by Lila Monroe
Lying on a beach in Florida with a hot guy, fanning myself with wads of cash.
It seems like no contest, but if there’s one thing I learned from my years in business, it’s never make a big decision out of desperation.
I go dig my old camera out of my closet. It’s the one my grandfather gifted me, a manual Pentax that uses film. These days, I mainly shoot in digital, but the moment I feel the weight of it in my hand, I know it’s time to take a trip down memory lane.
They say after you fall off a horse you should get right back on. So I head over to the place of my last catastrophic fall. Central Park always makes for great photography, no matter the time of year.
I avoid the dogs playing in the meadow—sorry, Rover, I’m not quite over the little lake mishap—and wander to my favorite scenic spots. The statues under the canopy of the Mall. The massive fountain in its courtyard. Then up to Belvedere Castle. It’s the middle of a work day for everyone who has a real job, but there’s still a smattering of spring tourists, and the gorgeous leafy green of the park.
The light is perfect, the sun beaming in the crystal clear sky. And, oh, there’s a couple of squirrels . . . having a very enthusiastic hump. Lucky them. I guess I’ll give them some privacy. But I can’t help being reminded of my present dilemma.
Max: to hump or not to hump? Er, wait, that’s not how I’m supposed to be thinking about the job. To hire on or not hire on?
I still don’t have an answer. But as I cross the park again, I find myself drawn to the people after all. That couple sharing an ice cream cone, a little dab on his nose. This couple hugging a tree together, because why not? This couple on the bench . . . I’m not sure it’s really kosher for his hand to be that far up her shirt out here in broad day— Ack, and there goes the other one down her jeans. Not just the squirrels that are horny today.
Ah, springtime in the city.
When I’m all shuttered out, I take the subway down to the Manhattan School of Art. An old friend from college works there, and loaned me a pass-card for whenever I need some darkroom time. I slip in behind a group of ripped-denim coeds, and find a quiet spot to develop my roll of film. The pungent smell of the chemicals and low red light send me straight to photo-geek heaven. In the dark, sloshing the paper around in the developer, I lose myself and forget the outside world. Slowly, the images take shape: shadowy lines getting more solid until you can see every detail. And with every new print, I feel more certain: this is what I was meant to be doing. I am going to find a way to keep at it, and if the path there maybe takes a detour to Palm Beach . . . well, nobody said it would be simple.
I’m all finished and heading towards the exit when a voice carries after me. A voice so distinctive and familiar it stops me in my tracks.
“ . . . when you consider the explosive symmetry of the color combinations, you can never look at a pineapple the same way again.”
I freeze. That snooty, vaguely faux-British accent could only belong to one person: Curtis Chambers, the guy I dated in college, who promptly broke my heart the minute we graduated when he took a job in Paris and only decided to tell me it was over after I’d bought a non-refundable ticket out to visit him.
I wish I could say I made the trip regardless, and spent two wonderful weeks eating brie and French kissing hot dudes with accents, but nope. I took the hit, and spent the holidays crying my heart out on the couch into Kraft mac & cheese.
The voice comes closer. Shit. I grab the nearest door handle and fling it open—
Right into a classroom full of college kids. They turn to stare at me expectantly.
“I’m, umm, just auditing the class!” I grab a seat in the back and pray Curtis keeps on walking outside, but no, he has to step into the room.
Double shit.
“Here’s our guest lecturer for the afternoon,” the professor announces brightly. “He’ll tell you all about his career and making it in the real world after graduation.”
I sink lower in my seat, praying he doesn’t notice me. Is it too late to make a run for it?
Curtis heads to the front of the room.
“This is Curtis Chambers, renowned photographer.”
Renowned? Since when?
“Thank you.” Curtis preens. “It’s always great to pass on the knowledge I’ve gained through my experiences. And what experiences they are. Just this year, I’ve done advertising shoots out in Tokyo. Then a trip to Kenya. And a gallery show I have coming up next month. I never know whether I’m coming or going.”
