Page 18 of Pretend for Me

“Yes,” he croaks under my touch, his eyes hooded as an electric current sizzles between us.

“Good.” I smile, feeling victorious as I drop my hand.

“So you accept my proposal, then?”

His voice is smoky and smooth like aged whiskey, and with the way his closeness stirs something deep inside me, I want to say yes; I want to be swept up in his plans, even if they’re fake and temporary. But I pull away, my body wailing at the loss of contact with his warm and solid chest.

“Listen, Dev . . . can I call you Dev?” I cock my head.

I swear his blink takes longer than a slow-motion replay of a snail’s race. “You’ve had no qualms about it before.”

“Huh. I could have sworn we were into the whole ‘Mr. Menon, Ms. Piper’ exchange that always makes conversations more sexually charged. Not that there’s anything sexually charged between us,” I assert, “because I’m more like an atom bomb in terms of the type of charge I emit, while you’re clearly a double-A battery.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans, his lips twitching.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” I press on, undeterred by thetiny dimple I just saw make its debut on his left cheek, and getting back to the more serious issue at hand. “I can imagine how heartbroken you must be about your mother. Given the fact that you’re actually considering marrying someone so your mom can be at your wedding, I can tell you really love her. And I truly am sorry that you and your family are going through this, but I can’t be a part of it. Not only am I a terrible liar and could never pull off something like this, but I also don’t feel right deceiving someone, even for their dying wish.”

His shoulders tense again. “And you feel right about being in a position to help but won’t, even when it’s temporary?”

I place my hands on my hips. “Maybe I’m not the helpful type. As you rightly pointed out, we’re virtual strangers. How much do you know about me, anyway? What if I’m a terrible person?”

“Your hairless cats would beg to differ. You rescued them from a pretty shitty situation.”

As if summoned by the devil himself, Vajayjay saunters into the room just as Joshua swings my door open to tell me my next appointment is waiting in the lobby.

My cat meows cheerily at the sight of her favorite human—no, not me—zigzagging between his legs and rubbing her neck against his ankle, the little ho she is. It’s as if she’s eavesdropped on our entire conversation, her rounded eyes practically begging me to reconsider.

I watch Dev take her in. He sees it, too—her blatant pleading—and given that he’s likely the most shrewd businessman to grace this salon, I know before he even says it that he’ll sway me with his next words, even if he does give me a nickname I’m going to loathe.

“Say yes, Peter. It’s clear your pussy really wants to.”

eight

piper

A Micropenis Will Not Do

“Good God, woman, what kind of crack did you put in this?” I moan, shoveling another forkful of the risotto Sarina made into my mouth. “It’s heavenly.”

Sarina, Nisha, and I are cozied up on the couch in my family room, devouring our meals during our bi-weekly girl’s night on Saturday. Well, I’m the only one ‘devouring,’ wolfing down the delicious tomato stuffed with peas and bacon risotto like I’m in a race, while my best friends nibble at it demurely like the cultured civilians they are.

Even after I moved into my own place, we wanted to keep our tradition alive. Rome, Sarina’s six-year-old son and my honorary nephew, usually brightens our girl’s nights with his infectious energy. However, his dad, Sarina’s ex, took him to the new space museum and wanted to keep him for the weekend. So it just feels quieter tonight, given the pint-sized, space-loving genius isn’t here. I swear, his encyclopedic knowledge could put even the most well-read adults to shame. God, I miss the kid.

Since my move, we’ve rotated hosting duties, with each of us bringing something to the table, literally. And given our one and only rule, that it has to be homemade, and my trackrecord for burning water, I’ve graciously taken the role of mixologist, in charge of the cocktails while Sarina and Nisha supply dinner and dessert.

With what I need to tell them today, I may or may not have used a heavier pour of vodka.

“Thanks,” Sarina says, reaching for her cocktail glass before taking a healthy sip. “And damn, you’re getting really good at making these!” She turns the glass in her hand, looking at the purple liquid with renewed approval. “What is it?”

“It’s called a lavender-blueberry spritzer,” I answer, reaching for my glass. I shrug, keeping my frown hidden. “I figure, if this hairdressing thing doesn’t work out, I might have a future as a bartender.”

Sitting across from me, Nisha places her half-eaten plate on the table before folding her feet under her on the couch. “Babe, you can’t beat yourself up about what happened anymore. It was a mistake?—”

“Yeah, a mistake that’s now costing me more than I ever bargained for,” I mumble under my breath, though not low enough to go unnoticed by my friends.

“What do you mean?” Sarina asks, her brows knotting as she chews. “I thought everything got smoothed over and he forgave you.”

I let out a resigned sigh, mentally preparing for the conversation I’ve managed to dodge all week. It’s not that I was purposely avoiding it—okay, maybe just a little—but between our hectic schedules at the salon and our busy personal lives, there hasn’t been a free moment to sit and chat.

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