by Thea Dawson
I lock eyes with her and give her my most charming smile.
Cassandra glides toward me with a smile of her own. “Archer, thank you so much for coming in. Annabelle, I’d like to introduce you to Archer Carleson, one of our Gentlemen Attendants. Archer, this is Annabelle Winter.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Annabelle,” I said, making a point of looking deeply into her eyes.
Annabelle stares at me. At first I take her wide eyes and slightly parted lips to mean that she is pleased with what she sees, but then her pretty mouth falls into a pout and her forehead wrinkles in dismay.
She shakes her head slightly. “Oh, this won’t do,” she says. “This won’t do at all.”
2
Annabelle
Why had I thought this would be a good idea?
For one crazy, shining moment, I’d thought hiring a date for my parents’ annual party would be the perfect solution. No pitying looks from my family if I showed up dateless, no bringing a guy friend and wondering if he was going to embarrass me by hitting on one of my sisters.
I’d buy a guy, someone with decent looks and nice manners who would make a good enough impression on my parents and their friends, then fade away until the next big family event … at which time, maybe I’d hire another one.
But the minute I laid eyes on Archer, I realize what a ridiculous idea the whole thing is. He is about six feet tall—not super tall, but when you’re my size, pretty much everyone towers over you—and built like a swimmer, broad in the shoulders but not ridiculously muscle-bound. He has stylishly cut dark blond curly hair and a carefully trimmed beard. Bright blue eyes twinkle at me, and the smile he gives me as he walks into the room turns my knees to jelly.
He’s gorgeous.
And no one will ever believe he is on a date with me.
It's a stupid, terrible idea. I can only hope it's not too late to get my deposit money back.
“Oh, this won’t do,” I say. “This won’t do at all.”
Archer’s smiled doesn’t slip but I notice him glance quickly at Cassandra, who doesn’t seem fazed at all. “Let’s all sit down,” she suggests and gestures gracefully to the conference table.
We each take a seat, Cassandra at the head, Archer and I to either side of her. I alternate between staring at Archer to see if he’s really as good looking as I think he is—part of me thinks this must an illusion because no one is that good looking in real life—and pretending I’m not staring and trying to look at just about anything other than him.
“Annabelle,” says Cassandra, and I gratefully snap my attention to her, “can you tell me your concerns? I can assure you that Archer is extremely personable and professional, and very discreet.”
I glance nervously at Archer, who is still smiling politely and still hopelessly handsome, then back to Cassandra. “Oh … I’m sure he’s very nice—I’m sure you’re very nice, I mean,” I glance back at Archer, not wanting to be rude and talk about him as if he's not there, “it’s just that …”
Words fail me. Stating my real fear—that no one will believe the likes of him is dating the likes of me—out loud will make me seem pathetic.
Okay, more pathetic, because I guess you have to be a little pathetic to be hiring a date in the first place.
I try again. “The guys I typically hang out with … they don’t look anything like you. I usually date really smart guys,” I add. I’m thinking of the guys I know from the physics department at UCLA, who are brilliant but dorky, comfortable talking about classical field theory, hopeless at normal social interactions.
But as I notice Archer’s smile stiffen ever so slightly, I realize I’ve all but called him stupid.
“I mean, I’m sure you’re very bright,” I add hastily. “It’s just that you’re more, uh, glamorous than the type of guy I’d usually bring home.”
Cassandra smiles kindly at me. She reminds me of my oldest sister, Brianna, who has a similar worldly sophistication to her. “The attendants at Gentlemen, Inc. are hired in part on the basis of their looks,” she points out, “but since they are representing our clients, we also drill them in etiquette and vet them on the basis of education and charm. I can assure you that Archer won’t embarrass you.”
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks and hope it’s not obvious how embarrassed I already am. “No, I’m sure he’s—you’re—very charming. It’s more the glamour aspect. I mean, um, I'm not sure it’s going to be believable that we're … you're …” I look at him and bite my lip. “Do you think maybe you could tone it down a bit?”
His amiable facade slips for the barest fraction of a second, and I can see he’s taken aback. “Tone it down?” he repeats a bit blankly, not reassuring me about his intelligence.
“Yeah …” I say, scrambling for suggestions on how. How do you ask a god to “tone down” his divinity? “Maybe don’t style your hair so much? Or you could … cut yourself shaving or something?”
He’s too polite to say anything, and his smile doesn’t slip, but his pretty blue eyes turn flinty. This is not a man who takes kindly to being told to be anything less than his best self, let alone maim that beautiful face.
“I have an idea,” Cassandra breaks into the awkward impasse. “As I understand it, this is a formal party that your parents are throwing, yes?”
I nod.
“Archer will dress appropriately for the event, but on the casual side. And he won’t style his hair or trim his beard specifically for the event, he’ll just … look as he would if he were running out for coffee first thing in the morning.” She smiles brightly as if the problem is solved.
I nod slowly even though I’m not really buying it.
You know how male models look amazing in magazines or in commercials even when they’re sweating or covered with mud or drinking milk straight out of the carton? That was this guy. The things that would make an ordinary man less appealing didn’t apply to Archer. It didn’t matter if he showed up in a tuxedo or a track suit; he’d have all eyes on him regardless.
