EMMA
Saturday Morning, September 23
When I step out of my apartment building onto Park Avenue, I have two thoughts.
First observation: fall is truly here, and like any proper New Yorker, I smile at the realization, because it means the debut of my new black V-neck sweater, skinny jeans, and suede ankle boots is warranted.
Second observation: Ethan Dolan is standing outside my apartment building, leaning back against the window as he waits for me, two Starbucks cups in hand.
His sunglasses block his eyes, but I feel his gaze drift over me as he walks my way. "Morning."
"Really," I say, accepting the cup he hands out. "This is how it's going to be? You just show up whenever you want, no warning?"
He grins. "You're on my payroll now, right?"
"If you're asking if I got the signed contract you sent over yesterday, yes. But if you refer to our arrangement as me being on your payroll again, I'll show you exactly where you can shove the contract."
"You're snippy in the morning. I'd forgotten that," he says, falling into step beside me. "So. Where're we going?"
I take a sip of the drink, unsurprised to find that it's a iced coffee, exactly as I like it.
Wordlessly I reach out, take his cup from his hand, and sip that.
Pumpkin spice. Huh. Didn't see that coming.
"We're sharing drinks now?" he asks as I hand it back.
"We're a couple, right? What's yours is mine."
Actually, it has nothing to do with that. You know how I said I know everything about everybody? Every now and then, there's a stumper. Ethan Dolan's coffee choice is one of them. I've never found the guy to get the same coffee beverage twice.
I know what Michael drinks—Americano with a splash of two-percent in the morning, sometimes opting for something cold and sweet on a summer afternoon. I know what Kennedy Dawson drinks—black coffee, always.
But Ethan? He changes.
Sometimes it's a caramel Frappuccino.
Sometimes it's a tall drip. Sometimes it's a white mocha with extra chocolate. Sometimes it's a double-shot espresso with no sweetener whatsoever.
Today, apparently, it's a pumpkin spice latte.
Tomorrow, who knows? I don't even know why I care. I guess I've always hated things I can't predict, especially as they relate to Ethan Dolan.
"You didn't answer. Where're we heading?"
I cut a glance at him as I head in the direction of Madison Avenue. "You did see section 7B, right? The one that says all public appearances together necessitate twenty-four-hours' notice?"
"No problem," he says. "Here's your twenty-four-hours' notice that we have brunch reservations tomorrow."
"Let me guess. Are they at some see-and-be-seen restaurant in the West Village that charges twelve dollars for an egg?"
"Twenty dollars if you want to add freshly shaved truffles."
"I'll do that, since you're buying. But that's tomorrow. I didn't have you on my schedule for today."
"You won't even know I'm here," he says.
I snort as we turn onto Madison Avenue, one of my favorite shopping meccas, alongside Fifth Avenue and SoHo.
"Just go about your business. I'll follow at a respectful distance."
"And make sure people see us together?"
"Exactly," he says with a quick grin.
"All right," I murmur, taking another sip of my cappuccino. "But remember, Dolan, you asked for this."
"Asked for what?" he says, automatically opening the door of the store I've stopped in front of.
Instead of answering him, I step inside, waiting until he's followed me inside before glancing around for my usual salesperson.
"Emma! Hi. You got my message! I've been holding some of our fall stuff for you. Can I get a room set up?"
"Absolutely, I want to try all of it."
I hide a smile when Ethan lets out a tiny groan.
He's shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, and he's looking around the store in that wary way men have when shopping is on the horizon.
Monica gives him a curious look, and I tug him forward.
"Monica, this is Ethan Dolan. Ethan, Monica has the best damn fashion sense in Manhattan and is largely responsible for making me look reasonably put together on a regular basis."
"Oh please, I could dress you in a bag and you'd look fabulous," Monica says to me as she extends a hand to Ethan.
He gives it a quick shake. "Pleasure."
"So, Mr. Dolan, are you just keeping Emma company, or can I talk you into trying on a few of our new menswear pieces?"
Ethan opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but I answer first.
"Oh, I've been dying to get him into a cashmere sweater," I say, rubbing my hand over his biceps in a way that lets Monica, and anyone else who might be watching, know just what we are to each other without having to utter the word boyfriend.
"Absolutely," Monica says, nodding enthusiastically.
"I have a bunch of things in mind. Give me a few minutes, and I'll get two rooms ready."
"Fantastic," Ethan mutters as he drains his coffee.
