Page 1 of Fake it With Me

1

LIZA

Istood over my kitchen sink, eating croutons straight from the bag. Not the fancy kind with herbs and garlic. Just the regular, cardboard-flavored kind that came in a plastic bag from the discount grocery store three blocks away.

They weren’t rock hard, but they weren’t exactly buttery soft either. I wasn’t afraid of breaking a tooth, but there were a couple that certainly tested the strength of my molars.

I mourned the absence of salad. Hell, I mourned the absence of any vegetable matter whatsoever. My last head of lettuce had turned into brown sludge a week ago. The croutons had outlasted everything else in my pathetic excuse for a pantry, probably because they were composed of materials designed to survive a nuclear apocalypse.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Each bite echoed in the tiny studio apartment, bouncing off walls that were close enough together that I could practically touch both sides if I stood in the middle and stretched. Not that I would ever try that. The last thing I needed was to acknowledge just how claustrophobic this place really was.

My eyes kept sliding toward the stack of bills on the counter. I’d been avoiding them for three days now, like if I didn’t look directly at them, they might cease to exist.

Who was I kidding? The bills were definitely there, and I was definitely broke.

My stomach churned. That could have been the croutons—dry bread really wasn’t meant to be consumed as a meal—or it could have been the crushing weight of financial ruin pressing down on my intestines. Or just hunger in general.

I looked at the bottle of ranch dressing in my refrigerator. Would adding that make this sad excuse for dinner better or worse?

I knew getting my PhD would be hard. Everyone had warned me that unless you had a rich family to support you or were independently wealthy, it was next to impossible. But I went for it anyway.

And now I’m eating croutons for dinner.

My last tiny little check from tutoring had covered my back rent and I was officially going to be late again seven days from now. I was so screwed. Walking dogs didn’t cover the rent and put food on the table and keep the lights on.

I reached for the bottle of ranch, hoping the fat content would keep me going for a bit longer.

My phone started ringing. Another luxury that I would have to give up soon if I couldn’t scratch together a few pennies. It was probably a bill collector. Someone that wanted money I didn’t have.

I recognized the name on the screen. Della.

“Oh shit,” I murmured.

Della. From Faux. The “company” I had signed up with six weeks ago in what could only be described as a moment of pure desperation. I had seen a flyer on campus and checked into it. Some of the other students were doing it. They were much younger than my thirty-year-old self, but desperation and hunger would make people do some crazy things.

I told myself it wasn’t an escort service. Della had assured me it wasn’t an escort service. I had filled out the application at two in the morning after receiving my third past-due notice on my student loans. There may have been a bottle of very cheap wine involved.

I had been very clear in my application. I would not sleep with anyone. I would hang out with people, attend events, make polite conversation, smile for photographs. That was it.

When I went for my interview, because apparently you have to interview to be an escort, the eccentric woman seemed genuinely offended I thought her girls had sex for money. She explained the Faux agency was a legitimate domestic partnership agency, and that plenty of clients just needed companionship for social events.

I assumed she was lying. Or at least stretching the truth for legal reasons.

Now she was calling me. Which meant either I was about to be propositioned for something that would make me feel like I needed three showers, or a consulting gig.

Considering I was eating stale croutons, could I really get all high and mighty about consulting? I grabbed my glass of water, washed down the last of the dust, and answered the phone.

“Liza! Thank goodness. I was worried you wouldn’t pick up.” Della’s voice was bright and professional, like she was calling to schedule a dental appointment rather than potentially changing my entire life.

“Hi, Della. What’s going on?”

“I have a job that I think would be perfect for you.”

My mouth dropped open. “A job?”

The words sounded like a frog speaking—not that frogs spoke, but if they did.