Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I furrow my brow sympathetically. “That sounds hard. And hard managing two toddlers on your own, too, I bet. How old are your girls again?”
A smile splits her face. “Two and three. Irish twins, because you can get pregnant while breastfeeding. Just FYI. The TikTok moms told me otherwise, but… Well, I sure did prove them wrong.”
I laugh. “Good to know. I never trust social media. Not since the time that yoga woman with the perfect skin tricked me into ordering salmon sperm lotion.”
“Oh my God, me too!” Frederica gasps, reaching out to give my arm a quick squeeze. “By the time I realized the molecules were too big to penetrate the skin barrier, I was out two hundred dollars, plus shipping from Korea. Dean was so pissed. I had to promise not to whip my credit card out while doomscrolling for at least a month. But at least it was good for a laugh. He teased me about having fishy sperm face for weeks.” She pauses, lowering her voice before she adds, “Speaking of a good laugh, I loved the way you handled the beer thing. That shirt was perfection. And what a way to launch a personal account!”
I grin. “Thanks.”
Screen-printing a vintage-style “Beer T*ts for President” T-shirt and wearing it to brunch with Nix the Sunday before he left was pretty out there for me, but the NOLA society blogs ate it up. Not to mention that owning it seemed to take the wind out of the critics’ sails. By the following Tuesday, the internet had moved on to other things, my shame forgotten.
“It was past time I had a personal account anyway,” I add. “Not everything in life is appropriate for the business page.”
“And there’s more to life than work,” Frederica adds.
“Agreed.”
She gives my arm another squeeze. “Okay, I should probably get back to circulating, but please tell Nix thank you from Dean and me for that intro. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” I say, lifting a hand as she steps away.
I should probably mingle again, too, but I like it here on the sidelines. It’s peaceful after a chaotic week.
Ever since the night of the opening game, when I made a brief appearance on national television, followed by local blog coverage of Nix and me making out at the pizza parlor, my phone has been blowing up. Old friends, new friends, people I met once at a planning committee meeting, all of them have been texting to congratulate me on “getting my groove back.” On “landing such a hottie” and “showing that dick Teddy what he’s missing.”
Even my usually “we must keep things classy, Char” mother called to assure me that my shirt was a “modern solution to a modern problem.” And that my suede fedora, designer jeans, and loosely crocheted vest put a “tasteful spin” on the look.
The pity fallout from the engagement article is gone.
I should feel victorious.
I do feel victorious.
Mostly.
When I’m not tormented by a creeping certainty that I’m in way over my head with my fake boyfriend…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the man currently coaxing me into the deep end steps back into the ballroom from the terrace. His eyes catch mine across the room, and he lifts a brow, silently asking, “Everything okay?”
I nod and smile, signaling I’m fine.
I’m about to start his way to relay Frederica’s message, when a hand on my elbow makes me turn.
It’s Keely, the Voodoo’s PR rep, looking sharp in a black pantsuit with her nearly white blond hair pulled into a sleek bun. “Hey, Charlotte. I wanted to say thank you again for the hook-up with the valet company. When the other one said they had no record of our reservation tonight, I was totally thrown for a loop.”
“Of course,” I say, shifting back into professional mode. “I’m so glad you reached out. I’m happy to help any time.”
“Thank you. Seriously. I’m so glad I remembered that Nix was dating an event planner.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially as she adds, “Not to get too personal, but… I don’t know what kind of magic you worked on Nix, but management is thrilled. He’s been a model citizen, and the press has been next-level fantastic. Not to mention his play is even more on-point than last season. Honestly, you two are gold together.”
Gold together…
If only she knew it was fool’s gold.
Fake gold.
But it didn’t feel fake when Nix texted me at eleven p.m. from his hotel room in Dallas, because he was reading Kierkegaard and wanted to talk about whether he predicted the performative emptiness of modern social media. It didn’t feel fake when he sent me photos of terrible airport food with funny captions or told me my “morning meme of the day” messages made him laugh harder than he’s laughed in years.
It just…
Argh, it just doesn’t feel fake, and I don’t know what to do about it!