Page 16 of All of You

Nikki and I reviewed the documents, and she made some suggestions about parameters for the relationship. I had my own running list of questions, plus a few things that should sweeten the deal for him.

Pins and needles, I was nervous. And I hated being nervous. What a tedious feeling. I’d mastered the ability to tamp down on nerves as a teen performing recitals in front of state politicians and whoever else my parents had brought to their compound—because calling it merely a house made it sound even remotely inviting—to woo for one reason or another.

By the time I pulled open the door to find Ben dressed in jeans and a gray jacket zipped halfway up his chest, a T-shirt beneath, my head was pounding, the beginnings of a cold sweat chilling my skin.

“Thank you for coming.” My voice sounded far too somber.

“Thanks for having me,” he said as he looked around the modest entryway.

I was proud of my home—large by any standard, it did not look grotesque like so many celebrity houses. It had a cozy country feel, decorated in natural colors and pale blues.

“Can I take your coat?” I asked, and reached out as he shrugged out of the coat and handed it to me.

“Thank you.”

He was very polite—good manners, nice demeanor and way of interacting. He’d dealt so well with the event last weekend—hadn’t lost his cool or had any issues with the big personalities there. It’d been impressive, and just one more thing that made me like him. And one more thing that made him perfect for this… situation.

“Come into the kitchen, if you would. We’ll have a drink and… talk.” Awkward about how to proceed, I pulled on my business tone. Keeping it straightforward, instead of trying to act like a new friend and essentially an employer, would help.

We walked down the hallway and into the kitchen.

I loved my kitchen. White cabinets, white and gray marble countertops, but nicely worn wood floors to warm it up. An island with stools people could pull up and chat while dinner was cooking took up the center of the space. I cooked a bit for myself, though it wasn’t my forte when entertaining. I liked to invite friends who could cook and then enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Nikki looked up from her laptop where she sat at one side of the bar. “Hello, Lieutenant Holder.”

“Please call me Ben.”

He stopped next to me as I pulled out a stool for him. We went through the ritual of asking what drinks he wanted (water) and making small talk for a few minutes (yes, it had been a chilly day), when finally, Nikki was ready for business.

She slid a folder across the countertop toward him. He sat on one side of the bar, Nikki and I facing him on the other side, the seats next to him and on either end empty. Something about her sliding that folder made it feel a little sordid.

“This is the confidentiality agreement. What it says is that you will not discuss anything about this contract. You will proceed as though you are really dating Whit, and you will not tell anyone the true nature of your relationship. You will in no way insinuate that you were compensated in any way, nor will you distribute or sell any information to news outlets, photographers, etc. for your own profit.” Nikki paused.

Ben had opened the folder to flip through pages, intermittently looking up to assure her he was listening. When she stopped, he turned his attention back to us.

“At whatever point you and Whit determine to dissolve the relationship, the confidentiality clause will still be in effect.”

Ben nodded as she folded her hands.

“How about you read through all of that, and we’ll answer any questions you have.”

His focus moved over each document, and he stretched his neck from side to side every now and then like it was sore. Nikki received a call and excused herself from the room just as Ben finished his read-through.

“How long are you thinking?” he asked, his voice and face neutral.

“A minimum of six months. It’s October now, and I’d need to make sure the relationship has a duration long enough to make a positive impression. There are several events at which, whether or not you appear with me, I would want to refer to you as my significant other.”

His brow quirked. “Is that how you’ll refer to me?”

“No. Probably not.”

He smiled. Just this unabashed, happy smile. I didn’t know what to do with him.

“What?” It bewildered me how he could be smiling when we were in this awkward situation of trying to work out details of our fake relationship.

“You’re intense. It seems like you feel guilty about this. Is there something I’m missing?” He leaned on his forearms and clasped his hands together.

He was certainly straightforward, and it wasn’t a bad thing. Or, at least, I didn’t think it was. But I fidgeted on the stool, wondering whether I could be as honest with him as he was with me. In the end, I had to be.

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