Dolly All the Time(13)

“We’re not done.” This is insane and I don’t even know him. This could be some sort of a cruel reality show with cameras hidden in the sun hats of passersby. Stewart could be, for some reason that’s not entirely apparent to me right now, interested in human trafficking. “I have terms,” I say.

“Terms?”

“For the contract.”

“What are your terms?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet. But there are definitely terms.”

His eyes soften and he almost smiles. It’s a ploy, I’m sure. This is his extra handsome face, the closer. “I swear to you, Dolly, I’m harmless.”

“I doubt that very much.” He has to know how absolutely not harmless he is. I stop at the corner of Goose Lane. “Give me your phone.”

“I’m not giving you my phone,” he says.

“I just want to give you my number, in case you’re serious.”

“I told you, I—” He stops and pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”

He puts on his glasses and types my number in his phone. “Okay, then,” he says.

“Okay nothing,” I say. “Let me think about this.”

“Thank you,” he says. “For the help with the tire, for considering this. It hasn’t been the easiest week.”

“That makes two of us,” I say. I turn and start walking past Goose Lane toward Whitfield Tees for a reality check. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I might have just secured a fourth side hustle and a new roof.





Chapter 4





The door to Naomi’s store is open to lure tourists into their next impulse purchase. I finger the stack of Whitfield hoodies by the door. Today, the word “Whitfield” feels supercharged. It’s not just the town I grew up in, it’s the name of my potential benefactor. Remembering myself, I text Gus: Try to get him inside. I’ll be home in 10

A group of college-age girls is assembled around the cash register, trying on bracelets. “He’ll never call,” one of them says, and I want to walk right over there and say he might. And then he won’t. And then there will be another guy and another guy and someday your roof will be moldy and you won’t even remember his name. You need that bracelet more than you need that guy, and you don’t even need the bracelet.

“You look a little crazy.” Naomi appears out of nowhere. “And not just the hair.”

“Well, that tracks,” I say. “I just walked into a whole bunch of crazy. Stewart Whitfield wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend.”

Naomi acts decisively. “Girls! I’m so sorry. I think I smell gas? We’re going to have to close for a bit.”

A woman comes out of the dressing room with a bathing suit and a cover-up in her hands. “I just need to pay for this,” she says.

“Take it,” Naomi says, and ushers her out. She shuts the door, bolts it, and turns the sign to Closed. “Start at the beginning. Do you get to have sex with him? I bet they have the nicest sheets. Ohmygod. Sit.”

We sit on the floor between the checkout counter and the bikini rack, and I fidget with all the colorful strings hanging down. “I don’t think I told you the part about how someone took our photo yesterday while I was changing his tire, but it’s in the New York Post, the gossip page. He told them I was his girlfriend and he was teaching me to change a tire.”

“As if.”

“Right? And now he wants me to pretend I am. To make him not seem like a loser. For sixty grand.”

“What? Wait.” Naomi has both hands on her head and seems dangerously close to pulling her hair out. “What did you just say?”

“It’s what I asked for. The roof plus ten, just in case, we haven’t even gotten an estimate yet. And maybe because somewhere, deep down, I’m greedy. I had no idea. It just came out.”

“Ohmygod. This is just. Wow.”

“It is wow for sure,” I say. “I mean, it’s an answered prayer. We can’t lose that house.”

“The house, yes, of course. But you know he’s a great kisser. That mouth.” She pulls out her phone and starts googling images of Stewart. Charity events, the engagement photo, his corporate headshot. She zooms in on his mouth and holds it up to me. “World-class lips.”

“Okay, stop,” I say. This was not something she needed to make me aware of. “This isn’t Pretty Woman.”

“It’s totally Pretty Woman, Dolly. If it was me, I’d milk this for everything it’s worth. I’d order extra steaks to take home and steal all the little soaps in his bathroom. I bet they’re shaped like acorns.”

“You’d be rich with acorn soap,” I say.

“I would be. Acorn-soap rich.” She’s smiling her biggest, most ecstatic smile. “This is so fun.”

“Maybe?” I say. “What’s Gus going to say?”

“Maybe he’ll appreciate the break from you talking about your parking arbitrage scheme all the time.”

I laugh. “This is almost better than that.”

“Almost,” she says with an eye-roll.

“Do you really think this is a good idea? He’s a Whitfield. Yuck.”