Faking It by K. Bromberg

by Bromberg, K.

  “—don’t bother—”

  “—it’s on Friday night. Cocktail attire. Lots of networking.”

  “I won’t read it.”

  I flash a megawatt smile at her and then turn to walk away. “Yes, you will.”

  And she will.

  It’s rare that a woman resists me. She’s trying but I’ll win in the end. It just seems for the time being that I have my work cut out for me.

  I’m a man who always has an end goal in mind. Always.

  There’s no point in setting a goal if you don’t plan on smashing it.

  Question is, what in the hell am I aiming for when it comes to Harlow Nicks?

  “YOU SHOULD GO, MIJA. YOU need to live in the now.”

  “Mom,” I sigh her name in exasperation and look her way. Live in the now. How many times in my life have I heard her say that one? My spitfire of a mother, who never backs down, never lets me settle, and who would do anything in her power to help me succeed. “Going to some hoity toity event isn’t going to help pay the bills.”

  “I told you I have it covered this month.” She pulls up her mocha colored hair into a clip, sinks back in her chair, and points to my laptop. “Look at him.”

  “I have looked at him, Mom.” Tons of pictures of Zane—more than I should admit to. At charity events. At business functions. At parties with celebrities who are so well known they are typically referred to by their first names only.

  The headlines and bylines clutter my mind. CEO of the up and coming online matchmaking site SoulM8.com. A native of Brisbane, Australia, who moved here when he was twenty to pursue his entrepreneurial goals. The man who began his fortune by making some lucky trades on stocks, then by buying failing businesses and then selling them for a ridiculous profit after revamping them.

  Must be nice to have the Midas Touch, as one article called it, all the while being a prick.

  “He’s tall. Handsome. Successful.”

  “And an asshole,” I grumble.

  “An asshole with connections.” She lifts her eyebrows in that way to tell me she has years on me and knows more than I do.

  “A presumptuous asshole,” I murmur.

  “You’re still mad about the shoes? What woman gets mad when a man brings her a brand new pair of high heels—expensive ones at that—to replace the ones she broke? Not me. Mmm-hmm-nope.”

  “Yes, I’m still mad about the shoes.” And about the note sitting atop the pale pink Jimmy Choos that said:

  “See you at eight, Cinder. You’ll show.”

  “I’m not a princess,” I assert.

  “Mija, I’d let him call me Cinderella all night long if it were me.” She lifts her eyebrows twice for emphasis and in that split second reinforces my staunch determination not to attend the party. Or think about him. Or anything about him.

  Leave it to my hopeless romantic of a mother to paint this situation into some kind of Disney fairytale. The same woman who has time and again fallen head over heels simply because she believes in love—because she loves to be in love—only to get her heart broken in the end. And even through the tears and the spoon dug into the ice cream container she’s eating directly from to deal with her misery, she’ll smile and tell me how she has no regrets because isn’t love a wonderful thing?

  Too much drama. Too much feeling. Too much make believe.

  And she wonders why I’m gun-shy when it comes to relationships.

  “Mija?” She pulls me from my thoughts and back to the present situation: Zane, my shoes, the note. “C’mon, maybe he’s the prince you’ve been waiting for.”

  “I’ve had my heart broken enough times by men that you’ve called princes.” I sigh. “No thanks.”

  “You have to kiss a lot of frogs to—”

  “You need help, mother.”

  “At least I’m honest unlike some people,”—she points at me—“who keep pretending that his gesture wasn’t a teeny bit romantic.”

  I snort. “For some reason I don’t think Zane Phillips and the word romantic belong in the same sentence.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I’ve heard him talk long enough to know the type of guy he is, Mom.”

  “And I’m telling you he tried to make up for it.”

  “Why are you pushing this so hard?” I throw my hands up and she just shakes her head.

  “Because . . .” She shrugs and gets the dreamy look in her eyes that tells me she’s already writing the happily ever after to Zane and my story when there isn’t even a story to begin with.

  It was cute when I was eight. It made me believe my first high school love was the one, right up until my heart was crushed when I caught him kissing Shelly Dodson behind the bleachers after football practice. And now that I’m in my twenties with many failed relationships under my belt, her starry eyes and fairytale plotting only lends me to buck harder the other way when she starts it up. Because if she thinks he’s the one, her track record seems to show he most definitely isn’t.

  Besides, eating gallons of ice cream and modeling don’t exactly go hand in hand.

  “Leave it be, mom.”

  “But what if this is fate’s way of throwing you together? He may be a very nice man. He may be swoon-worthy when he’s not being the alpha-asshole that let’s face it, we both know he is attractive and sexy and gets your blood humming.”

  I shove up from the couch and pace around my small living room willing her to go home and leave me in peace. “Mom, I love that we live next door to each other. I love that we’re close and share almost everything, but that doesn’t mean I want your input twenty-four-seven. I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions. Can you respect that?”

  If only I hadn’t opened the box of shoes in front of her, she would have never known any of this.

  When I turn to face her, she has that miffed look on her face—eyebrows pulled tight, lips in a straight line—like I’ve just hurt her feelings. She nods her head and twists her lips but doesn’t rise from the couch and do what I’ve asked.

