Boyfriend Maintenance Read online

  He eyes me.

  “Isn’t it normal for siblings to be part of the wedding party?”

  I smile, he’s not wrong.

  “No, you’re right but … well, Darcy, she doesn’t really care about tradition. While I love my brother dearly, he just does what she says.” I don’t share with Jake that Levi and I had a long talk about it after Darcy announced her wedding party. Levi wanted to make sure I was okay with it but also thought maybe it was letting me off the hook since I didn’t want to be part of that life anymore. While I’m sad I don’t get to be a true part of his big day, I appreciate his reasoning. And I will try to enjoy it like everyone else. Plus, I can’t stand Darcy, if he were marrying someone I actually liked, I’d feel differently for sure.

  “So, I need clothes. I’ll take your lead on what I’m expected to wear to these things. When do you want to take care of that?”

  “Are you free Saturday? I’ve got all day open, so we can work around your schedule,” I offer.

  “I have to clock in at three, so how about that morning? Where will we be shopping? Barneys? Bloomingdale's? Saks?”

  I try not to cringe at the thought of the cost per outfit at those stores. I do almost all my shopping at Century 21, a discounted name-brand store. I haven’t shopped with a personal stylist since college. I don’t know why I feel compelled to keep Jake thinking I’m some high-society princess. So, I bite the bullet.

  “We can meet up at Bloomingdale's. Ten sharp, men’s department.” A wave of disgust washes over me due to my lie of omission. So, I stand. It’s time for him to leave. He takes the hint and stands as well.

  “I’ve got one more question. Why does someone like you need a fake boyfriend anyway?”

  I bristle at the comment. “What do you mean, someone like me?”

  He looks me up and down and moves his hand along with the perusal. “You, you’re young and attractive, you seem put together.”

  I relax at his assessment.

  “Plus, isn’t there some kind of rich fuck dating pool? Silver spoons stick together, right?”

  Now I want to throat punch him. I straighten my shoulders, holding my head up high when I reply.

  “It’s none of your business. We’ve all got issues and I would appreciate it if you’d be a little less judgy. I’m not judging you about why you so badly need fifteen grand, so maybe you could show the same respect toward me.”

  His eyebrows lift as he nods. “Fair enough, I’ll keep the judging to a minimum, or at least to myself.”

  I roll my eyes and show him to the door. It isn’t until he’s long gone that I realize I never got his number. That’s fine. I’ll get it Saturday after I sell an arm and a leg to cover his new clothes.

  Chapter 8

  Jake

  Standing outside the massive building that is Bloomingdale’s, I have to take a few breaths before I go in. Never in my life did I ever expect to step foot in this department store. Seeing it portrayed enough through movies and TV, I know I’m not part of the clientele they cater to. No, I’m sure I couldn’t even afford a simple pocket square. Ripping the Band-Aid off, I head inside.

  Finding the men's department is easy enough. Scanning the area for Emmy, I loiter as close to the elevators as I can when I realize she isn’t here yet. I gently run my thumb and forefinger over the lapel of a dark gray blazer. The buttery-soft fabric is a definite selling point. If I were a businessman, I’d buy several. I slide my hand up and over the shoulder and down the sleeve of the blazer where I find the price tag. Flipping it over in my hand I try not to let my jaw fall to the floor when I see it’s nearly six hundred dollars. I drop the sleeve like a hot potato and take a step away from the rack.

  Shit, rich people clothes are expensive. If just a blazer costs that much money, how much will an entire outfit cost? A slight, very tiny spark of guilt pricks at me when I realize I requested Emmy buy me enough outfits to cover all four dates. What’s she going to spend here today? Two grand at least? But the feeling flees as soon as I remember that two grand for a few outfits is nothing for her.

  “Jake! Hey, sorry I’m late.” Emmy walks up and stands next to me.

  She’s freaking gorgeous. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress with a denim jacket over it, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. A wide brown belt sits high on her waist. The bottom of her dress is covered in flowers and her heels add a couple inches to her height, bringing the top of her head to my chin. She’s smiling at me as my eyes wander back to her face. Her hair is down today, barely past her shoulders and slightly curly, and I can’t help but wonder how soft it would feel with my face buried in her neck.

