Faking Ms. Right: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Dirty Martini Running Club Book 1)
Faking Ms. Right: Chapter 13

A message from Shepherd popped up on the bottom of my screen. My eyes darted around, as if I needed to be careful of who was watching. Which was ridiculous. No one was paying attention to my computer screen. And he sent me messages all the time. I was his assistant. That was how this worked.

But for some reason, that little notification, less than five minutes before I was scheduled to leave for the day, felt ominous. And not in the sense that I was afraid he was about to dump a bunch of work on me and I’d have to stay late, or work on Saturday. In the sense that I had a feeling it wasn’t about work.

It was Friday, and we’d managed to navigate our first week as boss and assistant by day, fake boyfriend and girlfriend by night. Things at work had been more or less normal. Of course, there was the part where he said good morning when he walked by my desk, and thanked me for things sometimes. But other than that, normal.

With the exception of the sleeping in the same bed thing—which was getting easier every night—faking the relationship was a breeze. Shepherd worked late a lot, and when he was home, he spent time in his office. I’d decided the best thing to do to ensure that his dad—and Svetlana—believed our little game was to make myself at home. So I helped myself to his beautiful gourmet kitchen and cooked a few meals. I laid in my bean bag chair to read. Did yoga in the living room. I added my collection of coffee mugs to the cupboard, and even sat out on the balcony with a glass of wine after dinner last night.

Richard was nice, and seemed to be trying his best to be unobtrusive. He was friendly, but he tended to keep to himself when Shepherd was home. Svetlana was not nice—she glared daggers at me whenever she saw me—but she hadn’t been around enough to make things terribly uncomfortable. Yet.

With another quick glance at Steve to make sure he didn’t seem suspicious—I really didn’t want him to replace out about this—I clicked on the notification from Shepherd.

Shepherd: Dinner tonight at seven.

I checked his calendar, but I didn’t see anything. I didn’t remember him mentioning a dinner. That was odd. What was he talking about?

Me: You don’t have anything on your calendar tonight. Do you need me to add it?

Shepherd: No, I made reservations for seven.

Oh my god, had he asked me to make dinner reservations and I’d forgotten? I never forgot things, not even the tiniest detail. It was one of the reasons I was so good at my job.

Me: Did you ask me to and I forgot? You could have just reminded me.

Me: But I don’t remember you asking.

Me: Am I going crazy?

Shepherd: Come here.

I minimized our conversation and went into his office. His brow furrowed as he looked at me.

“I’m sorry if I missed something. I guess I’ve been a little off this week—”

“Everly.”

I closed my mouth and pressed my lips together.

“I made dinner reservations for us.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. The meal that usually takes place after work. And sometimes people have dinner together. At a restaurant.”

Oh my god, was he teasing me? My mouth turned up in a small smile. “Shepherd, are you making a joke?”

He sighed and glanced away, as if annoyed, but I could see the hint of a smile on his face. “I figured we should have dinner together.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like a dork. “Right, like a date. Because we’re… I get it.”

“Yes.”

I crossed my arms. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“Out on a date.”

His jaw hitched. “You want me to ask you? We’re supposed to be—”

“Dating.”

“And living together.”

“Well, I know, but how’d you know I’d be free for dinner?”

“Because you’re dating me.”

Why was his emphasis on the word me so freaking sexy?

“Fake-dating you. I could have had plans.” I could practically hear his teeth grinding. Riling him up was fun, but I didn’t want to take it too far. “I meant with my girlfriends.”

He appeared to relax. At least he no longer looked like he was in danger of popping a blood vessel. “Fine. Everly, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“Why, yes, Shepherd, I’d love to.”

“Seven,” he said, turning back to his laptop.

“Lovely,” I said, and went back to my desk.

Wait, this was not lovely. I had to go on a date with him? A real, actual date?

I had terrible luck when it came to dating. I was basically the queen of first date disasters. But maybe this didn’t count as a first date. We’d gone to the gala together. Of course, that had been fake. But so was this.

I needed help, so I texted Nora.

