4. Milo

"Twenty million?"Sierra shrieks. "Twenty? Million?"

I'm still grappling with the reality of it myself, so I don't exactly blame my best friend for struggling.

"That's a lot of money."

"You think?" I reply while my heart starts pounding again.

It's been doing that since I spoke to Gracie two days ago and signed the NDA. She'd been all hush-hush about the details until I'd signed, which was when she revealed what the job was, who it was for, and how much it was worth.

Naturally, I've told Sierra. She is in the same profession as me. I couldn't hide it. Same as Rhett, who was more than excited for his best friend to be fake-dating his imaginary boyfriend, but then again, Rhett is weird like that. So it is just Sierra and Rhett who know. As far as everyone else is concerned, I met the love of my life on Cinderfella.

"Are you trying to tell me…are you saying we're fucking rich?"

She jumps up and down, screaming at the top of her lungs, holding me, and I have no choice but to bounce along with her.

"Chillax, please. Not rich yet." I manage to calm her down.

It's too much money to think about. It doesn't even feel real. It's like I'm dreaming, and then I'll wake up, and I'll still be in the same shitty situation as before.

"Wait, really? How long is the contract for? Are you telling me they're not gonna pay you until the end?"

I roll my eyes and sip from the wine glass on my kitchen island. It might be eleven in the morning, but it's five in the evening in Europe somewhere, so that's good enough for me. Besides, a little red never hurt anybody. Especially when they're dealing with a life-changing situation.

And boy, what a situation.

"Of course not. There are milestones. Six million by the end of the week, six halfway through, and six at the end. And the spare change."

As if I'm talking in millions. This is unreal.

"Ah, yes. Of course. Two million is just spare change for a millionaire." Sierra grabs my glass and takes a sip.

"And suddenly, she's a math expert," I tease.

She raises an eyebrow and stares me down with her brown eyes, the same set Nia inherited.

"I've always been a math expert." As if she needs to remind me of her math degree hanging elegantly above our toilet, the aim of the occasional drunken target practice. "Keaton Sinclair? Are you sure?"

I nod and see a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

"I was hoping he was legit." Just like Rhett, she's been obsessed with his journey to finding love.

Now, I'm the journey.

Shit. Am I really going to publicly date a billionaire?

And it isn't just dating.

"How would you like to get married for twenty million dollars?" had been Gracie's opening line.

It still doesn't feel real. None of it does. Probably because I haven't even met the guy. And what does that say about him that he didn't even want to meet me in person before we got into this deal together? Does he really not care who it is as long as they're good arm candy to boost his prestige?

"Yeah, well, billionaires aren't legit. Did you just find out?" I bring my friend back to reality while trying to come to grips with mine.

He didn't feel fake during our first chat, or our second chat last night, but the man is a master manipulator. How do I know he didn't have someone beside him to craft his responses? Yes, even at two in the morning. People like him don't care about normal work hours. I would expect no less from him, although surprisingly, I haven't been forwarded any scripts to follow, which is bizarre at best.

To think I was going to have a very public relationship with a guy I hated on principle.

Fuck my life.

Well, actually, considering I'm being paid some good dough, I can't exactly complain about my fucked-up life.

Oh, screw it.

Fuck my life.

Yes, I may be able to pay for my queen's care home and pretty much be set for life after this job, but I'm giving up a year of my life. A year!

I have to figure out what the sex situation is with this arrangement because twenty million is good and all, but if I have to go without sex the whole time, I'm going to be a very grumpy bunny.

Not that I'd want to have sex with Keaton Sinclair. Bleh. He's so not my type. Arrogant. Cocksure. Plastic. I think I'd rather die than sleep with him. But if I can at least have sex with a trusted friend…

I'm sure Rhett won't mind. It's not like we haven't fooled around before.

I'm going to have to talk to him about it. And Keaton. Hopefully, tonight, we can sort out the details that were left out of the NDA.

"Do you feel like Julia Roberts right now?" Sierra asks me.

"More like Courtney Love, if I'm honest."

Sierra snorts.

"You're such a drama queen. All your problems are about to be solved. Stop being a Debbie Downer. It doesn't suit you."

I relent because she's right, but it doesn't mean I'm happy about it. I mean, I am, but still…

Keaton Sinclair?

I'd rather have dated a hot mess of a rockstar than a guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

And his face…

I don't know what it is about Keaton Sinclair and his porcelain smiles, wishy-washy speeches about love and forever after, and charity headlines—a marketing stunt, I'm sure—but he rubs me the wrong way.

