hoped he wouldn't.
Because if Hunter Massey actually followed through, if he really offered me five thousand dollars to be his fake wedding date, I already knew what my answer would be.
I'd say yes.
For Daisy, I'd say yes to almost anything.
Even this.
Chapter Two
Hunter
Iwoke up Thursday with a head full of hammers and the vague memory of propositioning my Uber driver.