But in a way, wasn’t that what I wanted? The handsome man on my arm who drove all the other women wild with jealousy? I mean, yes, I’d told Cassandra—and I’d been telling myself—that I simply wanted an appropriate escort for a formal event, but if I was being honest, I wanted more than that.
I wanted, for one evening, to be the girl that other girls wanted to be.
And I was paying for it, so why not?
For an awkward minute, I flick my gaze between Cassandra and Archer while I chew on my lower lip—an old, bad habit that my family is always teasing me about. Finally …
“Okay,” I hear myself agreeing. “Fine. I think that’ll work. You’ll work.” I force myself to meet Archer's eyes again, which have become distinctly warmer.
“Wonderful!” Cassandra says briskly and stands up. “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a few moments to work out your background story.” She walks out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
I take a deep breath and face up to the god sitting across the table from me. I remind myself that it’s me who’s paying for him, that I have no reason to be nervous, that I’m the boss in this relationship.
It doesn’t really help.
He smiles at me again and leans forward, just enough to look like he’s interested in me, not enough to seem aggressive. His bright blue eyes are twinkling again, and I realize that his face isn’t just handsome, it’s kind. Or at least, looks that way. If he's offended by anything I've said so far, he's doing a good job of hiding it.
“So, Annabelle, tell me a bit about this event that I’ll have the pleasure of escorting you to.”
It’s the most he’s spoken, and I realize he has a wonderful voice. Smooth and rich with just a hint of playfulness, not too deep, but definitely masculine.
If single malt whisky could speak, it would sound like him.
If I had all the money in the world, I’d hire him to read the Journal of Applied Physics out loud t
o me from beginning to end, every week, but our fake date is stretching my budget a little too far already. It’s a ridiculous extravagance for a graduate student, even one who gets a nice stipend from her wealthy parents. I really can’t justify it, except that when my mother called to tell me the date of this year’s party, I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to face it—my glamorous sisters would have beautiful men hanging off their arms, my parents, still crazy about each other after thirty-five years of marriage would be shooting each other adoring looks across the crowded room, I’d be surrounded by gorgeous, successful people dressed to the nines.
And I’d be there on my own, trying to explain noise reduction protocols to people who'd smile politely and compliment me on being “the smart one.”
Yes, I could find a date … Being one of the few women in my department, I actually get a fair amount of attention from my fellow grad students, but let’s face it: the guys who are studying physics in grad school aren’t usually the ones who are exactly bursting with good looks and social graces. And if I had met someone I was attracted to, I’d hesitate to bring him home where I’d be instantly overshadowed by my sisters.
Okay, back to the business of our date. I take a breath and begin.
“Every summer, my parents host a big party at their home in Bel Air. My dad owns an international construction firm, and my mother retired from her law firm a few years ago to pursue philanthropy. This party is … well, it’s all sorts of people. Executives, wealthy donors, people my dad is doing business with, friends of my sisters and people they work with. Socially, it’s a big deal to be invited, and professionally, a lot of connections and deals are made.”
As I’m talking, Cassandra’s secretary tiptoes in with a coffee tray which she puts on the table between us. Archer pours me a cup, adds cream at my nod and stirs it before handing it to me. His movements are smooth, controlled and confident. I'm fascinated by the sight of his large hands handling the delicate cup, the way he pours the hot liquid without spilling a drop, the controlled way he adds the cream and stirs it, perfectly confident that it's exactly the right amount for me. He can turn something as ordinary as pouring coffee into a mating ritual.
I lose my train of thought for a moment, distracted by the seduction-by-coffee that’s going on in front of me.
"Connections and deals?" he prompts gently, putting the cup in front of me.
"Yeah. Anyway, it’s pretty formal. Some men wear tuxedos or at least dark suits. Women wear gowns. So … you know.”
I trail off, not really sure what else I should say.
“Perfect,” he says, and I wonder how I can get him to keep talking so that I can listen to that voice more. “Will we arrive together or separately?”
“Separately,” I answer. “I’ll be staying at my parents’ house, so if you could meet me there at 7:30, that would be great.”
“Sounds good,” he says as I pause to take a sip of my coffee. I swear it tastes better than normal coffee. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself,” he suggests.
“I’m a PhD student at UCLA, studying acoustic signal processing,” I say, and he’s gracious enough to look interested for a few minutes as I try to explain how my research could lead to a breakthrough in technological options for the hearing impaired.
“Fascinating,” he says, and he’s a good enough actor that he really does seem fascinated. “Sounds like a very worthy goal. Now, if people ask, how did we meet?”
I glance at the tray between us. “At a coffee shop? There’s one near campus called Insomnia where I study a lot. Maybe I bumped into you while we were standing in line or something …?”