"I'm not a drama queen. I just heavily dislike the man."

"Well, honey, you've got nine hours to learn how to mask it," she says, and I sigh.

"I know!"

"So let's get you ready!"

"What? Now?"

I shouldn't have asked because she immediately drags me away from the kitchen—and the booze—and raids my closet, rating everything on a scale of slutty to oh, honey, please, what were you thinking?

Eventually, she finds my boring clothes, the ones I use for work trips in Cabo and galas in Cannes, and we decide on the best combo for a first date. Since he's taking me to Jean-Paul on Madison Avenue, I don't have much choice but to wear a suit. I hate suits.

Once we're done with wardrobe, we spend the rest of the afternoon looking up stuff about "New York's most eligible gay bachelor," according to Out Magazine, so I can mentally prepare myself for being out with a guy like Keaton.

Not that I don't have practice. I most certainly do, and my acting skills are on Meryl Streep's level—okay, maybe even better, but I don't want to piss off The Streep—but I've never had to sell romance to hundreds of thousands of people. Usually, the opportunity is restricted to the people in whichever room I find myself in. This is a whole different ball game, and I can't help but panic.

"Okay, good luck and be yourself…if yourself was not a drama queen who hates billionaires," Sierra wishes me before I leave and make my way to Madison Avenue.

As soon as I'm anywhere near that part of town, my chest gets tighter and the collar a little too asphyxiating.

It doesn't matter how many times I do this, how much money I've made from fake-dating or simply screwing rich guys, whenever I walk among them, I can't help but feel like an impostor. And something tells me that'll still be the case even with twenty million in my bank account.

I wasn't born with privilege. I haven't been to private school, and I didn't have my life served on a silver platter, evidenced by my chosen profession. Which I love, don't get me wrong, but no rich guy chooses to prostitute his body for money.

The taxi drops me off in front of the egg-white facade of the pricey restaurant and I spot the paparazzi before I spot him.

Great. It's started already.

I do my best to ignore the swarm of cameramen and their bright flashes and walk toward the door where a dashing man over six feet tall with short salt-and-pepper strands fluttering in front of his forehead stands in a black suit with no tie.

Dammit, why am I wearing one? Do I look too formal?

As soon as our eyes cross paths, he smiles, licking his lower lip a touch too discreetly, and my stomach turns in knots.

Okay, I'm not going to lie. He's dashing. How did I never notice? Is it because, up close, I can see the texture of his skin and the crow's feet around his eyes?

Or is it that as he leans over to give me a hug, I smell the strong aroma of sandalwood and patchouli, completely obliterating every rational thought?

There's nothing sexier than a man that smells so earthy and…manly.

"Hey," he says in a low, hoarse voice, sending shivers down my spine.

What is happening to me?

Am I attracted to Keaton Sinclair? Am I attracted to the plastic scum of the earth that's faking his love story?

Agh. Not fun.

"Thanks for coming," he whispers in my ear, and it takes all my strength to nod.

It's not like I have a choice, right? But everything for the cameras, right?

"Not a problem," I say as he places a hand on the small of my back and I audibly gulp.

"You might want to look around and ask me what's happening. I haven't told you who I am yet as far they're concerned."

"Oh," I say, straining to hear him and glance at the paparazzi.

I'm sure my lust and confusion about it have washed all the color from my face, so I don't need to fake surprise or shock, but as I turn to him, I whisper back, "But wouldn't I know who you are as soon as I saw you? Or maybe I've been following you on social."

His face twitches in a hint of a grimace before he offers me a cheeky smile that looks way too good on him, more than it has any right to, and agrees with me.

"Nice to meet you," I say a little louder and give him a kiss on the cheek as we're flooded with flashlights, and I'm flooded with want for the man who, two seconds ago, I called the scum of the earth.

Agh!

He's still smiling when I pull away. He opens the door of the restaurant for me.

He's such a good actor. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's taken by me, but it's all for the story.

"I've booked us something away from the windows so we can enjoy some privacy," he says as the host arrives and greets Keaton Sinclair by name.

"Hmm, is this where you bring all your dates?" I raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles as we follow the host to our table.

"No. But I come here for business meetings. Plus, I'm one of the investors…"

"Ah, say no more."

As if the answer would be that simple with him. Of course he owns this restaurant. He probably owns this street.

Hell, he even owns me.

Well, at least he's pretty to look at.