  All I can do is sigh and wait for her to have her say. I know that’s the only way to end this conversation.

  “Of course, I respect you. What I can’t figure out is if you’re mad at someone for buying you a nice gift, or if it’s because he already has you pegged as showing up for the party.”

  I bite back the sarcastic response I want to give and decide on the truth. Besides, she’ll see right through a lie anyway. “How about all of the above? I mean, what man buys a woman shoes that cost twenty times more than the ones she broke if he doesn’t expect something I won’t be giving him in return?”

  “You do like him though, don’t you?”

  “Mother,” I warn as the starry-eyed look returns.

  “When you dig your heels in on something, it means you’re fighting it . . . and baby-girl, you’re digging those brand new pink heels in just for the sake of principle.”

  “Mom.” I sigh and slump back in my seat feeling defensive and at the same time confused over these thoughts she’s stirring up about Zane. “I just . . . I just don’t know.”

  “Sometimes the people who make you feel all riled up inside end up lighting a fire in your heart.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “It’s true, mija.”

  I laugh. What else can I do knowing she’s already fabricating our first date, first kiss . . . first everything? “It may be true, but with my current string of luck, I’d show up in my new shoes, snag a heel in a crack, and somehow take down the whole table or something.”

  “Or maybe you’ll fall into your prince and he’ll catch you, Cinder.”

  And there it is. The fairytale.

  “I love you, but princes don’t exist and I don’t need any man to catch me. I can manage perfectly all on my own.”

  “Mija,” she tsks. “Just because your father wasn’t the best of men, doesn’t mean all men are like that.”

  I shake away the thought of the man who left us high
, dry, and broke when I was little. The man who taught me that love is fleeting, it messes with your self-worth, and always has its conditions.

  “It seems to me like they are.”

  “How many times have I warned you not to let everything with your father jade your views on love. You have to move on. You have to believe the right person is out there for you.”

  “And you think that person is Zane.” I lift my eyebrows in question.

  “He could be. You never know. What is it about him that—”

  “Let’s see. He’s selfish. He thinks the world revolves around him. He thinks he can snap his fingers and I’ll jump. He may not be exactly like dad, mom, but he sure as hell sounds like a man I should stay far away from. Assholes come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “So does love.”

  “I believe you said those similar words to me after Jamie explained to me after five months that women are like milk—they have expiration dates. And then again when I walked in on Finn in bed with someone else. Or what about—”

  “I believe I said, when you find the right one, love will take on whatever form it needs to in order for a relationship to work. Quit putting words in my mouth, mija, because it sounds an awful lot like those heels of yours are digging in harder.”

  I turn and look out the window to the street beyond, my sigh filling the small but common area.

  “It’s just a party, Low. Why are you making this such a big deal?”

  Because you’re right. Because I could see myself liking this guy even though I hate him. Because he’s all those things you said and more even though I don’t want to admit it.

  When I turn to face her, a soft smile is on her lips and resignation rifles through me.

  “I don’t even know anything about the party other than he said it’s industry people. What exactly does that mean? The whole thing seems way too sketchy.” I explain.

  “So? Why not go and if you don’t like it, leave. If you don’t show up, you’ll never know.”

  “So what would I even be going to? For all I know it’s a swingers party.”

  My mom laughs and it’s good to see a smile on her face. She’s been putting in too much overtime and looks tired. “You and your imagination. It’s always gotten you in trouble.” She pats the spot beside her for me to sit. “I’m sure it’s not a swingers party. It’s a cocktail party. People mingle. They network. They trade business cards. They wear sexy high heels.” She winks. “It’s not a big deal, really.”

  “Then why are you making it one?” I ask in exasperation as I sit down.

  “Because, my beautiful mija works so hard to be independent, and I love that. But sometimes, when a successful and handsome man invites you to a party, you need to kick back a little and have some fun.”

  “I’m not his date, mom.”

  “But you could be . . .” She lets the words hang while I roll my eyes. She doesn’t get it. She didn’t meet Zane and his frustrating ways. She only sees him as a possibility while I see him as someone who feels sorry for me and is trying to ease his guilt for thinking I was his lowly dog walker.

  It doesn’t matter what I say, the woman is a hardcore romantic and she won’t listen.

  “Like I said, Mom. Somehow I’d end up with a broken neck.”

  Why am I talking myself out of it when I have no intention of going?

  “Pshaw. You are beautiful. One look at you and . . .” She waggles her eyebrows.

  “And what? He’ll add me to his dating app so he can make sure to put me on his roster of possibles? No thanks.”

  “You’re going and—”

  “No, I’m not—”

  “And I’ll give you an aspirin to hold between your knees to make sure you don’t fall to his no good ways.”

  My laugh echoes around the living room. “Mom, I could fill a whole prescription bottle with the amount of aspirin I’ve dropped.” I duck when she swats my way and fall back onto the cushions laughing.

  “Harlow!” Swat. “Don’t you say that.” Swat. Our laughter echoes off the living room walls and she keeps at it until I hold my hands up in mock surrender.

