Dolly All the Time(12)

I shake the hand she offers me.

“Dolly. Adorable. So lovely to meet you. Where are you two off to?”

Stewart says, “I’m walking her home.” He’s not touching me anywhere, but he’s leaning in to me, closing the space between us, and it occurs to me that he’s trying to make it seem like we’re together. “Beautiful day,” he adds.

Clara gives Stewart a wink and makes her way down Main Street. We just stand there. I’m watching Stewart as he nods at his own thought.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

People are passing us on the sidewalk. Stewart directs me out of the foot traffic, and I lean against the window of Whitfield Blooms. Inside, there’s a small bouquet of ranunculus. The season for them is so short, I almost never see them. This bouquet is bright orange and pink, just shouting about fleeting summer joy.

“What if I asked you to play along?” he asks.

“Pretend to be your gal pal?”

“She bought it. And she smiled. She’s the first person I’ve talked to today who hasn’t given me a pity face.”

I make the face, in spite of myself. Head tilted, bottom lip jutted out.

“That one, yes,” he says.

“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms over my chest and say it again, thinking of all the spare time I do not have. Pretending to be his girlfriend would most certainly involve hand-holding and a staged public kiss, and just the thought of it has my chest doing that thing. “Absolutely not.”

“Just for a couple of months, maybe through the Starlight Gala. A few photo ops around town, dinner as necessary. There’s an event in Providence next week that would be a nightmare to go to alone. Just enough that I can get through this and come across like…”

“A guy who’s got it going on.”

“Yes,” he says. “Well, no. I work a lot. It’s a long story. I just need to seem involved.” He gestures between us to indicate some level of involvement. “And then we can break up. Or let it fizzle. That doesn’t need to be in the paper.” He’s thinking all this up as he goes, and I can imagine him at work, making snap decisions about whatever it is that he does.

“Listen, Stewart. I have a lot of jobs and a kid and a brand-new family crisis I didn’t see coming. I don’t have time for this. Tell the Post we had a big affair and broke up today. Tell them you dumped me, I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to break up.”

And at this, I laugh. Anyone passing by would think I was actually dumping Stewart Whitfield. “We’re not a couple. Try to stay focused on that, okay?”

He takes a new approach. “For career reasons, this would be an opportune time for me to be in a relationship.” His hands are in his pockets, but his eyes grab me. He really needs this and he’s not going to tell me why.

“Then go meet someone,” I say.

“I don’t have time. I’ll pay you.”

I laugh. “You’re joking.” I let out an exasperated breath and switch my straw bag to the other shoulder. He continues with the even gaze. “Wait, you’re serious?”

He nods once, definitively. He’s serious. He wants me to spend the summer yacht-clubbing around with him. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve always wanted to eat in the dining room at the yacht club. I’ve seen it through the kitchen doors, the way they rush the hot sourdough buns to the tables and then open the white napkin just enough to let the steam out. The pats of butter are shaped like seashells.

I would be crazy to turn down any amount of money at this particular point in my life. I would also be crazy to have any kind of relationship—fake or not—with this dangerously attractive man. Everything about him shouts sniff me, touch me, abandon your good judgment.

“I’m not a big fan of the flesh trade,” I say.

He widens his eyes at me, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Of course it hadn’t, a man like Stewart Whitfield does not need to pay for sex. Not with his chest looking the way it does now that a little breeze has pressed his barely there shirt flush against it. God, why do I keep thinking about sex with Stewart Whitfield?

“Nothing like that,” he says.

“I’m sure what I’d require is way beyond what you’re willing to pay.” I turn and start walking.

“Give me a number,” he says, matching his steps to mine.

“Give me a contract,” I say.

“Of course. And you’d have to sign an NDA.” This is all completely insane, and I can tell he’s thinking this up on the spot, following one idea to the next. “Give me a number.”

I stop and turn to him. “Sixty grand.”

“Done.” He holds out his hand to shake. Sixty grand, no biggie.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

I look around Main Street to ground myself. The Salty Clam is across the street and someone’s playing the guitar inside, confirming that it’s Thursday. The sun is at four o’clock. Everything tracks with reality. If he’s serious, this is a miracle.

“I meant seventy thousand,” I say.

Stewart crosses his arms and tilts his head. “That’s not how negotiating works. You proposed a number and I accepted it. We’re done.”