Clearly, the years have made him humble and insecure.
I can’t take another hour of this, so I slip to the floor and start crawling towards the door. I bang against someone’s leg. “Whoops!” I whisper. “Sorry, dropped my pencil.” I stay low on my hands and knees, inching towards freedom. If I can just make it out without him seeing me . . .
“Wait, is someone back there?”
The professor interrupts Curtis. I crawl faster. So close to freedom. So close!
“You there, on the floor. Get up.”
I do—but I keep my back turned. I’m two feet from the door, ready to lunge to safety when—
“Hallie?”
I freeze.
Just perfect.
I turn, and force a smile, even though Curtis—and the entire class of college kids—is staring at me like I’m crazy. “Hey!” I blurt. “Wow, crazy coincidence. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I’ll just—” I gesture vaguely and take another step, but Curtis cuts me off, sweeping me into a bear hug.
“What are you doing here? Are you teaching, too?”
“No. Just . . . checking things out.”
Curtis turns to the class. “Hallie is an incredibly talented photographer, too.” He says it proudly, and it’s almost worse than if he’d been patronizing. “What are you up to these days. I’m sure she has a ton to teach you guys, as well,” he adds.
Oh, let me think. Escaping angry shih-tzus 101. How to be humiliated by your ex. Living off ramen and beans when you’re slowly going broke chasing your dreams.
Sure, I’ve got a lifetime of valuable information up my sleeve.
My rapidly dampening sleeve.
Dammit. Why do I have to stress-sweat? In cotton!
“I’ve been . . . fine,” I manage to reply, still smiling awkwardly. “Some freelance work. Private commissions. The usual.”
“Where has your stuff been published?” Curtis asks. “I’d love to take a look.”
“I, well— I haven’t gotten into any magazines or that sort of thing,” I say, stumbling.
Curtis pauses. “I see,” he says, looking sympathetic. “Well, keep at it, I’m sure you’ll make it someday.”
I could almost gag if I wasn’t so busy wishing I could disappear in to the floor. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure I will. Umm, I won’t keep you. Teach hard!”
I finally turn and hightail it out of there before I can look like any more of a failure.
If such a thing were possible.
I make it to the exit and hurry onto the street. Could I have seemed any more like a loser? How is it fair that Curtis Chambers of all people got the flashy star photographer career? Back when I knew him, he was . . . kind of mediocre. He talked a big game, but never had much vision. And now? Apparently, that lack of vision has taken him all the way to the top. While I’m literally crawling around on my hands and knees.
Still, as much as I want to write him off as just another poser, a little voice reminds me he’s had four years’ head-start on me. He went straight into the industry after college, working as an assistant to other, big photographers. I took the easy route, I played it safe. I figured it was better to do the sensible thing and get a day job, rather than take that leap and pursue my art fulltime.
But sometimes you only get where you want to go by taking that risk.
I fish my phone out of my purse. Max picks up on the second ring.
“Hallie,” he says in that cocky baritone. “My favorite cu
pcake thief. Tell me you’re not calling to turn me down.”
“No,” I say, with a tremor of excitement. “You’ve got a deal. I’m in.”
7
Hallie
The next day, I look at my half-packed suitcase and despair. “Crapmuffin, he’s picking me up in five minutes!”
“So? He can wait,” Jules replies.
“Um, I’m on the clock, remember? Official girlfriend duties.”
I scramble off the bed and toss a couple handfuls of panties into the suitcase. Pajamas! An extra bra! Should I be going casual chic or dressy formal here? Do I need to bring my own toothbrush or will toiletries be complimentary? So many questions I should have asked. I’ve been to Palm Beach before, on a spring break trip back in college, but I’m guessing the Carlisles don’t stay at the Beachsider Motel, with two-for-one shots on Friday.