  Damn, man. Get it together.

  “Hey. I just got here myself.”

  “Oh, good. Well, let’s get this over with.” She eyes the blazer I was looking at. Maybe I’m imagining it, but did she just cringe? Just as I’m about to ask, we are joined by a sales associate.

  “Good morning, my name is Sasha. Is there anything I can help you with today?” I look to Emmy for an answer and she’s on it.

  “Yes. We’ve got some pre-wedding events to attend and …”

  The sales lady cuts in, “Say no more. I’m on it. What kind of events are we talking about?”

  “An engagement party and shower.”

  “Perfect. What are your sizes, sweetie, and I’ll go pull some outfits that I think would look fabulous on you.” She directs her question at me. I’m a little stunned but manage to mumble my answer. She scurries off in the direction she came from.

  Next to me, Emmy chuckles and tugs my arm. “This is what she does. She works on commission. I don’t know the first thing about men's clothes, so let’s see what she finds and then we can go from there. Until then, let’s get you a dressing room.”

  I follow her, weaving through racks and shelves of expensive-as-shit clothes.

  No sooner do we find the dressing rooms, Sasha floats in with her arms full of clothes. “Here, let me get you started.” She veers into a tiny room and makes quick work of organizing what she picked out. Which is freaky fast if you ask me. Emmy doesn’t seem bothered by it.

  “There you go, hon. I’ll be back with more. Let me know if you need any other sizes or colors.” And in a blink of an eye, she’s gone again.

  I stand there, a little overwhelmed.

  “Hey, Jake, you all right?”

  I turn my head toward her and find her trying not to laugh. “I’m fine.”

  “You look like you have no idea what to do. Have you ever been clothes shopping before?” She’s joking around, but I glare anyway.

  “Why don’t you just go in there, try the outfits she picked out, then come out here and let me see it?”

  Grumbling, I turn and walk into the dressing room. I slide the thick curtain closed and clip it to the waiting hook, creating a makeshift wall of privacy.

  Surveying the clothes, I groan. I can tell by just looking at the selection I will hate it all.

  “Some clothes look better on a person than on the hanger. Give it all a chance.” Stifling a groan, I take her advice and start on the first outfit. I hear Emmy move closer to the dressing room, the quiet of the fitting area is almost earie. There is no one else around and she starts to tell me more about herself. She tells me about her job and how she loves it, even though it causes some contention between her and her father since it’s technically a competing company. She also shares more about her brother, the one getting married. She seems a little sad when she explains that while they are close, they don’t see each other often, despite living in the same city. I can’t help but feel there is something she isn’t sharing with me. But I remind myself that I’m still a stranger, I don’t expect her entire life story. Least of all, not over clothes shopping.

  After what feels like hours later, and despite pleasant conversation with a beautiful woman, I’m fucking grumpy. In reality, I know it hasn’t been hours. More like forty-five minutes, but Sasha keeps bringing shit that is, well … shit.
It’s all bad. It’s all been crazy patterns, crazy fabric, or colors I can’t even pronounce.

  While I’ve been in my own personal hell trying on hideous outfit after hideous outfit, Emmy seems to have been enjoying my discomfort. We’ve developed a routine. When I come out of the dressing room, one of two things happen: she either pretends to contemplate the outfit like it might be the best thing she’s seen yet, or she bursts out laughing.

  I’ve just taken off the latest disaster when I see Sasha’s most recent attempt to find the best style for me.

  “Oh hell no.”

  “Whatever it is, please try it on, Jake,” Emmy begs, laughing from the sitting area in the middle of the dressing room area.

  This whole thing has been easy for her. She’s sitting on a plush, white leather couch enjoying the show.

  “No. I’ve had enough.”