I pinch his arm, reminding him of what we're doing here. In turn, he drapes an arm over my shoulder, squeezing just a little too hard in retaliation, though any bystanders wouldn't know it by the adoring smile he gives me.
I give him a glowing smile right back. "How much are you wishing you would have checked with me before tagging along today?"
"Almost as much as I wish this coffee was of the Irish variety."
"You're in luck," I say, finishing the last of my cappuccino before nodding at another salesperson approaching with two glasses of champagne. "It's not whiskey, but . . ."
"It'll do," Ethan says eagerly.
"Can I take those coffee cups for you?" the woman asks with a bright smile.
We exchange our Starbucks for the champagne, and I scan the room as I take a sip. This is one of my favorite retailers, and since this is their flagship store, it's extra lavish, as the complimentary champagne would indicate.
Instead of cramming every spare space with tables and mannequins and merchandise, Max & Belle has created a place intended for lingering, with plenty of plush seating and iPads with home screens set to the latest catalog. There are a few standing racks with samples of each item, but the majority of the inventory is kept I out of sight, adding to the impression that each item is one of a kind.
"How long you gonna be?" Ethan asks. "I can wait outside."
"Monica's bringing you stuff to try on."
"I don't want to try shit on. I have plenty of clothes."
"You have plenty of suits," I correct. "Sweaters, though?"
"I've got some of those, too. I pay a personal shopper an obscene amount of money so I don't have to endure this."
"Endure? Yeah, because sipping Veuve Clicquot with Michael Bublé playing in the background while waiting for someone to bring you clothes is a really tough life."
"Spare me the pretentious guilt trip. You realize that most people don't count shopping as work, right?"
I turn toward him and lower my voice. "You're the one who wanted to tag along, so we may as well get some use out of your crashing my shopping day."
"How the hell is this going to help my—"
"Ethan. Be quiet and trust me. For the next five minutes, you need to forget that you're pissy about shopping and pretend to be completely smitten."
"Smitten with what?"
I exhale through my nose. "With me, you jackass."
I turn around casually, noting the well-dressed woman on the far side of the shop.
She hasn't seen me, but I saw her the moment we entered.
She's the reason we're here.
Time to test Ethan Dolan's acting abilities.
I amble to a center rack with a cold shoulder dress, feigning interest in the gray fabric as I let my gaze scan the room until it lands on the woman in the jeans and red sweater, my eyes going wide as though just seeing her.
"Georgie?" I say, raising my voice slightly to get her attention.
The woman spins around, a wide smile on her face. "Emma. Hi, it's been forever!"
I walk toward her, and though we do the air-kiss thing, it's the genuine good to see you kind, not the vapid-socialite variety.
"You look amazing," I say, pulling back and giving her a once-over.
That, too, is genuine. Her long reddish-brown hair falls to her waist in carefree curls, her sweater fitted to a figure that's healthy without being gym-rat toned, her smile bright and cheerful.
Georgiana Watkins—wait, no, Georgiana Mulroney now—is one of my favorite people in the city. She's sort of right out of a scene from Gossip Girl but in the best way possible. She's rich, yes, but also sweet. Relentlessly happy, but in a charming way, not annoying.
"I forgot we both work with Monica," she says, squeezing my hand. "I came in looking for a pair of black pants, but after trying everything on, I'll have, like, eight bags. Marly too," she says, pointing to her BFF, who's chatting on her cell a few feet away.
I give Marly a friendly wave, and she finger-wiggles back and blows me a kiss.
"You just get here?" Georgie asks.
"Yup, me and—" I glance over my shoulder. "Ethan, babe. Come over here a sec!" I call.
His eyes narrow just briefly, and I give him a this is what you're paying me for smile in return.
"Georgie, do you know Ethan Dolan?" I ask, setting my arm on his biceps as he approaches, letting my fingers linger, as though I can't help myself from touching him. "Ethan, this is Georgiana Mulroney."
She laughs. "Wow, nearly a year after the wedding, and it's still weird to hear that as my last name. Weird in a wonderful way," she chirps as she shakes Ethan's hand.
"I actually know Georgie through her husband," I explain to Ethan. "Andrew and I've done business together."
"I always forget he knew you first!" Georgie says.
"Andrew's a divorce attorney," she explains to Ethan.
"Somehow I manage to love the cynical guy anyway."
"I've heard of him," Ethan says with an easy smile, his hand finding my waist in a casual, absentminded sort of touch. "Couple guys in my office have hired him."
Georgie makes a sad noise. "I'm so sorry to hear their marriages didn't work out."