There’s a knock on the apartment door. Jules goes to answer it while I stuff my essential makeup into a travel bag. The suitcase bulges as I zip it up, and I haul it into the living room in time to hear Jules saying, “So you’re the man of the hour.”
Max leans against the doorframe, looking gorgeously casual in dark-wash jeans and a simple white button-down shirt, open at the neck. It hits me for the first time just what I’m signing up for.
Me. And him. Playing at being in love. For a whole week.
It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.
Max gives Jules a charming smile. “The man of the week, unless Hallie’s had a change of heart. You’re the roommate?”
“Jules Robinson.” She offers a lawyerly handshake. “Esquire. Compliments on your contract. Very tight.”
Max laughs. “That’s not a compliment I’m used to hearing, but sure. Thanks.” He turns that delectable smile on me. “Ready to go?”
“As ready as I’m going to be.” I say, my stomach doing a dance of nervous uncertainty. “Viva Palm Beach!”
“Have fun, but not too much.” Jules kisses me goodbye.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she does,” Max calls back. The sly glint in his eye suggests he meant the “too much” part.
He turns to me and takes in my massive suitcase. “It is a week we’ll be gone for, not a month.”
“I believe in being prepared for anything,” I inform him.
Maybe that comes out a little flirtier than I meant, because his smile grows. “My kind of woman.”
There’s a sleek black town car waiting at the curb outside. The chauffer is already opening the trunk for my bags, and tipping his cap to me.
Not for the first time, I’m glad I have some experience living the high life. Sure, it was trailing after my old boss, making sure his life ran smoothly, but I know enough to give a murmur of thanks—and keep my knees together—as I slide into the backseat of the enormous car.
Max slides in after me. Even with the expanse of seat between us, he feels close.
Too close.
I drink in his chiseled jawline and smiling blue eyes, and begin to feel lightheaded. It’s just the nerves, I tell myself, trying to pull it together. Focus on the job. The part he’s paying you for.
Ogling is strictly extra-curricular.
“So why don’t you give me the rundown on this family of yours,” I say, pulling out my trusty notebook and a pen. “I’m going to need details if I’m going to make this trip as smooth as possible for you.”
Max smiles. “Doing your homework?”
“Just trying to be prepared.”
“Ah yes, you’re a regular Girl Scout.” Max looks amused.
“You said it was your grandfather’s birthday?” I prompt, pen at the ready.
“Franklin Carlisle III.” Max nods. “It’s his eighty-fifth birthday. He’s the one who summoned us all back to pay tribute to his genius.”
So: cantankerous, old, rich. Got it.
“And what about your parents?” I ask. If I brought a guy home to meet them, Mom and Dad would be all over him in a heartbeat, wanting to find out everything from his high-school GPA to his blood type.
But Max just shrugs. “Mom checked out of the Carlisle duties about the time of the divorce—said it was the one good thing about it. That, and the alimony. My dad will be around, with wife number three. No, wait, four. You’ll meet Uncle Kenny, and the awful cousins.”
“Your favorite people?” I tease lightly, and he laughs.
“You’ll see.”
I pause. “And they won’t think it’s weird that I’m showing up out of nowhere?”
Max doesn’t seem concerned. “I’ve been off traveling the past few years. And let’s just say I’ve been known to act impulsively before. Bringing home a mysterious new girlfriend is nothing compared to . . .” He stops, with an impish smile. “Uh, maybe that’s a second-date story.”
I arch an eyebrow. “According to our cover story, we should be on date two hundred by now.”
“Good point.” Max grins. “But we’ll save my teen rocker phase for another story.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” I wag my pen at him. But despite the very brief debrief, my stomach is still trying out a contortionist act.
My nerves must show, because Max reaches to squeeze my hand “Hey, all you’ve got to do is follow my lead and act like you’re enjoying my company. Which won’t be an act at all.”
His touch is warm. Firm. Dangerously exciting.
Remember the rules. No hanky panky.
