Page 50 of Right Man, Right Time
“I told you, I don’t need—”
“Lipstick owes Puck one favor not related to events. Lipstick must comply. There,” I say, dotting the sentence with a period. “Now sign here.”
I give him the pen, and as he signs, he says, “You realize I will never cash in on that favor.”
“Your problem, not mine.” I sign the napkin as well and then seal it with a kiss.
“Is that your version of notarizing the document?”
“Yup.” I place the napkin in my purse just as I feel the crowd part behind me, and Roberts steps in.
Tacking on a smile, champagne flute in hand, I turn toward the right, where Roberts waits. “Mr. Roberts, so nice to see you,” I say, feeling awkward since I saw him just this morning. “I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Silas Taters. Silas, this is my boss, Mr. Alan Roberts.”
Silas sets his champagne down, snags his arm around my waist, and then holds his hand out for Roberts. “It’s a pleasure,” he says. “Ollie has said nothing but great things about her internship with you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Roberts says with a huge smile. A smile so large, it almost seems like he’s fangirling. “Please, come over to my sitting space. I’d love to get to know you better.”
Ooo, sitting space. He makes it sound so luxurious.
“Of course,” Silas says as he slips his hand into mine and guides me through the crowd, sometimes pausing to shake a hand or two. It’s probably one of the most surreal experiences I’ve ever had. I went into this thing with Silas completely blind, not knowing a damn thing about him and hockey or his presence in this city. Yet here I am, pretending to be his girlfriend as grown-ass men and women fawn over him as he walks through a crowded room. No wonder he tries to hide his face when he comes to my dorm. He doesn’t want to be mauled.
When we arrive at Roberts’s sitting area—a small section of the ballroom blocked off by fern trees and bushes and decorated in rich black velvet couches—Silas helps me down to one of the couches. Roberts takes a seat across from us, and a beautiful woman in what I can only assume is her fifties takes a seat next to him.
“This is my wife, Gloria. Gloria, this is Silas Taters, as you know, and his girlfriend, Ollie Owens. Ollie works for me as an intern.”
“Lovely,” Gloria says while folding her hands on her lap. I wonder if she knows about Roberts’s affair. If she’s compliant about it because she doesn’t want to start over or lose the luxury of being with someone like Roberts. “How long have you two been dating?”
“Just a few weeks,” I answer, my nerves spiking immediately because we didn’t really talk about that. As I opened my mouth to answer, I just prayed that Silas didn’t answer at the same time. That could have been disastrous. “Still newish. We just actually told our friends we were dating.”
“Ah, I see,” Gloria says in a disbelieving tone and pursed cheeks.
I’m going to tell you right now, I don’t like her vibe.
I don’t like the way she’s studying us.
I don’t like her clipped tone.
And I don’t like how she’s sitting there with a gleam in her eyes like she’s ready to catch us in a lie.
How can she be so jaded, so disbelieving within seconds of meeting us?
I know when someone is challenging me, and I believe that’s what she’s doing.
How can she see right through me, through us? Does she not believe the validity of our fake relationship? Did she speak to Candace?
Will she go home tonight, and while she’s brushing her teeth and Roberts is combing his mustache with mustache oil, is she going to tell him that we’re frauds and that he should fire me?
Will I have a job tomorrow?
Will Roberts meet me at my cubicle with a box and a sardonic laugh as he watches me pack my pathetic desk up, noticing the one pack of light blue Post-it Notes I stole from Candace a month ago because Ross dared me?
I slip my hand into Silas’s, scared for my freaking life.
It’s bad enough Roberts is going to fire me, but there’s no way I can allow him to see those Post-it Notes. He’ll know the sort of deviant I actually am.
“How did you two meet?” Gloria asks, snapping me out of my thoughts and forcing me to face-plant back into this conversation. But now, instead of surging with waving confidence, I’m teetering on the brink of nerves.
How did we meet?
