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“Ryan?”
The man jumped to his feet the second I walked over, all smiles. I beamed back and leaned in for the obligatory kiss on the cheek. It was then that I noticed he faltered slightly.
“It’s Cameron, actually.”
Cameron? I froze. Then why had I written the name Ryan on the inside of my palm just to remember? I’d thought myself so clever at the time—even though I was still desperately scrubbing it off as the taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant.
Who was Ryan? The pilot? The ice sculptor? Was he the caterer I’d been trying to get a hold of for—
NOPE! No work! You made a vow!
“Cameron, of course.” I tapped my head like it was the silliest thing in the world. “Sorry, I was just on the phone with my brother Ryan in the cab.”
Great—now I have a brother. Better write that down on my hand to remember it too.
I flashed an apologetic smile, and leaned over as I sank into my chair so he could see just the tiniest hint of cleavage. Everything was forgiven.
“Oh—I didn’t know you had a brother,” Cameron said brightly as he sat down as well.
“Baby brother.” I smiled sweetly, as if remembering all our nostalgic times. “Just turned eighteen—he’s out celebrating.”
And it’s my brother’s birthday.
“Gosh—eighteen.” Cameron shook his head, leaning casually towards me. “That seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”
I nodded quickly.
“Sure does.”
In reality, eighteen had only been four years ago for me. But I had long since stopped telling people my real age. When you worked in PR, age meant experience. Experience meant currency. I had been ‘twenty-nine’ for as long as I could remember. It was just easier that way. It helped that I had one of those faces. A face that could pass for whatever you needed it to.
“So, Cameron,” I flashed a seductive grin, eager to move the conversation past my fake family, “what are we drinking?”
As if on cue, a waiter appeared with a bottle of Margaux—expensive vintage. I leaned back in surprise as it was expertly poured. First the restaurant, now this? Was this guy seriously loaded and I’d just failed to notice because I only ever saw him at the gym? It was always hard to gauge a guy’s social standing in sweatpants. A one-time dinner to impress me was one thing, but the wine was too pricy for just that. It was a serious gesture. The kind that I’d grown accustom to seeing another man make. A man who went through bottles of Margaux like they were—
NO WORK! Do not even THINK of him! This is YOUR night!
“This is wonderful,” I said charmingly, taking a delicate sip. “First growth?”
“You know it?” Cameron looked surprised, then pleased. “Yes, I believe it is. Pairs well with the soufflé, or so they tell me.”
Wrong.
“At any rate, it’s supposed to be uncannily dry.”
Wrong again.
Somewhere across town, a certain billionaire—who shall not be named—was shaking his fists towards the heavens, not really knowing why.
I smiled again and took another sip.
“Like I said—wonderful.”
“I’m glad you like it. In fact, I’m glad you even agreed to come out tonight.” His hand reached tentatively across the table and rested upon mine. “You always seem so busy. Whenever I see you at the gym, you’re almost always on the phone.” He laughed nervously. “I learned to tell you were coming by the sound of your ringtone.”
Ah yes, the phones. There were four of them. All with a different number. All with a different purpose. All four of them were currently stuffed inside my purse, locked on vibrate.
“It’s a cardio experiment,” I teased. “Try to run on the treadmill while maintaining an overseas phone call in a language you don’t fully understand. A real calorie burner.”
He laughed again, a pleasant sound I could tell was already growing on me.
“So what is it exactly that you do?”
No work talk? First obstacle.
Fortunately, I was saved from having to reply when Marco (not Pierre) placed the complimentary appetizer down upon the table. He did so with a relish, and flashed me a conspiratorial wink. Melanie must have told him about the date.
“And what will we be having tonight?”
The servers here were forbidden from using pen and paper. Everything had to be memorized—no matter the size of the table.
“I think I’ll get the salmon with sauce on the side.” Cameron shut his menu and turned expectantly to me. “Abigail?”
“Just a salad for me, thanks.”
Cameron blinked in confusion, while Marco simultaneously kicked my chair.
Shit—I’d fucked up already!
Salad was a knee-jerk reaction. The one safe, cheap thing on the menu I always ordered while sitting at a table by myself. Safely out of ear shot from the real date, but close enough to jump in should anything go wrong. (With my roster of clients, things often went wrong.)
But salad was hardly a date food, just by itself. Already, I could feel the heat begin to rise up in the base of my neck, as two sets of eyes bore into me.
“Actually...the salmon sounds great.”
I handed up my menu to Marco, carefully avoiding the man’s gaze. It didn’t matter. I could practically feel the smirk.
“Right away.”
Then he was off. Leaving me several steps back from where I’d started.
“So, Abigail,” the hand was back on mine, paired with an affectionate smile, “you never told me what it is you do.”
As if on cue, one of the phones buzzed in my purse. I set the clutch on the ground without looking, keeping a smile fixed on my face.
Just get it over with, Abby. It’s a standard question. Get it over with and move on to the FISH—you idiot—not the SALAD.
“I work in public relations, actually.”
He leaned back in surprise.
“You’re a publicist. Really?”
I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and laughed as nervously as him.
“Why? Do I not look like one?”
“No, it’s not that, just...well actually, yeah.” He laced his fingers through mine with a wide grin. “You don’t really look like one.”
I got that a lot.
Mostly because I looked like I belonged on the other side of the bridge. The wealthier side. The easier side. The side that threw the parties, not the side that worked them.
I had once gotten all the way to the second floor of a Russian palace—after receiving a 911 text from a client—before being escorted outside by security. The rest of the team had found me later, gloating in the snow.
