Page 18 of Fake it With Me

The yacht club looked like something out of a magazine spread about how the other half lived. All gleaming wood and polished brass. More of those floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the harbor where boats bobbed gently in their slips. Waiters in crisp white jackets circulated with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres that were probably called something French and pretentious.

I walked in on Darek’s arm, trying to look like I belonged there, trying not to think about what had almost happened in my closet an hour ago.

The almost-kiss.

The way his hands had felt on my body with an intimacy that had nothing to do with helping me zip up a dress. The way he’d leaned in and then I leaned in. The heat flared between us so intensely I had forgotten my own name.

The man was too hot for my own good. That was the problem. I’d spent the last hour in the car trying to convince myself that the almost-kiss had been nothing. It was all in my head. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

And dammit, he smelled so good. Crisp. Was that a smell? Crisp like a cold winter morning when you inhaled through your nose. It just woke you up.

I was drawn to him even though I had insisted nothing physical would happen between us. I made sure it was literally written into the contract I had signed. I was starting to regret that decision.

That man had lit me on fire with just a simple, basically innocent touch. What could he do if he had all night? What could he do if I let him?

Stop it, I told myself firmly. Get your head in the game. You’re here to play a role, not to fantasize about your employer.

“You okay?” Darek asked quietly as we made our way through the crowd. His hand was in the small of my back, guiding me through the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Fine. Just taking it all in.”

“Overwhelming?”

“A little.” That was an understatement. Everything about the place was overwhelming. The opulence, the casual wealth on display, the way everyone seemed to know each other and move through the space with the confidence of people who’d never doubted their right to be anywhere.

I was a nerdy scientist who wanted to swim with whales, not socialize with these sharks.

We approached a small group of people, three men in expensive suits and two women in dresses that were very obviously designer. Darek made introductions that I immediately forgot, too busy trying to smile and nod at the right moments while my brain screamed that I didn’t belong here.

“And this is Liza,” Darek said, his hand still on my back. “My girlfriend.”

The word sent a little thrill through me that I absolutely should not have felt.

“Lovely to meet you,” one of the women said. I didn’t miss the scrutinizing gaze. I was so glad I had spent the money on the dress. If I would have shown up in any of my regular wardrobe, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb. “That’s a beautiful dress.”

“Thank you.” I smoothed down the fabric self-consciously.

“Darek’s been keeping you hidden,” one of the men said with a jovial laugh that seemed forced. His face was red, whether from exertion or alcohol, I couldn’t tell. “Where did you two meet?”

I opened my mouth, suddenly panicking because we hadn’t actually discussed our cover story in detail, but Darek stepped in smoothly.

“Through mutual friends in New York. Liza’s working on her PhD in marine biology. It keeps her pretty busy.”

“How fascinating,” the woman said in a tone that suggested it was anything but. “And you’re staying in Maine now?”

“For a while.” I tried to channel confidence I didn’t feel. “It’s perfect for my research.”

“How convenient.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Judgy bitch.

The conversation continued, small talk about boats and summer plans and people I didn’t know. I smiled and nodded and tried to look engaged while internally cataloging everything I hated about the stupid party.

These were the people Darek wanted to impress? What a waste. Half of them were obnoxious old drunks, red-faced and too loud, holding court about their latest purchases or their vacation homes or whatever other displays of wealth they thought made them interesting. The other half were their perfectly preserved wives, who’d clearly had work done and wore their designer clothes like armor. And despite all the pretty outward appearances, they were still jerks.

Money couldn’t buy class.

But it could buy groceries. It could pay rent. It could fund a dissertation and pay off student loans and give me a future that didn’t involve eating croutons for dinner. So I needed to get my head in the game and be the charming little girlfriend he paid for. I couldn’t afford to get fired.