He shakes his head with a pleasant smile. “A coffee shop is a great idea, but I don’t think you bumped into me." He thinks for a moment then smiles, and his eyes twinkle playfully. “What happened was that I saw this really intriguing woman sitting by herself with a laptop and a notebook. I decided to take a chance and go over and talk to her. When I glanced at the notebook, I could see she’d written out all these really complicated formulas and I thought, man, this chick is way too smart for me—” he gives a charming, self-deprecating laugh, “—but I took a chance and asked if I could sit at her table. We started talking and—“ he shrugs as if helplessly but happily overpowered by fate, “—we just hit it off.”
It’s all I can do to keep from swooning. It’s like he’s read my mind and tapped into a desire I was barely conscious of, to be one of those girls who gets hit on by gorgeous men in random places. It’s the kind of thing that happens to my sister Carina all the time. She kind of hates it, and I can see that it could be a drag if it happened a lot, but … I wouldn’t complain if it happened to me once or twice.
“That’s … perfect,” I agree, and try to get my mind back on track. “Now, what about you? What should we say is your job?”
He nods as if he has an answer prepared, which he obviously does. “I find it’s best to stick as close to the truth as you can. So, I’m an actor, which I am, looking for my big break. This is LA, so no one will think twice about it.”
“Great. What kind of acting have you done?”
“A few commercials, a little TV work. I was in the latest Taylor Swift video,” he adds with a barely noticeable touch of self-conscious pride.
I know nothing about Taylor Swift’s latest video and feel suddenly very un-cool. “Wow, that’s great,” I say quickly. “Her videos are amazing.”
I hope, anyway.
“Just a small part.” He smiles. “Anyway, let’s stick to that. I’m your typical struggling actor. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, we’ll have a great time at your party, and if anyone asks about me later you can tell them I just wasn’t … intellectual enough for you.”
I feel a flush of shame that I’d implied he wasn’t smart, but he’s so gracious it’s hard to tell if he’s deliberately rubbing it in or if he’s sincerely offering me a way to save face, given that this is a one-time date.
“Tell me a little more about your family,” he suggests, so I fill him in.
Brianna, my oldest sister, worked for my dad for several years before moving over to work for a tech start-up. She’s very serious, very professional. Like me, she’s perpetually single, but unlike me, it’s because she wants to be—although I don’t tell Archer this. Relationships are too frivolous for her, but she’ll still manage to show up with some gorgeous man on her arm because she’s beautiful and successful and always lives up to everybody’s expectations.
Carina is my next oldest sister, and works as an executive assistant at a well-known marketing firm. Where Brianna is beautiful in a cool, blond, Grace Kelly sort of way, Carina is all-out sexy. She loves to flirt and to party, guys hit on her constantly, and she can get a date as easily as snapping her fingers. She’s had a long string of boyfriends since she was a teenager. None of them last long, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. “Too many men, not enough time” is her favorite saying.
I don’t tell Archer this either, of course, though the thought of him meeting her makes me a little anxious. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve brought a guy home only to watch in dismay as he drooled over Carina all evening.
Finally, there are my parents. My dad, a wealthy, self-made man, still handsome in an older-movie-star kind of way; and my mom, always elegant, a former human rights lawyer turned philanthropist. People and organizations are constantly after her to speak at events and help them raise money. My dad likes to say that when she shows up, people just throw money at her, and it’s kind of true. She’s raised millions to help refugees and sex-trafficking victims and political dissidents.
Archer listens intently to all of this. Finally, “That’s quite a family you have,” he says, sounding impressed. “I’m looking forward to meeting them, and to being your escort for the evening. We’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely,” I say, caught up for a moment in the dream. Under the table, I pinch my leg hard to remind myse
lf that none of this is real. I can’t afford to let down my guard, or I’ll get swept up in my own fantasy.
We pin down a few more details, I give him my parents’ address, shake his hand and leave.
It’s not until my feet touch the pavement outside Gentlemen Inc.’s offices that it all hits me, and I’m struck by a mix of excitement and anxiety: I’ve bought myself a man, and my parents’ party could well be either the best night of my life—or the worst.
3
Archer
“‘Tone it down’?” I mutter out loud as I drive away from the Gentlemen Inc. offices. What’s the point of spending a small fortune to have a handsome man at your side and then asking him to look like everyone else?
Oh, and to cut himself shaving.
I roll my eyes.
Whatever. I had her eating out of my hand by the time we were done with our interview, and I’m confident that she won't back out. It’s a job, one evening, between that and the product launch gig, it'll pay my share of the rent with some left over, and then I’ll probably never see her again. It’ll be a good test of my acting skills to see if I can be charming and suave all night with her on my arm.
If I can do that, I should be a shoe-in for the toothpaste ad I’m trying out for now.
It’s a thirty-minute drive and a twenty-minute wait for an audition that takes sixty seconds. Basically, I shake the casting director’s hand, state my name to the camera, read my lines, and I’m dismissed.
They’ll let my agent know if I get the part. I’ve learned by now to let these things go; there’s no point in dwelling on them.
But for some reason, I am dwelling on Annabelle, which annoys me. I keep replaying her words—This won't do at all … I usually date smart guys—and wish I'd been in a position to say something snappy in return. Cassandra would have killed me, of course, if I'd been rude to a client, and I pride myself on being professional, but still …