Me: 911. Shepherd is taking me on a date.

Nora: What’s the emergency? Do you need an outfit?

Me: No. Maybe. But that’s not the emergency.

Nora: …

Me: Did you read my text? A date, Nora. DATE.

Nora: A fake date or a real date?

Me: Real. I mean, it’s all fake, but we’re actually going on a date.

Nora: Again, what’s the emergency? Do you need shoes?

Me: No. Maybe. That’s not the point. Is this a first date? Or was the gala our first date?

Nora: Does it matter?

Me: Yes. It matters. You know how first dates are for me.

Nora: Oh god, you’re right. Let’s count the gala as your first date. Better?

Me: Much.

Nora: Shoes? How about the mint heels?

Me: You’re the best. I’ll stop by on my way home.

Letting out a relieved breath, I put down my phone. Tonight was our second date. Good. I could handle a second date. And I loved Nora’s mint heels. Sharing a shoe size with Nora Lakes was one of my life’s greatest blessings.

The mint heels were perfect. I paired them with a black mini-dress. A little sexy, maybe—it did show a lot of leg—but I was only trying to play the part.

Plus, this dress did look pretty great on me.

Shepherd was waiting for me near the front door. He’d changed into a different suit—this one deep blue with a coordinating tie. The color made his eyes pop.

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as I approached with my coat draped over my arm. “You look… very nice.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile.

I heard voices in the other room—Richard and Svetlana—and it sounded like they were heading our direction. Shepherd and I locked eyes and gave each other the subtlest of nods.

Shepherd took my coat and stepped in close to help me put it on. He was so imposing when he stood near me like this. So tall and undeniably masculine. Moving slowly, he guided each sleeve over my arms, drawing out the process while Richard and Svetlana came into view.

With gentle hands, Shepherd swept my hair out of the collar of my coat, his eyes on my face. I couldn’t stop staring at him. At his fierce eyes and square jaw. This close, his scent was almost intoxicating. How could a man smell so good all the time? Honestly, did he have a single flaw?

There was the part where he was a robot with no feelings. At least, that was what I tried to tell myself as I fell prey to his hypnotic gaze and man-heaven scent.

He traced a thumb down the side of my face, his touch sending a zap of electricity through my veins. Why was he… Did he just… Where was I?

Richard cleared his throat, snapping me out of my stupor. Right. They were watching. This was part of the act.

“Sorry to interrupt such a tender moment,” Richard said.

Svetlana’s features were carefully neutral, her jaw relaxed. But her eyes were once again shooting daggers at me. Swords, even. Or maybe laser beams. I had to stifle a giggle at the momentary image of Svetlana with glowing red eyes.

“It’s fine, Dad,” Shepherd said. “We were just leaving.”

“Date night?” Richard asked, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

“Indeed,” Shepherd said, draping a possessive arm around my shoulders. “You?”

“Casual night in,” Richard said.

I wondered if Svetlana had known they weren’t going out before she’d come over. She wasn’t dressed for a night in—at least not by my standards. She wore a form-fitting blouse with a plunging neckline with a pair of flowy pants and gold stilettos.

I decided to pretend she’d expected an expensive dinner—likely what I was getting—and gave them both a sweet smile. “That sounds fun. Have a good night, you two. Don’t wait up.” I winked at Richard.

He grinned back at me. “Have a great time.”

With his arm still around my shoulders, Shepherd steered me out into the hallway. As soon as the door closed behind us, he let go and shifted so there were several inches of space between us.

Right. Faking it. Our audience was gone.

I took a deep breath to center myself as we walked to the elevator. Maybe it was catty of me, but the fact that Shepherd was taking me out to a nice dinner—treating me to something Svetlana likely wanted—gave me warm fuzzies.

Shepherd was quiet on the ride down the elevator to the parking garage. He didn’t say much on the way to the restaurant, either. I was used to that. And being with Shepherd like this—outside of work—had grown increasingly comfortable. I didn’t feel the need to fidget, or try to make conversation as we drove. I sat with my legs crossed, admired my cute heels once or twice, and watched the bright lights of the city twinkle in the evening darkness.

