Maid for Each Other(27)
“Okay. Got it,” he said, turning his head just a little to level me with an annoyed look from point-blank range.
I couldn’t have him glaring at me, the perfect girlfriend, so I whispered, “You’re cute when you’re serious.”
And I dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose.
His eyes narrowed, and my heart started racing because what the hell had I just done? I wasn’t someone who kissed strangers, on the nose or anywhere else, so what the hell was that?
But then he smiled.
A slow, sliding smirk of teasing appreciation that I felt in my stomach.
He reached out a hand and touched my chin, giving it a tiny squeeze between his thumb and forefinger, and the gesture made not smiling back impossible.
If that man smiled more, this would be a lot of fun.
* * *
? ? ?
I left during the first morning break.
I was surprised by how interesting the Q&A was, because as someone not into wealth because I had no money, I’d expected to be bored out of my mind. But the way Warren talked about business and investments was so simple, so evergreen, that it totally sucked me in.
Kind of made sense that people trekked to Omaha from all over the world to listen to the man speak.
I was so into it that when it was time for me to leave, I had to be reminded.
“Didn’t you say you were going to take off during the first break?” Declan asked when Warren left the stage.
“Oh. Yeah. Right,” I said, reaching for my handbag and standing. “I almost forgot.”
He’d offered to walk me out, but for some reason I didn’t want him to see my dented old Honda Civic. Not that I had anything to be embarrassed about—it was just a car and it got me where I needed to go—but it seemed like a bad idea to remind him of the vastness of our differences.
There was already way too big a power imbalance in our situation.
When I got “home” （to his fancy house）， I changed into sweats and went onto the balcony to write. A character had formed in my head at the cocktail party last night, and I was dying to start drafting Daphne’s story.
I opened my notebook and started pinning down the details.
Daphne is a lonely, middle-aged woman who agrees to fake-date a billionaire for a weekend.
She loathes the wealthy and inwardly mocks everything going on around her at the beginning of the first night.
Gradually loathes less of it, and begins seeing the life as hers. The people are kind to her and start to feel like family.
Billionaire loves her, and they sleep together.
Burglar breaks in with gun and Daphne saves them all by killing him with his own gun; everyone gushing with love and gratitude for her bravery.
Wakes up Sunday morning in her own house, alone—someone moved her back while she was sleeping because the arrangement is over. Knock on the door—it’s the cops with an arrest warrant. She asks them to call the billionaire to vouch for her, and they inform her that HE was the one who called them.
Uses her one phone call to reach him and he can’t talk because he has a tee time. When she starts crying, he reminds her it was all fake.
I was beyond excited because suddenly I had these vivid details and descriptions that I hadn’t been aware existed until two days ago. Custom luxury vehicles, a team of makeover artists, doormen who were available twenty-four-seven to notarize financial papers—my writers workshop professor would probably say it was too fantastical to be believable, but I was running with it.
Daphne was getting the full treatment.
I got lost in writing for a few hours, which was so easy to do when I was on a balcony above the city, entirely checked out of life as I knew it.
But I was only checked out until my mother called.
When I saw it was her I wanted to ignore the call, but that usually meant she’d just call more often and maybe even bother Lauren.
I sighed and set down my pen. “Hello?”
“Hey, how’s it going, kid?”
“Good,” I said, wondering why she was calling. “What’s up?”
“Do you have any moving boxes?” she asked, sounding agitated. “Daniel might be moving out and he’s got shit all over the place.”
I sighed and wished I would’ve let it go to voicemail, because the last thing I wanted was to listen to the many adventures of my mother’s boyfriends. I said, “I don’t—sorry. What do you mean he ‘might’ be moving out?”
“Well,” she said, sighing loudly. “Apparently his ex-wife isn’t comfortable with their daughter staying here on his weekends with her because she doesn’t know me.”
“Sounds fair,” I said, feeling so much empathy for Daniel’s daughter.
“No, it does not,” she snapped, “because Daniel is Elsa’s father, so if he thinks I’m good enough for his child, that’s all that should matter.”
“So,” I said, wanting to divert her from her anger. “He’s getting his own place, then? For when his daughter’s over?”
How absolutely…parental of that man.
I’d only met Daniel a few times because I’d kind of retired from meeting boyfriends, but bravo to good ol’ Danny Boy.
If only my mother had cared that much.
To be fair, my mom was a good person and had always been a good mother. I’d never doubted that she loved me, and she’d always made sure I had what I needed in terms of food and clothing.