I think I can.
I know I can.
10
Marley Jacobs
The sound comes at me in waves, each one louder in volume. It takes my mind a little while before I decipher that it’s my phone alarm, and I bolt up to a sitting position, blinking in the darkened room. I crane my neck to check the time on my phone on the bedside table.
Shit. I have to get up. I kick off the covers, rubbing my eyes until I see a kaleidoscope of colors swirling behind my lids.
Padding over to the window, I raise the mesh shades to let some sunlight into the room, but my eyes rebel. A shower will wake me up. Stumbling into the bathroom, I crank up the hot water, strip off my nightie, and grit my teeth as I duck under the spray. As I lather my hair with my favorite honey-coconut shampoo, I wonder about the appointment. Could the mystery client really be a Creed? It seems unlikely.
Drying my hair, I ask myself why a really prominent person like a Creed would ever want to hire me? I mean, yeah, my clients tend to have some money, one might even call them affluent. Anyone who could blow two or three grand to save face or cover a lie is not starving. But none are uber-rich or super important because if they were, they wouldn’t have to call hire-a-girlfriend. They’d have a whole stable of willing beauties looking for an easy life and ready and able to lend a hand.
I use an old mascara wand to brush loose face powder onto my lashes before brushing on the mascara, another super handy trick I learned from Sassy Stefano’s youtube channel—it makes the lashes look thicker. Stefano is brilliant and has massively helped me to perfect my professional efforts. I should send him a cake or fruit or some wine. Something to show my appreciation.
I shift my attention back to my original line of thought. Today’s appointment. As I apply the first coat of black to my lashes, I consider all the possibilities for which an important person might want to hire someone like me. Despite my lively imagination, I come up with squat. I guess I’ll just have to go there to find out what’s what.
At 10:40 a.m., I present myself at the reception desk in the lobby of the glass-and-steel tower.
“May I help you?”
I run my gaze up and down the tall brunette in a black skirt, white blouse, and gray patterned scarf, wearing a headset. She’s polite but not what I’d call friendly.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I have an appointment at 10:45 with Blair Halloway.”
“Your name?” The woman holds the mouthpiece nearer to her lips.
“Marley Jacobs.”
She repeats my name into her mouthpiece as I watch her face, but there is zero expression on it. She’s like a pretty robot. Imagine if she was and no one even knew it?
“Ms. Jacobs,” she directs in a professional tone of voice, “the elevator bank on the far right goes up to the top floors. You’ll be going to 46. Reception will direct you from there.”
“Thank you.”
The elevator door is open and waiting for me. I step in and the doors instantly swish closed. With silent speed it whisks me up in the blink of an eye. Okay, maybe two blinks but assuredly not enough time to steady my nerves. As the doors slide open into a posh reception area, I adjust my suit and tug at the jacket sleeves. Am I dressed appropriately?
I made the decision not to go full-on corporate, preferring to wear something just a tiny bit flirty but still conservative enough for a job interview—which this essentially is. I almost changed my mind at the last moment and consequently tore my closet apart this morning searching for something better. My bedroom now resembled the aftermath of a detonated fabric explosion, rejected clothing tossed on every horizontal surface.
After almost hyperventilating in total panic at my humongous error in fashion judgment, I discovered a black dress in the back of my closet and was fully dressed before I stood in front of the mirror and again stripped down to my undies, going back to the suit Tara and I found yesterday, deciding I did like it after all. I thought it looked like something Audrey Hepburn might have worn, which was what ultimately sold me on it. I’m a total dork for Hepburn. She and a few other vintage film stars helped me get through some dark teenage days when my parents were at each other’s throats holding scissors, and my hormones were raging in an all-out war with my shyness.
Around my neck I have a sterling chain with a Celtic knot. Lace-top nude thigh-highs, gray pumps, and a matching handbag are my accessories. In addition to the necklace, I’m wearing a thick silver bangle and some silver rings. It’s a silver day.