  “Please, it could be the one.” She’s pleading with me now. I don’t know why I even bother, but I do. Standing there in my socks and briefs, I take in the outfit. The matching plaid suit pants and jacket looks like someone lifted it straight from Sherlock Holmes’ wardrobe. I shake my head and grumble as I step into the pants and pull the shirt on. And that’s when I decide I can’t take any more of this.

  “I’m done. This isn’t working.”

  “Let me see, Jake.”

  “No, I look ridiculous.”

  “Come on, Jake. Let me see. I won't laugh.” She sounds closer now, no longer sitting on the couch.

  “No.”

  “It probably looks better than you think.” Now she sounds annoyed.

  “No one will ever see me like this.” I’m staring at myself in the mirror wondering how I even got to this moment when I see the curtain move.

  “Jake, let me see.” Then I see her fingers wrap around the curtain. Turning, I grab her hand. She yelps as I pull her into the tiny dressing room with me.

  Once she’s in, I snap the curtain shut behind her.

  She stands there staring at me. I let her get her fill. She presses her lips together as she takes me in. Her eyes twitch. When she can’t hold it in anymore, she bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. You look like Doctor Who.” More laughing.

  I cross my arms and roll my eyes.

  “That’s it. I’m cutting you off. You don’t get to see what I’m working with anymore.”

  She calms her laughter and shakes her head. “Nope. You have to show me. I’ll stay in here if I have to.” She mimics my pose and looks adorably annoying being all bossy.

  “And I said no,” I push back.

  “If I’m paying for this shit, I’m sure as hell going to approve of what I’m buying.” And just like that, I’m fucking turned on. She’s no longer laughing, and her annoyance is palpable.

  I lower my tone and take a few steps toward her. “Then I guess you won’t be buying shit today, babe.”

  Her arms drop to her sides and she takes a step back, bumping into the wall.

  “I’ve tried on more than two dozen outfits and I’m spent. I’m hungry, I’m annoyed, and I’m tired of dressing up in clown clothes.” I move in closer to her. There isn’t much more space between us.

  She straightens her shoulders and pushes her hair away from her face. She looks me in the eyes as she says it, but her eyes drop to my mouth. “We have to find something today, or our deal is over and no money for you.”

  “Then I guess you won’t have a fake boyfriend.” Now that I’m so damn close to her, I can’t help lifting my hand to snag a wayward strand of her hair. Grasping it between my fingers, I can confirm that it's as soft as I imagined earlier. I twist it around my finger, watching the movement. I turn my attention back to her and find she is watching as well. She lifts her eyes and looks into mine, then back down to my lips. She bites her bottom lip and I lean in. I want to bite that lip and taste it for myself. I’m so close I can feel her breath mix with my own.

  “Jake, Emmy? Are you in there? I have more outfits,” Sasha sings. She has perfect timing because I take one last glance at Emmy’s lips, drop her hair, and back away.

  Emmy clears her throat, avoids eye contact and pushes out of the dressing room.

  “You know what, Sasha, these outfits just aren’t working. Why don’t we go simple? I already have my outfits picked out, why don’t we try to coordinate?” Emmy suggests.

  Damn, that was a close one. I don’t know what came over me, but I almost kissed Emmy. There can be none of that. My time with her is business, not pleasure.

  “Oh, I can’t believe I never asked you what you were wearing! That’s a wonderful idea.” Sasha plays off the fact that we were just in the dressing room together like it isn’t a big deal. I adjust myself in my pants then remember I’m wearing a fucking Sherlock Holmes costume.

  I don’t know whether to be pissed with Emmy or not. Once she told Sasha what she was wearing, it took another twenty minutes, and I had three outfits boxed up and ready to be paid for. Had she started this shopping experience with that, we would have been done in no time.

  Emmy seems quiet as she pulls out her credit card. I expect it to be black, or gold—don’t the rich and famous get the good, prestigious cards? But no, hers is green, and looks like just a regular bank card. I don’t think I can handle knowing the final price of the trip, so I turn away and study a display of sunglasses.

  While I’m glad we are done shopping, I’m not ready to say goodbye to her yet. Plus, I need to get a read on her mood change. Did the almost kiss piss her off? She seemed fine during the last leg of our outfit adventure.