  “I’m joking. I swear. I’m joking.” She stops and presses a loud smack of a kiss to my forehead.

  “You better be.”

  “I am. I meant two bottles.” The look she gives me is one I love and hate. It says she knows I’m joking, but that her little girl is all grown up and able to make choices—good and bad—on her own.

  She shifts back to her seat on the couch. “Go, Low. What does it hurt? We could borrow a dress if you don’t have one. Get you all fancied up. Maybe even find you a new job. Who knows, maybe this is the event you need to find that one job that will launch the career you’ve been working so hard for. You just have to keep trying.”

  “I have been trying.” I laugh but self-deprecation is loaded in its tone. “I’m just not getting any big breaks.”

  “Victoria’s Secret was—”

  “I did a catalog shoot. Just like so many others did. Hell, if go-sees paid, then I’d have no problem paying the bills. I’m going on all of them, just not booking any jobs. It seems curves are out and heroin chic is making a comeback.”

  She tsks and shakes her head. I can already see her trying to figure out how to bear the burden of our bills. “I know your independence is important to you, but we could always move back in together until things look up. Between the balloon payment on your student loan coming due and the transmission going out in your car, you’ve been hit hard. I could help you. I could work extra shifts. I—”

  “Thank you, mom, but—”

  “Don’t let your pride get in the way, mija. I’d love having you back under my roof.”

  I laugh and it feels good to. “Technically speaking, we are under the same roof.”

  She squeezes my hand. “You know what I mean. Just say the word.”

  “Thank you. I know you would . . . but I’ll figure it all out. Something will give soon.” I hope.

  “What about pursuing the spokesmodel thing you used to talk about when you graduated? With your communications degree, your intelligence, and your ability to talk about anything, I’m sure that—”

  “Spokesmodel jobs are even fewer and farther between than modeling jobs.” Frustration rings through my tone as I think of yet another week of ramen for dinner.

  “You’re prettier and more talented than all those other girls trying to be noticed. . . the right person just has to see it.”

  Spoken like a true mother.

  “Thank you for believing in me . . . but I told you, maybe I’m just not cut out for modeling or show business. Maybe I should just drop out of the game.”

  “Nonsense.” She places her hand over mine. “Sometimes the best things in life are a result of the unexpected. Zane doing what he did . . . maybe that was your unexpected. A sign, and you should see where it leads.”

  “A sign, huh? Seems more like a warning.”

  “ROBERT, MATE. SO GOOD TO see you again.”

  “Likewise.” Robert reaches out and shakes my hand. He’s aged well for his eighty years. Hair is salt and pepper with more salt than anything, and his daily workouts that always seem to come up in each of our conversations have kept his grip firm and his body fit.

  When a man considers investing millions of dollars in your company, you make a point to talk with him about whatever it is he wants to talk about. His daily workouts are one of them.

  His wife is another.

  “It’s quite the kick-off party you’ve organized,” he says and takes a sip of his gin and tonic.

  “Isn’t that what we’d aimed for? Enough buzz to get people asking about it . . . but not enough to make people want to know more until we’re ready for the official launch?”

  “You listened.” He nods and peers around the rooftop patio.

  “I always listen, Robert.” I take a sip of my Bundaberg and Coke and motion to the scene in front of us.

  It looks ju
st how we talked about in our conversations. The terraced patio is strung with lights. Appetizers are being passed. Drinks are being poured at the two bars in opposite corners. My favors have been called in and the people who need to be here—the ones that tell Robert I’m in touch with this multi-million dollar industry—have arrived.

  Yes, I’m playing the game. I’m wining and dining him and hoping his check will be written to me by the week’s end.

  But what’s more important to me than his money are his connections. His unique experience consulting for other matchmaking platforms after he retired and his prolific background in public relations could help me get the visibility I need to launch this platform with a bang.

  The man is a potential walking goldmine for SoulM8 and it has nothing to do with how deep his pockets are.

  “And you have the AI program up and running? Are the glitches you encountered in the last run fixed?”

  My low chuckle is a warning: hands off. “I told you, mate, leave the software, the AI, the implementation to me. All I need is your help with visibility. Your contacts with the media. Your schmoozing with the press to get us on air and in print.”

  He eyes me, the warning not to overstep heard loud and clear. He lifts his eyebrows and takes a sip of his gin and tonic. “What about a spokesperson?”

  I laugh, glad he listened and stepped his toes back on his side of the line. “It’s been a hard job having to look at one gorgeous woman after another, but someone had to do it.”

  “It must have been taxing.” He gestures to the people milling around on the patio. “Did you have a favorite?”

  “Yes.” I picture Simone. Beautiful, shapely Simone with the sexy voice who will reel in the men, the hardest demographic to engage, to the platform. “Tonight I’ve arranged for you to meet the five women under final consideration, speak with them, and then we’ll see if we agree on who our spokesperson should be. But I think we’ll be in agreement.”

  “Fair enough,” he says and nods. “And you still think the carryover from the beta group will hold?”

  “I do. We’ve already exceeded our preregistration goal by twenty percent and that’s before we start the promo tour next week. Once that begins and we do the press junket, I’m more than certain we’ll blow our projections out of the water.”