When the elevator stops and the doors open, a woman—platinum blond and as crisp as autumn air—meets me at reception on floor 46. “Please have a seat, Ms. Jacobs, and I’ll let Ms. Halloway know you’ve arrived.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling self-conscious, I glance around and then sidle over to a grouping of big square leather chairs. I perch at the edge of one of them. I’m so nervous I could throw up. Something tells me that this job is vastly different from my other assignments, and I’m not certain why. Maybe it’s the swankiness of the building? Or the fact that Ms. Halloway wouldn’t tell me who exactly I’m here to meet. I’m not sure. All I know is I’m not calm and collected. I’m the opposite of calm and collected actually. I mean, yes, I’m a confident woman, capable of handling myself pretty well around well-off people… but this place is a little too much swank for me.
When I let my eyes move around the space, I notice that across the front of the reception desk is sleek silver lettering that says MediaTech. I inconspicuously take my phone out of my bag to do a quick lookup on the internet. The company owns online news outlets, niche publishing companies, and a number of tech startups. The CEO is… shit. Double shit on a shit burger. None other than Tara’s most eligible bachelor, Fletcher Creed. This is not good.
I need to talk myself down from the cliff. I take a deep breath. It’s okay. It will be fine.
Fortunately, I’m meeting with a woman named Halloway.
I honestly don’t know how long I wait, but a few people cross back and forth in front of me, smiling politely in my direction as they pass. Everyone looks perfectly put together. Elegant suits, starched shirts, perfect hair, pearly smiles. Despite the fact that I thought I looked pretty damn impressive this morning in the window reflections on my way here, I begin to doubt every single thing about myself with every minute that ticks by. Just as I almost succeed in talking myself into turning tail and fleeing the place like a murder scene, a phone buzzes behind the sleek rosewood desk, and the receptionist’s eyes pivot to me.
“You can go in now, Ms. Jacobs.” She stands up and points. “Through these double doors, turn right, and then it’s the first door on the left.”
I rise to my feet, readjust my clothing, and attempt my professional smile. “Thank you.”
Walking through those doors, I give myself a stern warning to stop mentally unraveling. It is all going to be fine. I’m here to find out what is wanted of me, and I should be in and out in a few minutes. Whatever this offer is about, I’ll turn it down. I’ve already pretty much decided that I’m going to sign Rafe’s contract. It just makes sense.
The moment I cross through the double doors, I’m in an alternate universe. My heels sink into the plushest putty-colored carpeting, and the noise from reception—as minimal as it was consisting of the occasional buzz or beep, a quiet chuckle or word, and the elevators arriving and departing—disappears into a thick, insulated silence. The walls are a lighter shade of the carpet—a fabric with a bamboo-like pattern. A soft glow reflects from recessed lighting as there is no natural light in the hallway. I take a deep breath and head toward the door on the left, lightly rapping two knuckles on the surface until I hear a command to enter. It’s a man’s deep voice, definitely not Blair Halloway. I grasp the bronze handle to open the door and take a few steps inside.
And almost take a few steps backward. Whoa.
I am totally not expecting the sight in front of me. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows take up the entire
far wall. An angular glass desk sits diagonally in front. Sunlight is filtered through the almost-invisible shades that let all the daylight bleed through but keep out glare. It is stunning.
But it is the man behind the desk who really robs me of my ability to breathe. To be struck speechless—me, the owner of a mouth that runs nonstop like a pair of cheap nylon stockings—is a rare thing.
It’s him. The stunning man from the fundraiser.
He rises up and extends his hand across his desk, and my mouth goes dry.
Tall.
Imposing.
I’m almost five feet eight and am wearing three-inch heels, and he has a good three or four inches on me. Though he is devastatingly handsome, that’s not the thing about him that makes my knees turn to the consistency of grape jelly. The reason why I’m instantly feeling light-headed and shaky-legged is the expression on his face. If I had to describe it, I’d say he looks… angry.
