2. Elle

Some days,I look around and wonder what the heck happened. It's the weekend. A time of week I used to love, but as I sit here, once again without plans, it's a struggle not to reach for a very large sleeping pill and dream the weekend away.

Hit by a random idea, I feel around for my phone and then look up the flight times for England. Maybe it's time to visit my god-awful relatives and take my cousins' lives by storm. It's what I do. Show up, create a whirlwind, and leave again. I used to love the high of spontaneity, but even as I hover over that Book button, I can't bring myself to press it.

I barely know my cousins, and if they're anything like the rest of my family, they'll take one look at me and know I don't belong.

I'm not sure I belong anywhere these days.

My brother is off traveling the country with his darling husband, and my newest friend is all coupled up. I could call one of the other guys, but I haven't bonded with them the way I did with Seven. They're too mentally well-adjusted.

I set my phone down and stare around my apartment. It's all so … white. Boring. Bland. Mother hired an interior decorator who was high on a palette of eggshell and cloud farts, and now there's nothing in my own damn home that looks like what I would have picked for myself.

I get up and cross to my intercom, which goes down to the front desk of the building.

"Yes, Miss Cromwell?"

"I need paint," I explain. "A lot of paint. Fabric paint and some for the walls and maybe a kind of paint that will stick to tile? Oh, and stencils? Or … sponges? Brushes?" I laugh. "I'm not particularly artistic, so send whatever you think I'll need."

There's a long, drawn-out pause. "Of course." I'm about to disconnect when Roger speaks again. "Also, your guest is on the way up."

My stomach violently flips over itself. "Oh."

"Was that all?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you. Bye."

I disconnect and grip my breakfast bar, head going all floaty for a minute. Someone needs to cut me off from internet access after midnight because contacting that agency was the worst decision I've ever made. Which is saying something considering the tattoo I have on my arse.

And now, I'm about to have a strange man walk into my space and take over my life and … the thought actually makes my skin crawl. I don't hate men; in fact, the only friends I ever seem to be able to make are of the masculine variety, but there's something deeply uncomfortable about letting an unknown one into my house.

I don't for a minute think I'm in any kind of danger—I'm rich, and I'm white; other than being female, the world is basically made for me. It's why I feel like such a shit to be so unhappy with my place in it. It's why the guilt strangles me sometimes.

I just … I don't have the energy to date a guy. Even if it's all play pretend.

There's a weirdly hesitant knock on my door that makes me jump a little. This is all completely fine. I've already paid a huge sum of money for the guy; even if my whacked-out plan isn't something I want to go through with, maybe he can help me redecorate? Maybe this is a gift—a very expensive gift—from the universe to help in my time of need?

I plaster a friendly smile on my face and tug open the door.

Then freeze.

The six-foot-five heartbreaker I'd been expecting is … a woman. About my height, a lot of thick dark hair, dull eyes, a body that would take years of surgery for me to obtain, and when her lips tug up in one corner, my gaze immediately catches on it.

"Oh, hello," I say, struggling to get my voice out right. "Are you collecting money for something?"

She chokes on air.

"Are you ill? Do you need some water?"

"I'm fine." She very obviously looks me over. "You're Elle?"

"Who's asking?"

"I'm Margot. Ah … Elite sent me."

"But you're a woman." I gasp and cover my mouth. "Oh my goodness, are you trans? I'm so, so sorry for the assumption. I?—"

A short, sharp laugh bursts from her. "Stop. No. You were right the first time."

"Oh. So …"

"Think I can come in? Probably shouldn't be talking about this out here."

"You're right!" I grab her arm and tug her inside, quickly closing the door behind us both. "I'm sorry. Normally I'm much more polite than this, but I'm struggling to figure out exactly what's happening here."

Margot nods, pacing further into my apartment without an invitation. She stands out against all the white and the brightness streaming from my floor-to-ceiling windows. It's not only her dark hair and tan skin, but she's wearing oversized dark jeans, a dark red tank top, and a black button-up open over it.

"Do you own any clothes in pink?"

"What?"

"It was just a question."

She turns to face me, almost smiling for real this time, and plants her hands on her hips. "I show up, and out of all the questions you could ask me, you want to know if I wear pink?"

I don't answer, just wait for her reply.

I swear she almost rolls her eyes at me. "I … I don't think so? Maybe a band T-shirt or something."

"Of course it's a band T-shirt."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I mean, I wouldn't at all be surprised if you had a leather jacket and bike helmet behind your back. Well, except for the fact it would be basically magic to have concealed it so far."

"We're not all rich with stylists coming out of our ass, Tinkerbell. Maybe you should hold off stereotyping people."

"No. I'm sorry. This is going terribly."

"You think?"

Her dry tone makes me bristle. "Well, you're not exactly making it easy either. Do you even want to be here, or is this all just a payday to you?"

"Work is literally just a payday to anyone. In the real world, at least."

"So your issue is that I have money. Maybe you should take your own advice about stereotyping people."

She runs her eyes slowly over me. "Hmm. You're not what I was expecting."

"Considering I ordered a boyfriend, neither are you."

Margot flops down on my beige couch. "I know you ordered a boyfriend, but I didn't really get the impression you wanted one."

"That's ridiculous."

"You need a friend. I'm starting to understand why."

I glower at her. "Excuse me, but I have a lot of friends."

Margot looks around. "Are you hiding them somewhere?"

"I think you should leave."

"Happy to. You have to pay me either way."

She stands and actually crosses my living room and enters the hall before I find my voice again. "Wait. Please."

"You told me to leave. What do you want here?"

"I …" I don't know. That's my whole problem. Sure, I could probably contact Elite Connections and tell them that they sent the wrong person, but … I don't want that either. I'd been freaking out about them sending a man and instead got some gorgeous, confident, snarky, gorgeous bombshell on my doorstep.

Exactly the kind of woman I actively avoid because they make me too damn self-conscious for my own good.

"I've never had friends who are girls before" is what I end up saying.

She stares, dark eyes assessing. "Maybe that's what you need, then. Practice."

"Okay."

"Great." Margot checks the time on her phone. "Look, I have somewhere to be, but I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. Want me to come back tomorrow?"

I nod quickly, not wanting to say anything to make her change her mind.

"Cool." She turns to leave again, but this time, I scurry after her, trying to keep my words in, but the panic in my chest won't let me.

"You will come back, won't you? You're not just saying that?"

"Yeah. Again, you're paying me."

That doesn't help me feel any better, but she's gone before I can find out more.