We pulled up to the curb and a valet opened my door and helped me out of the car. Shepherd was there a second later, offering me his arm. That was interesting. This date was only to maintain the charade that we were indeed dating, but there wasn’t anyone out here who knew us. We didn’t have to act too couple-ish. But maybe he figured we were better safe than sorry.

I took his arm and we walked into the dimly lit restaurant. El Gaucho was beautiful, with glamorous retro decor and live piano music in the background. Shepherd helped me out of my coat, then pulled out my chair for me before taking his own.

We got menus and ordered drinks. A martini for me—gin, with a twist—and a Manhattan for him.

“Do you know what you’d like?” he asked.

I pursed my lips as I perused the menu. “Probably the fish. Definitely not steak.”

“Do you not eat red meat?”

“No, I do. It’s just…” I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to share the details of one of my worst bad first dates. But I guess it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I was here to impress him. “The one time I had dinner here, I choked on a piece of steak. My date just kind of watched in horror while a lady from a nearby table did the Heimlich maneuver on me. Then in the aftermath, he ditched me and stuck me with the bill.”

Shepherd blinked once. “Is that a joke?”

“Unfortunately, no. It actually happened.”

“You were choking and he left you here?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t exactly have great luck in the dating department. Especially when it comes to first dates. That’s probably the worst one, though.” I paused, the menu loose between my fingertips. “Well, maybe not the worst.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“Well, let’s see. There was the guy who was trying to replace women who looked like his ex-girlfriend,” I said. “He asked me to take a selfie with him, even though we’d only just met for coffee. And then he sent it to his ex, who also happened to be working right next door. She marched over and they got in an argument. It was really awkward.”

Shepherd’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “The guy who took me to a wedding on the first date was pretty bad, too. It was two hours away and I didn’t have my own car. Everyone got really drunk and got in a cake food-fight. He left me there because I didn’t want to go to a hotel for a threesome with him and a drunk bridesmaid.”

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding,” he said.

“Nope. And then there was the guy who kind of muscled me into playing a no-hands balloon-popping game at a bar. He got stabbed in the… well, you know.” I pointed downward. “With the pin that had been holding the balloon to my clothes. Served him right, though. This was after he grabbed my hips and started thrusting his crotch against me to pop the balloon.”

I pressed my lips closed to stop myself from making this worse. Why was I telling him all these stories?

But instead of continuing to eye me like I was crazy, he smiled, laughing softly. “That’s… awful.”

“Yeah, it was. Needless to say, there weren’t second dates in any of those cases.”

“I should hope not.”

“Like I said, I don’t have great luck. Obviously, I’m here with you, aren’t I?” I closed my eyes again. “That came out wrong. I just meant—”

“Everly, stop,” he said. “It’s okay, I know what you meant. And I have to agree with you on the bad luck. That’s an impressive list of horror stories.”

I stopped myself from telling him that those weren’t the only ones. But at a certain point, it was going to start making me look pathetic. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“You’re not the only one who’s had bad dates.”

“Well, I know that. Most people have a bad date story or two. But you can’t mean you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I once went on a date with a woman who drank an entire bottle of champagne while we were waiting for our dinner. By the end of the meal, she’d hit on the man next to us, cried twice, called an ex-boyfriend, had a lengthy debate with the bartender about someone on a reality show, and taken off her bra by doing that thing women do when they slip it out the sleeve of their top.”

I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “I wish I was.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess it’s nice to know I’m not alone in the terrible date department.”

He lifted his glass and raised an eyebrow. “To no more bad dates.”

I clicked my glass against his. “Cheers to that.”

After dinner—during which there was absolutely zero choking—Shepherd drove us home. The food had been delicious, the conversation interesting and fun. I’d had a great time. If it had been a real date, I would have gone home giddy, floating on a cloud of endorphins, and texted my girlfriends to gush about what an amazing time I’d had.

But I didn’t. It had been a great evening, but instead of making me feel light and happy, it made me a little bit sad. Because none of it had been real.