“Ms. Jacobs. Thank you for meeting with me on short notice.”
His voice is deep and attractive, and although polite, the words that leave his mouth are clipped, fast, and almost staccato—a verbal assault rifle.
Nonetheless, I rush to take his hand, shake it, nod. His hand is warm… strong. “Hello. Um, I’m sorry, but I thought I was meeting with Blair Halloway?”
My mind is racing with possibilities. Who is he? A Creed? Or maybe an executive of the firm? I just don’t know, and he hasn’t yet introduced himself. I try to recall the photo Tara showed me, but my mind is a blank slate at the moment, and the more I try to remember, the blanker it gets. And the sweatier I get.
He buttons his suit jacket. I can’t help but notice how fine a suit it is. Or is it the body inside it that’s fine? Long, lean, and hard. Peeking out from underneath the jacket is a snow-white shirt with a champagne-colored tie, and the almost-navy suit hugs him like a jealous lover. I’m not good with words, but google very high-end men’s suits, and that’s what I’m seeing in 3D.
What must he look like under that suit?
As soon as the naughty thought tiptoes through my mind, I feel my face turn blisteringly hot. Great. Now I’m sweaty and red-faced. He has to notice. And… was I staring? Or did all of my checking him out and perving over him happen in the blink of an eye?
“Ms. Halloway is my assistant.” His voice remains professional, his face impassive. “Please,” he says, gesturing to one of the chairs positioned opposite his desk, “have a seat.”
Slowly, I lower myself into the chair on the left, bending to place my handbag on the floor by my feet as he retakes his seat. After arranging myself, I wait for him to speak.
And wait.
Leaning back in his black chair, he’s staring at me with a piercing gaze, saying nothing. He has one arm across his chest while resting the elbow of his other arm on it. He’s tapping his temple with his index finger as if considering some kind of dilemma. His defensive posture and silence are making me even more agitated—and I can’t stop myself from fidgeting, crossing my legs, sitting up straighter, fiddling with my jacket sleeves, spinning my bracelet—anything to distract myself.
Still… nothing. Is he going to glare at me all day?
I clear my throat. “So…I have to admit that the suspense is killing me. Why am I here today?”
As if I broke a trance, his expression changes. “You really are a chameleon, aren’t you? I have to congratulate you on your talent in that regard.”
My pulse quickens, and briefly I wonder if one could die of an extremely rapid pulse, you know, if it can cascade into a series of unfortunate events. It’s thumping, a boom, boom, boom. Probably not—chances are I’ll live at least until the end of this meeting. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I think you heard me. You look distinctly different every time I see you.”
What? I’ve only seen him once and from a distance. I’m scouring my brain but… Have I met him somewhere? I think I’d definitely remember that. And why does he have such a chip on his shoulder? As if he’s angry with me. “Uh… I don’t believe we’ve ever met before.”
He nods, unfolding his arms and moving his hands to clench the edge of the desk as if he’s going to push off at any moment. To get up. To come closer.
Please don’t, I beg him silently as he eyes me closely. “We’ve not met, true. I’ve seen you, however, on multiple occasions, Ms. Jacobs.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “If that’s even your real name?”
I try to swallow past the hard lump that has been nearly choking me since I walked into this palatial office. This has been my worst fear about my profession, getting called out for my fakery, and here I am being busted—and by someone at the very top.
Not good.
I keep my voice steady—ten points for me. “It is my name. How I can help you, sir?”
“First tell me something. Do you enjoy deceiving people? Is it something you do for fun—or just for money?”
My mind starts frantically shuffling through everything I’ve done recently that might explain what he’s talking about. “Deceiving? No, I do not.”
His face remains blank for a moment, but then he does what I hoped he wouldn’t do. He stands up, thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks around his desk to stand in front of me. I can’t back away because I’m sitting down. So now I’m looking up at him and I feel cornered.
My God, is he handsome. I’ve never seen anyone so attractive anywhere. Ever.