I release his hand. “What time’s the flight? We need to leave plenty of time for security, and checking in—”
“We can do that curbside,” Max interrupts. “And don’t worry about a TSA pat-down. You’ll be sipping champagne before you know it. Just one of the perks of flying first class.”
* * *
The delicious drinks aren’t the only perk. Between the cashmere blanket, full media library, and more legroom than I can shake a toe at, I’m almost disappointed when we touch down in Florida.
The heat blasts me the moment we step out of the terminal, and I shade my eyes against the dazzling sun. Max strides on ahead, effortlessly steering my bulky suitcase, and comes to a stop besides a cherry-red Jeep rental.
“Hop in.” He grins at me. “We’ll swing through town to pick up a few things for you before you meet everyone.”
“As you’ve already pointed out, I packed plenty. No need to detour for my benefit.” I climb into the passenger seat.
“That wasn’t exactly a suggestion, so much as a plan,” Max says, pulling away from the curb.
His imperious tone makes me pause. “I am capable of dressing myself.”
“Not to insult your packing skills, but I think you’re probably going to need a little more for this week than you’re used to.”
“Like what?”
“Well, there’s going to be afternoon tea, pre-dinner drinks, dinner, the party—black tie, of course—beachwear, sailing, tennis, luncheons . . .”
I gulp. “OK, you win,” I say reluctantly. “But—”
“My treat.” He answers the question before I even ask it. “Work expenses.”
And just as I’m feeling touched he’s so concerned about me fitting in, Max gives me a wink. “Besides, can’t have my girlfriend making me look bad.”
He guns the engine—and I hang on for dear life.
“So, I have a question for you,” Max says, as we speed onto the highway.
“Uh huh?” I gulp, watching the scenery whipping past.
“Why did you say yes?”
I look over.
“To me, this whole crazy arrangement,” Max clarifies, shooting me a grin. “I mean, not that I don’t think I make an irresistible package, but you didn’t seem all that impressed when we met.”
I didn’t? I guess my poker face is better than I thought.
“Well, you said it yourself, you’re a tempting proposition,” I say lightly. “And the paycheck isn’t too shabby, either.”
“That your final answer?” Max raises an eyebrow.
I pause, but I don’t feel like spilling my guts about the failure of my career just yet, so I shrug.
“For now. We’ll see if you earn another one later on.”
Max chuckles. “Hallie Gage . . . I can already tell, you’re going to keep me on my toes.”
* * *
We stop at a fancy boutique, the kind so posh the clothes don’t even have price tags. All the better not to give me a heart attack. The minute we step foot through the gleaming doors, an immaculate sales clerk materializes.
“My girlfriend is looking to update her wardrobe,” Max says with a mega-watt smile. “And you look exactly the kind of woman to help her out.”
“Of course, Mr. Carlisle,” the shopgirl says with a flutter of her Bambi-esque eyelashes. “I’ll take care of that for you.”
She disappears in back, and I give him a look. “A regular, are you?”
He looks bashful. “No, but I get written up a lot. You know, eligible bachelors, society pages, that kind of thing.”
Oh yeah, I know—that Max is tabloid catnip, and I’m supposed to look like I belong on his arm. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but there will be more than just his family sizing me up. Every guest at the party—or eager shop clerk—is going to wonder just how I landed this hot, rich, charming man. And sure, my self-esteem is doing just fine . . . but it’ll be a lot healthier wrapped in some designer labels.
I look around with new eyes, feeling like I just stepped into my very own Pretty Woman fantasy sequence.
Without the escort part.
Kinda.
“So when you said this was your treat, did you have any . . . limits in mind?” I pick up a silk sundress that feels like heaven under my fingertips.
Max chuckles. “Go crazy. I’ve got to grab a couple of things too, so I’ll meet you back here in a while.”
Go crazy. Not words you should ever say to a girl in an expensive clothing store unless you’re willing to pay the price. Max saunters out, and I’m left alone to survey the possibilities with a massive smile on my face.