But I appreciated this guy’s honesty either way. Another endearing trait. If it weren’t for the fact that I already had a fake brother to maintain, I might actually start to like this Cameron.
“I work with a myriad of disguises,” I joked again, trying to divert the attention as much away from my job as possible. “But what about you? What is it that you—”
But Cameron was on a roll.
“My father hired a public relations team for our company once,” he continued, utterly oblivious to my attempts. “Not one of them looked anything like you.”
Great. This guy was probably a trust fund baby, just like all the rest. I should have picked up on it. The restaurant. The wine. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to leave here with a job offer.
“I guess that explains the phone. They were always impossibly busy.”
Again—the damn thing buzzed in my bag. I kicked it under the table.
His face twisted up into a little smile.
“Do you need to take that?”
“No,” I said quickly, reaching for my glass of wine, “not at all. I’m off tonight.”
...we’ll see.
“Good—then I get you all to myself.” He clinked his glass against mine, a row of perfect teeth sparkling in the soft lamplight. “To chance encounters. May they always—”
Now both phones were buzzing. Egging each other on as my purse began to shake.
My smile tightened, but I deliberately ignored them—locking eyes with Cameron.
Keep talking, buddy. Just keep talking.
In his defense, he really did try.
“May they always—”
A third phone added to the clamor. Between the three of them, we were starting to draw a bit of attention. It looked like they were trying to shake their way out of my bag.
“You really can answer,” he said graciously. “I don’t mind.”
That’s sweet, but this little social experiment is hardly about you.
“No,” I said firmly—more firmly than was required. “This is my night off. Everyone knows it. There was a memo, for fuck’s sake. They’ll just have to get by—”
The fourth and final phone made a loud entrance into the fray. This one actually didn’t have a vibrate setting—as it was only meant to be used for emergency calls. A digitalized song cut the air between us, ruining Cameron’s attempted toast once and for all.
‘It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men—’
“There’s that ringtone...”
“I’m so sorry!” I reached hastily down into my purse and began snapping them off, one by one. “It’s usually not like this—I swear.”
Work life—private life. Work life—private life. I chanted the mantra desperately in my head as the phones fought back. There has to be a line! I deserve a fucking line, dammit!
Cameron nodded politely, looking like he didn’t believe me in the slightest.
“Sure.”
I turned the last one off—removing the SIM cards for good measure—and the infuriating buzzing finally stopped. Before the poor guy could get up and walk away, I reached for his hands, holding on like a life raft.
“Now,” I pulled in a determined breath, “you were saying?”
That’s when the fifth phone rang.
It was the holy grail of communication devices. A number so sacred that only two people in the entire world were aware of its existence. It had only ever rung twice.
“Cameron...” My shoulders wilted as a sinking feeling descended in my stomach. But he seemed to know it was coming. The napkin was already off his lap and on the table. He was already glancing around for the check. “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to have to—”
At that moment, everyone else’s phones started buzzing. As in, everyone else in the entire restaurant. The world of social media came alive with a million little dings and beeps, as people bent over their screens—faces lit up with that artificial glow.
“Oh my gosh!” the cry was echoed from all four corners of the building.
“I can’t believe it!”
“Look at the picture!”
“That can’t possibly be real.”
“Did you see what—”
And...that was my cue to go.
Nick, my boss, had officially fucked up my romantic night. My heels clicked on the tile as I snatched up my purse and bid my ‘almost suitor’ a hasty farewell. Ending my ‘almost date’ before it could really even get off the ground.
“I’ll—I’ll call you!” I promised as I stumbled towards the door. “I’ll see you at the gym!”
He nodded sadly, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“Sure.”
Melanie shot me a sympathetic look as I barreled through the front doors. A cab was already waiting by the curb.
“Where to?” the man asked politely.
I shot him a withering look.
“Oh...like you don’t already know.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I had left one over-priced restaurant, only to find myself rushing into another. This one was even more over-the-top than the first.
The walls themselves were coated in gold—a light dusting that reportedly cost tens of thousands of dollars just to procure. The tables sparkled with crystal stemware. The linens were Japanese silk. A replication of the Sistine Chapel had been painted across the ceiling. (Rumor had it the manager kidnapped an art student from Julliard and held him prisoner for five weeks until it was finished.) A pair of Austrian violinists floated from table to table. A Swarovski-encrusted fountain bubbled happily in the back—adorned with Botticelli’s angels.
The first time I’d stepped inside, the place had shocked me. Now...? Well like I said, I’d been here several thousand times.
“Abigail! Thank goodness you’re here!” This time, it was Kate who swept towards me. Even skinnier than Melanie. Even longer legs. “Listen—I followed your instructions to the letter, and you know I’d never call the police. But apparently someone else did, and I don’t know what—”
“Where is he?” I interrupted.
My eyes scanned the room with a practiced sort of efficiency. Like one of those games you found in airport magazines—where you had to find the one thing in the room that didn’t fit in with the rest. This time, it was almost too easy.
“...you’ve got to be kidding.”
Of course. In a room full of international dignitaries, European royalty, Wall Street’s finest, and Manhattan’s elite...my client was the one standing in the fountain.
No wonder he called the fifth phone.
I approached cautiously, weaving my way through an ever-growing crowd. Sure enough, the police were there. As was the press. As were about fifty or sixty other people—all of whom had enough influence to buy and sell New York several times over.
All of whom were hovering just outside the splash zone.
Keep my work life and personal life separate? Who the hell was I kidding?
I rolled up my sleeves with a sigh.
I should have known my date would end like this...