His good looks aside, this is a definite uh-oh moment for me. He brings his folded hands up to his face, steeples his fingers, and taps them against his lips—his lush, full lips that look made for dirty things. “I have a proposition for you.”
11
Marley Jacobs
A proposition. That’s what he said.
I uncross my legs and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Maybe I find myself at a disadvantage in this meeting, but it’s not because I’m weak—and it’s especially not because I’m female.
No, women are strong. Durable. They are mothers and nurturers. Fixers and warriors—well, they don’t start wars, but they’ll damn well finish them if need be. Women are organizers and doers. They get the job done and will vanquish the enemy if necessary.
Despite the confident face—or faces—I show the world, I have self-doubts like anyone else, maybe even more than the average person because growing up, I had no real cheerleader by my side. Kids need that. I had to give myself pep talks, toot my own horn, cheer my own game. I don’t feel sorry for myself—just stating the way it was. Other people have it so much worse than I did—I know that. A few have it way better.
It’s just an accident of birth and the luck of the draw.
I do my best to keep looking him in the eye. Regardless that this guy outclasses me in every way, I refuse to let him see me cower. “You have me at a loss, sir. What kind of proposition?”
Folding his arms across his chest again, he leans forward so his face is close to mine. Now he is inches away. I know he’s doing this on purpose, trying to unnerve me, so I am doing my very fucking best to not let him get to me.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, the syllable vibrating in his throat, “you’re not as bold as I expected you to be. I mean, given your occupation.” Pursing his lips, he continues, “Not too long ago you interfered with a deal of mine. I was trying to liquidate some assets, and you got in the way.”
I go to point to myself and in my shock end up poking my chest hard. “I interfered?” I have zero clue what he’s talking about.
“Yes. You. Well…” His hand spins in the air. “…To be clear... Let me think.” He squints up at the ceiling, frowning. “Ah yes. I believe it was Taryn Richmond who screwed up the deal for me that day.”
His face moves even closer to mine—so close that our noses almost touch. “A.k.a. you.”
Oh no. Instantly, heat percolates, blossoming up my neck into my face—no doubt, into a scarlet blush. Taryn Richmond was the name I used for the Todd Richmond job where I played the ent
repreneur’s wife. This company was trying to sell him a fleet of private jets and the established client list, service, and the real estate with it. My client asked my opinion, and I gave it to him. I didn’t know much about it at all—I’m not a businessperson and I told him so—but my gut instinct told me it was a meh deal. I think I put it this way: it seems to be a better deal for the seller than the buyer. In my uneducated opinion, there was too much risk involved.
My client backed out.
“I don’t understand,” I manage to get the words out intelligibly. “The man selling the fleet wasn’t you? His name was…” My eyes migrate to the ceiling as I scrape my memory for the name. I remember it was the name of a tool, and it instantly comes to me. “…Hammer, I believe it was.”
“Harry Hammer, one of my colleagues whom I enlisted to handle the sale.”
My mouth is so dry that I can’t swallow. I look around the office. “May I have some water please?”
He pushes off the desk and strides over to the other side of the office, opens a cabinet and extracts a tall cobalt-blue bottle and two glasses, handing one to me as he returns to his desk. He pours the water into the glasses and twists the cap back on. I gratefully swallow more than half the glass as I try to get my head back in the game. I need to keep my wits about me. I mean… how did he even see me when he wasn’t there?
Pressing my lips together, I choose my words carefully. “If you weren’t there then how did you…? You must have secretly recorded the meeting?” I can hear the wobble in my voice.
“No, but I was watching via surveillance cameras.” His long leg swings across the other one at the ankle. “I felt my presence would be counterproductive… but I did need to know what was going on.” He smirks. “My reputation often precedes me in business matters. Well…to be fair, probably in any matters. Some find me intimidating. As it turned out, though, I didn’t have to scare him off. You did that all by yourself.”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 6
