Faking Ms. Right: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Dirty Martini Running Club Book 1)
Faking Ms. Right: Chapter 8

Monday morning began as it always did. I arrived on my floor and made my way past cubicles and offices, saying hi to my coworkers. Smiling. Asking them if they’d had a good weekend or wishing them good morning. Steve had another story about his cat, which I listened to attentively.

Nothing unusual at all.

I glanced at the clock as I went about my usual Monday morning tasks. Eight twenty-two. He’d be here in five minutes.

My heart beat a little faster than it should, and a tingle of nervousness made my belly feel jumpy. I got Mr. Calloway’s coffee, double-checked his schedule, made sure I had everything in order.

And tried very hard not to let my thoughts drift back to the feel of his hand on my lower back. Or on my arm. Or how his voice had sounded saying my name.

Knock it off, Everly. That might as well have been a dream.

Yes, a dream. He had been a dream. So dreamy in that tux.

God, I was doing it again.

The clock changed to eight twenty-seven and the elevator door opened.

Mr. Calloway walked down the hallway, dressed in his suit. He had his phone out, and he flicked his thumb across the screen as he made his way toward my desk. I grabbed his coffee and stood, ready to follow him into his office.

Nothing unusual. It was just another Monday.

He turned the corner at my desk, and just as I was about to fall in step behind him, he stopped. Looked up from his phone and met my eyes. “Good morning, Everly.”

“Good morning,” I managed to croak through my shock.

Steve looked like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Or maybe a murder. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open.

I shrugged at Steve, suddenly remembering I was holding Shepherd’s—no, Mr. Calloway’s—coffee. I held it away from me so I wouldn’t spill it on my clothes if it sloshed out through the opening in the lid. Wincing, I hustled into Mr. Calloway’s office.

He set his briefcase down and I put the coffee on his desk. I turned to take his jacket from him, but he wasn’t there. He was standing next to the coat tree, hanging it up himself. What was he doing?

This wasn’t a problem. He could hang up his own jacket. No big deal. I took the remote for the blinds and opened them. He took a seat at his desk.

Good. Back to normal.

“Close the door,” he said.

I froze. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked me to close the door so we could meet in private. As his assistant, I was often privy to confidential information. But there was something about his tone. And the way he was messing with our routine had me so off-kilter, I didn’t know which way was up.

He glanced up and raised his eyebrows.

“Right.” I shut the door. “Sorry.”

“Have a seat.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Calloway, but I’m not prepared for a meeting. I don’t have a way to take notes.”

“Everly,” he said, a slight edge to his tone. “Just sit.”

I walked around to the other side of his desk and slowly lowered myself into one of the chairs.

He sat back and pitched his fingers together. “Are you single?”

The question was so unexpected, it took me a full five seconds before I could collect myself enough to answer. “Um… single? Yes, but—”

“Hear me out,” he said, cutting me off. “I replace myself in a difficult situation. You met my father on Friday and saw who he was with.”

“Yes…”

“It turns out my father has bigger problems than Svetlana.”

“Worse than that harpy?” I asked, then clicked my mouth shut. Oh my god, why had I said that? I hadn’t even been drinking.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yes, worse than… the harpy. He’s been diagnosed with cancer.”

“Oh, Shepherd, I’m so sorry.” I shut my mouth again, realizing I’d just called him Shepherd. What the hell was wrong with me? One evening in a red dress with my boss, and suddenly I’d lost control of my mouth.

He didn’t seem to notice. “His prognosis is good, although he’ll need to undergo radiation therapy.”

“That’s good. I mean, about his prognosis.”

“It is.” He pressed his lips together and leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk. “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

“Of course.”

He nodded and there we were with the eye contact again. “My father’s illness isn’t his only issue right now. He’s also suffered a series of financial losses.”

I nodded, not sure what to say.

“My brother and I will do what we can to help him, but it’s important this information doesn’t become public. If his board of directors gets wind of this, they’ll vote him out. He’ll lose the company he’s spent his lifetime building.”

“Okay.” Had he just said brother? Since when did he have a brother?

“He’s liquidated most of his assets, which includes the building he was living in. And given that he’s undergoing cancer treatment, he’s moving in with me.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Indeed. But I’m sure you can see how my father’s relationship with Svetlana is suddenly a much larger problem than it was seventy-two hours ago.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

His eye twitched, the only sign of emotion I could see. “No. It’s complicated.”

“That’s the understatement of the century. So you’re moving your father in with you and… what, he’s going to bring his new girlfriend over?”

“Yes. And until I can get rid of her without causing more problems for my family, I have to deal with her.”

“Okay, that’s… unfortunate. But why are you telling me all this? And what does it have to do with my relationship status?”

He took a deep breath. “I need a girlfriend.”

“Oh, do you need me to make dinner reservations, or…”

“Not a real girlfriend.” His expression softened, hinting at a bit of the personality I’d thought I’d seen on Friday night. “I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. But I also can’t have Svetlana thinking I’m single.”

“So you need a fake girlfriend.”

“Precisely. I’m glad we’re on the same page. I’ll need you to move in.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up a finger. I felt like I’d blacked out and missed part of our conversation. Move in? What the hell was he talking about? “Not on the same page. I don’t think even we’re reading the same book. Move in? What?”

His nostrils flared. They did that when he was frustrated or impatient. “My father already thinks we’re dating. So the obvious solution is to continue with that ruse.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to pretend we’re dating?”

“Yes.”

“And move in with you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you insane?” I asked, practically hissing out the last word.

“You did an excellent job on Friday.”

I felt my filter smash to pieces, and I did not care. “Walking around with you at some event in a red dress is not the same as moving in with you and pretending we’re together. I have a life. I can’t just shack up with my fucking boss because he needs someone to pose as his girlfriend.”

“Well, my father put me in this goddamn position, and it’s not like I’m fucking happy about it. I’m going to have the woman from hell sauntering around my house like she owns the place. He brought her over yesterday and it was the longest hour of my fucking life.”

We stared at each other, like we were both shocked at our own outbursts. And our copious dropping of f-bombs.

He cleared his throat and adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ll pay you.”

Damn right he was going to pay me.

Wait, was I considering this? I couldn’t be considering this. Going to a gala was not a big deal. In fact, it had been kind of fun. And his dad had seemed super nice. Seeing him again wouldn’t be the worst. But posing as Shepherd’s girlfriend? Living with him? How would that even work? It was a disaster waiting to happen.

My phone vibrated in my hand and I glanced at the screen. It was a text from Annie.

Really, universe? Really?

If I did this, he’d owe me big. Huge. Enormous. I could forgo whatever bonus he offered me and ask for his swimmers instead. Be the Fairy Sperm-Mother for my sister and Miranda. Make their genetically perfect baby dreams come true. Granted, I might be dooming them to raising an emotionless robot child. But if that was what they wanted…

But Shepherd wasn’t necessarily as emotionless as I’d thought. I’d seen glimmers of something in him on Friday night. Maybe it had just been the drinks, or maybe I’d imagined it. But I had a feeling there was a teeny-tiny, minuscule little crack in Shepherd’s emotionless façade. A hairline fracture. Maybe he wasn’t the only person in the world impervious to my sunshine.

And if it meant I had a good case for asking him to donate his baby batter…

I opened my mouth to reply and had a sudden out-of-body experience. It was like I was floating, looking down into Shepherd’s office from above. Listening to someone else talk.

“All right. I’ll do it.”