Ethan blinks and gives me a quick glance that I'm pretty sure translates to, Is she for real?
Yup. That's Georgie for you—an optimist, true-love enthusiast, and so on. But her Pollyanna outlook on life isn't why I sought her out. I need her connections.
Monica approaches from the dressing room area and beckons me forward. "Sorry about that, Emma, Mr. Dolan. I have two fitting rooms all set up for you."
"Thanks so much," Ethan says with a cheerful grin.
Hmm, maybe the guy's better at this than I expected. His rapid transition from the standard man-hates-shopping routine to the easygoing charmer, determined to please his girlfriend, is convincing as hell.
"I'll get you some champagne refills," Monica says with a smile. "If you guys want to head on back?"
"Absolutely." I turn back to Georgie. "It was so good seeing you, hon. We should do dinner soon."
"I'd love that. I'll text you some dates."
"Perfect."
"Okay, so . . ." Georgie leans in with a conspiratorial smile and lowers her voice, as her eyes deliberately take in Ethan's hand on my waist. "Did I or did I not see you guys here together?"
"You absolutely saw us together," I say with a sly smile.
Georgie winks. "Got it."
There.Right there. That's why I sought out Georgie Mulroney. The woman's not a gossip, but she is a part of the gossip chain when I need her to be.
Ethan's and my shopping excursion will be all over the social scene rumor circuit by lunch.
She gives me a quick kiss goodbye and waves at Ethan. "So nice meeting you. We should all get together sometime!"
"Absolutely, I'd love that," Ethan says agreeably.
After waving goodbye to Marly and Georgie, I lead him into the fitting room area. It's coed, and unlike my high school memories of the Gap, the salespeople aren't worried about groping happening in their changing stalls.
Stallsisn't even the right word. There's an entire room, complete with a small love seat, chair, chilled water bottle . . .
Since I know the routine already, I step into the room Monica points me to, listening with a smile as I hear her rattle off a list of twenty items for Ethan to try on.
I've got about twenty of my own items to try on, so I kick off my ankle boots to get to work. I pause once I'm down to my bra and underwear, sipping my champagne as I debate between trying on the dresses first or a fabulous tweed skirt with a bit of flounce around the hem to keep it from looking dowdy.
I'm reaching for the skirt when the door to the dressing room opens. I whirl around, expecting it to be Monica entering without realizing I was in here.
It's not Monica.
Ethan shuts the door with a quiet click that belies the irritation in his gaze. "You planned this."
I take another sip of champagne and try to pretend that my heart's not beating in overdrive at being nearly naked in an enclosed space with him.
"Planned what?"
"You knew I'd be waiting outside your apartment today. You knew I'd tag along. You planned everything. Don't deny it."
I roll my eyes and set the champagne aside on the table. "Why would I deny it? This is what you're paying me for."
"So that interaction with that Georgie chick—"
"All planned," I confirm. "Georgiana has her finger on the pulse of New York society, and she's aware of my . . . occupation. She's exactly the person we need to spread the news organically about our relationship—Honestly, Dolan, are you even listening?" I ask in exasperation, since he's clearly checking me out instead of paying attention.
His eyes return to mine. "You should have told me. Let me in on your plan."
"I did tell you."
"Yeah, after we got here," he says.
"I don't know why you're so irritable about this," I murmur, inspecting one of the dresses on the hanger and ignoring how vulnerable I feel at my near nakedness.
The dress is pulled from my hands and tossed onto the back of a chair, the hanger falling to the floor.
"Let's get one thing straight: I'm not one of your moronic clients to be handled," Ethan snaps.
"I know that. But you've got to trust—"
His hand slips around my neck, tilting my face up, and my breath catches. Damn him.
"No hookups, remember?"
"I know," he says, resting his forehead against mine.
"But I can't think when you're dressed like that."
"I'm not really dressed at all," I mutter.
His smile is strained. "Exactly."
I don't reply, but the sound of our breathing says plenty all on its own.
Want.
Need.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting for self-control. It's always been this way around him, which is the very reason I set up my rule in the first place. I may not be a believer in all things lovey-dovey, but even I know that the combination of pretending to be Ethan's girlfriend while also sleeping with him is dangerous.
My brain knows this. My body? Wants him. Always.
I'd been so sure that spending more time with him would cure my attraction to him—that being forced to deal with his arrogance on a regular basis as his faux girlfriend, with the constant exposure to all his flaws, would rid me of any desire for the man.
So far . . . my plan's not working.