Page 2 of Fake it With Me

“Yes! One of our premium clients is looking for a domestic partnership consultant. It’s a bit last minute, but the compensation is substantial, and when I saw the details, I immediately thought of you.”

Domestic partnership consultant. I rolled the phrase around in my head, trying to decode it. Was that better or worse than escort?

And if it was what I thought it was, could I do it?

“What exactly is a domestic partnership consultant?” I asked.

“A fake girlfriend.”

I blinked. At least she was direct.

“The client needs someone to pose as his partner for about a month. There would be some public appearances, some private family time, very straightforward. Nothing physical or romantic required.”

Nothing physical or romantic. I clung to those words like a life raft. “So I’d just be hanging out with someone? Pretending to date them?”

“Exactly. And the reason I thought of you—well, one of many reasons I thought of you—is that the assignment would be based in Maine. On the coast. I remembered from your application that you’re studying whale migration patterns for your PhD. I thought the location might be appealing.”

I moved toward my tiny window that faced a brick wall and wrestled it open. Late spring air, thick with city smells and the distant sound of sirens, rushed into the apartment. At least it was fresh air, relatively speaking. When one lived in the city you just kind of overlooked the smell of exhaust and urine.

“I am studying whale migration patterns,” I confirmed. “Humpback whales, right whales, fin whales along the New England shoreline. That’s actually why I need money.”

Or I’ll starve.

I kept that last bit to myself, but it was the cold, hard truth.

“Well, this job would certainly keep you afloat. More than afloat, actually. The client is offering one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for one month of work.”

I inhaled and sucked remnants of crouton dust down my throat. That sent me into a coughing fit that left me wheezing and my eyes watering. I was really selling myself. Who wouldn’t want to pretend to date me?

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say fifteen thousand?”

“One hundred and fifty thousand.”

The room tilted slightly.

“That’s… that can’t be real.” I pulled my phone away to make sure I was actually talking to Della. If it was a prank call, it was just mean.

“I assure you it’s real. The client is very motivated to find someone quickly, and money isn’t really a concern for him. Faux caters to a particular clientele—billionaires. For them, this kind of investment is negligible.”

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I could pay off my student loans. All of them. I could eat salad. Real salad, with lettuce and tomatoes and maybe even those fancy nuts that cost twelve dollars a bag. I could stop calculating whether I could afford toilet paper or if I should just steal extra napkins from the coffee shop on the corner.

But still.

“Nothing physical,” I said firmly. “I need you to understand that I absolutely cannot and will not agree to anything physical. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Nothing physical or romantic,” Della repeated, and I heard the rustle of papers on her end. “The client simply needs someone to help rehabilitate his public image. He’s going through some personal challenges, and having a stable partner would help with optics. It’s actually a very common reason people use our services.” She paused and I could see the woman’s bright red lips in my mind. She had a very close relationship with makeup. Like roller girl meets disco meets the eighties. “We’re not an escort service, Liza. I know that’s what you’re worried about. But if these men wanted to pay for sex, they’d go elsewhere. What they want from Faux is discretion, professionalism, and a clean exit strategy. I do not run a brothel or prostitute women. If my clients and my girls decide to move a relationship into that category, that’s their business. Not mine. No one is paying for sex.”

A clean exit strategy. That phrase was exactly what I wanted.

“So I’d just be acting like his girlfriend for a month,” I said slowly. “With zero benefits.”

“Exactly. The client will provide all the specific details when you meet with him. He’ll explain the situation, what he needs, and you two can decide together whether you want to move forward with the arrangement. No pressure. If you meet him and decide it’s not for you, you can walk away. No harm, no foul.”

I looked at the stack of bills on my counter. Then at the bag of croutons. I didn’t have to open my cupboard to know it was empty.

“I’ll meet with him,” I heard myself say.

“Wonderful!” Della’s enthusiasm practically burst through the phone. “He’ll fly in tomorrow to meet with you. I’m thinking a coffee shop? Something public and casual where you can both feel comfortable. I’ll send you the details within the hour.”