  She grabs the bags off the counter and turns to me. “Here you go, three new outfits. I don’t have my dress for the wedding yet, but we have time to get you something else. Like after the fifth of the month.”

  I quirk my head at the last comment but take the clothes. “So, you want to get lunch?”

  She shrugs. “I could eat.”

  “I was thinking you should probably give me the low-down on what I need to know for this engagement party.”

  She chews on the inside of her lip. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  “Is there any place you want to eat near here?” I look over to her as we exit the building. It's sunny out so she pulls out a pair of big-rimmed sunglasses. Somehow, they match her outfit perfectly.

  I look away and squint, wishing I’d brought my own pair.

  “Actually, there is this little cafe a couple blocks away. Can we go there?” I plan on picking up the bill, I am a gentleman, but I’m hoping like hell this “little” cafe will not be as outrageously priced as I expect.

  Idle chitchat gets us through the relatively short walk to the cafe. We walk right in and get a seat. I pick up the menu and find lots of soups, salads, and sandwiches. I notice the pricing isn’t so bad. The salads must be their specialty because they are the most overpriced items on the menu. I always find it interesting what someone orders on a first date. Of course, this isn't a date, but it's the first meal we’ve shared. I think what a person orders says a lot about them. Girls that order a plain-Jane salad then claim they are nervous or aren’t very hungry annoy the shit out of me. I shared my theory with a friend of mine a few years back and she agreed wholeheartedly. She’d had a first date in a nice restaurant and the tool ordered a half-and-half plate of bone-in wings and BBQ ribs. She said he proceeded to tuck a napkin into his collar and then licked his fingers clean when he was done. See what I mean? Is that really first-date material? Nope.

  But I can’t help but smile when Emmy orders a simple grilled cheese and a bowl of tomato soup. I order the chicken club and side of the house-made chips. She catches my smile and shrugs a shoulder.

  “Grilled Cheese? Really?” I tease.

  “What? Don’t make fun. I have a serious obsession with them.” She picks up the Ball jar full of water and takes a sip.

  “How old are you?” I chuckle.

  “Twenty-eight. And I’ll be ninety before I ever give up my love of hot, melty cheese, sandwiched b
etween two perfectly grilled pieces of bread.”

  “We came here specifically for the grilled cheese, didn’t we?”

  Her shoulder lifts causally. “It’s possible.”

  I laugh again. “I happen to make a mean grilled cheese. You’d be so lucky to partake in its amazingness someday.”

  “I’m sure. So where did this obsession come from?” I doubt this is knowledge I truly need to know to pass as her boyfriend, but I’m intrigued.

  Leaning back in her chair, she sweeps a hand in front of her, already brushing off the story. “My nanny growing up made them for me all the time. We would spend hours experimenting with different cheeses, coming up with the best combinations. Finding the perfect bread and whether or not it’s best to butter both sides of the bread.” She leans in. “Hint: it is.”

  “Okay, so what is it?” Her eyebrow cocks at my question. “What ingredients make up the best grilled cheese?”

  She smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” God damn she’s adorable.

  A guffaw from deep in my belly causes us both to just sit there laughing and smiling at each other. The service here is quick because, moments later, our plates are carefully set down in front of us. Sure enough, her sandwich looks pretty spectacular.

  She wastes no time taking a bite. Her moan of ecstasy over a damn grilled cheese causes me to squirm in my seat. Then, she catches me off guard by stretching out her arm offering me a bit of the very food that she just took a bite of.

  “Here, you have to try it.”

  I don’t reply but take the triangle from her and take a bite of my own.

  Now I understand the moaning. I don’t think I’ve ever had a grilled cheese taste so dang good before.

  “Good, right? Now you’re going to crave grilled cheese for at least the next week or two.”

  I hand it back to her and dig into my own sandwich. I refuse to dwell on the fact that she had no issues sharing food with me. We don’t know each other, yet she felt comfortable enough for such an intimate gesture.