The Pretense

Chapter 1

"You can have a policeman, a pilot, and accountant–urgh, seen enough of them. Oh, and this one." Jessica giggled and lowered her voice. "Rough but clean tradesman. Or wait–a sports jock."

"Jessica!" Harper laughed as she took the phone back. "Be serious. This is my future we're talking about. I need a decent guy who is polite and can follow my lead. Someone who blends in."

"Hmmm..." Jessica grinned at one of the profile photos. "He looks like he would blend in an all-night gay bar."

Harper scowled. "Not helping." She clicked on a few more. "They all look the same," she said despairingly.

"Tanned, buff and hot-to-trot," Jessica agreed. "Where do they get these guys?"

Harper shook her head at Jessica's obvious enjoyment. Then she saw the price tag associated with one of the men. "Good God, I hope it's for a month."

"Forget the escort," Jessica instructed. "Most of these guys probably can't string a sentence together beyond 'Is that it?' and 'How hard do you want it?' Not exactly convincing boyfriend material for an up-and-coming partner in the fastest growing management consultancy firm in east coast."

"Then I'm toast."

Jessica's eyes scanned the meager post-work crowd, and Harper thought about the sales report she still had to get through before bed that night; she was still unable to completely fathom the predicament she was in.

"Bird flu?" she suggested, smoothing her eyebrows into place as she racked her brained for a solution.

"No one will believe he has bird flu."

"I meant me." She sighed.

"Wait. What about him?"

"Who?" Harper glanced at her phone and saw only a blank screen.

"Cute guy at the bar. Three o'clock."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Five years of university, six years in a professional career and we're still using hushed military terms when stalking guys."

Jessica laughed. "It's been ages since we stalked a guy."

"And please God, let it be ages again," Harper pleaded, glancing ever so casually in the direction Jessica indicated.

She got an impression of a tall man leaning against the edge of the curved wooden bar, one foot raised on the polished foot pole, his knee protruding from the hole in his torn jeans. Her eyes travelled upwards over long, lean legs and an even leaner waist to a broad chest covered by a worn T-shirt with a provocative slogan plastered on the front in red block letters. Her lips curled in distaste at its message and she moved on to wide shoulders, a jaw that looked as if it could have used a shave three days ago, a strong blade of a nose, mussed over long chocolate brown hair and–oh, Lord–deep set light-colored eyes that were staring right back at her.

His gaze was sleepy, almost lazy, and Harper's heart took off. Her breath stalled in her lungs and her face felt bitingly hot. Flustered by her physical reaction, she instantly dropped her eyes as if she was a small child who just had been caught stealing a cookie. Her senses felt muddled and off-centre–and she'd been looking at the man for five seconds. Maybe ten.

Ignoring the fact that she felt as if he was still watching her, she turned to Jessica. "He's got holes in his jeans and a t-shirt that says 'My pace or yours?' How many glasses of this shitty wine have you had?"

Jessica paused, glancing briefly back at the bar. "Not him–although he does fill that t-shirt out like a god. I'm talking about the suit he's talking to."