“The story is bullshit. Those pictures are of me and my ex from months ago.”
I pause, staring at him, trying to understand how I can possibly trust him again. I’m way more involved that I should be, in way over my head. The smart thing to do would be to cut my losses and move on.
“Look at the freaking picture, Camryn.” He grabs a folded-up printout of the story from his back pocket and stabs at it with his finger. “We’re dressed in T-shirts. Do you really think that’s recent?”
God, he’s right. I’m a PR executive, and if I’ve learned one thing working in this field, it’s not to believe the tabloids. The way the media can spin those stories, you’re often left with only the tiniest kernel of truth. It’s fall in New York. Definitely not T-shirt weather.
I take a deep breath and shake my head. “Is that your ex?”
“Rebecca, yeah.”
The mental image of them kissing is singed into my brain. Shrugging my shoulders, I try to shake it off, but it’s no use. Christ, when did this get so complicated?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I nod, fighting with myself to let it go. “It’ll be fine.”
“I really have to do this, don’t I?” he asks with a smirk.
“Marry? Only if you want to.”
The tick in his jaw tells me the idea is a foreign one. He leaves the perch at the side of my desk and returns to the seat across from me.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to check in on you. Wanted to come in person. I needed to see your eyes, make sure you believed me.”
“I do believe you. None of that changes the fact that you still need to go on this date.”
He combs his long fingers through the front of his hair. “Fuck me.”
I release a heavy sigh. There’s no escaping the reality of our situation. We each have a role to play, a job to do.
“She’s a nice girl. Go and have fun.”
He makes a noise of frustration and rises to his feet. “I’ll go, under one condition.”
“Name it.” I rise to stand before him. Even though I’m wearing heels, he still towers over me.
“After the date, you meet up with me—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, interrupting him.
“To debrief and discuss how it went,” he continues.
Chewing on my lip, I debate the merit of his suggestion. It’s actually a pretty decent idea. “Fine. Call me after.”
He kisses the back of my hand and disappears.
Anna returns moments later carrying a chocolate cupcake with a mountain of whipped frosting, but I’ve found my stomach is in knots and my appetite is gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Sterling
I’ve never been this uninterested in a date before in my life. And I can’t figure out why. Bianca is attractive and engaging; so, what in the hell is wrong with her?
She’s not Camryn.
It’s at this precise moment, over calamari and pints of cold beer, that I understand that I’m truly fucked. If I can’t date because I’m falling for my matchmaker, that means I can’t marry. And if I don’t marry, I don’t get my inheritance, which means I can’t take care of my mum. Rock, meet hard place.
Nodding along to something Bianca’s saying, I stifle a yawn behind my fist.
I want to tell Camryn everything. I want to date her, want to see if it can lead to something real, but if I tell her all of that, I run the risk of scaring her off. I don’t know that she wants to be Mrs. Quinn. It’s also possible it won’t work between us, in which case I’m fucked.
Deciding it’s a risk I just can’t take, I know what I need to do. Play along with Camryn’s plan long enough to get her to fall for me.
Discreetly checking my watch again, I calculate exactly how long until Camryn’s in my arms again.
Chapter Twenty
Camryn
I pace my apartment, checking the clock yet again. Sterling and Bianca are an hour into their date, and I’m freaking the fuck out.
In an effort to distract myself, I’ve tried reading, watching TV, and baking, and I abandoned all three. A bowl of messed-up brownie batter containing salt instead of sugar was dumped into the trash, and I’m now sitting at my dining table with the latest stack of bills and collection letters that I’ve been avoiding going through.
Leafing through the pile, I try to figure out how I got myself here. I was always so responsible with my money. Having grown up with very little, I knew enough to be careful with what I had.
David the Dick did not. The first time I learned he charged something to my credit card—a set of speakers—we had a major fight. I couldn’t understand how someone I’d been dating for only a few months could do something like that behind my back. He swore it would never happen again, and that he’d pay the bill. Of course that never happened, and months later I learned he’d not only charged more to my credit card, but he’d charged items to my Amazon account, using my laptop when I wasn’t home. Then he sold all the merchandise and took off with the money. Leaving me in the biggest hole of my life.
My blood pressure rising, I make a tally of all the charges. Just under ten thousand dollars, which will be the exact amount I’ll get when I succeed in this crazy project. I have to.
Needing a distraction from the chaos on my dining table, I head into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of red wine. My cheap five-dollar bottle of wine is my weekly splurge. Well, that and the monthly pedicures I haven’t been able to give up, mostly just for the girl-time it affords me.