Page 4 of Love is Fake

“Oh, man,” I groan aloud. Could this day get any worse?

And I should really know by now the answer to that question is ‘yes, it really can’.

I reach for my phone to call Kiara to give her the heads up about what happened so she can call ahead and grovel to the client but – of course – I have no cell service.

“For Chrissakes!” I grumble to myself. At least I’m only a few miles away. With any luck, the client will be running late too – these VIP types always keep their minions waiting around for them. It’s one of the reasons Kiara can charge them such exorbitant prices.

The nice British GPS lady informs me there’s only a mile to my destination and I tell myself to get my shit together. Fake it ‘til you make it, I remind myself, before pulling up to a set of gates that probably cost more than my apartment.

“Here we go,” I mumble, bracing myself, before buzzing the intercom.

“Trade entrance is round the back,” the disembodied voice grunts before I’ve even said anything. I peek at the camera which has obviously clocked my crappy car and lack of celebrity status.

Trade entrance. Of course, who doesn’t have a trade entrance?

I follow the signs, directing me along the perimeter of what looks like a massive property until I get to a decidedly less-impressive set of gates where I’m buzzed in immediately. I try not to be freaked out over the cameras that appear to be tracking my every move. This is definitely something I’m sure there will be no getting used to.

At a slower pace, now, I continue through the property. The house itself is imposing and super modern, but it’s the garden that catches my attention, it’s lush and green and looks a little magical in the dusky Spring light.

I slow down as a guy dressed head to toe in black and looking more like a Navy Seal than a bodyguard holds up a hand for me to stop. I roll down my window, smiling winningly at the huge man.

“You’re the PT?” he asks in a Southern accent I’m surprised to hear. He sounds more New Orleans than Alabama, but still, it makes me a little homesick.

“That’s right,” I nod, striving for the confident, competent look.

The guard doesn’t look impressed as he mutters something into the earpiece he’s wearing. “ID?”

I nod, hurriedly handing over my ID card for the clinic. He peruses it before pausing as he listens to something that’s being said to him. Something I can’t hear.

“Go on through, you can park down there, and someone will show you in.” He hands me back my ID and I nod to him in thanks, catching the way his eyes go to the trashed bonnet of the rental.

“That happen recently?” He quirks an eyebrow.

I huff a laugh. “Yeah, like a half hour ago.”

The guard gives me a sharp look, his eyes scanning my face. “Are you alright?”

His genuine concern, so different from Lennox Asshole Gray’s reaction, is so comforting it makes me feel a tad emotional. I shake my head a little to pull myself together. Okay, so I may have a little latent shock from the accident, but now is not the time to lose it.

“I’m fine, thanks, although I’m not looking forward to the argument with the rental company,” I joke.

“I can imagine.” His features soften as he gives me a slight smile, his eyes warming, and I feel myself blushing although God knows why.

“Hey, any chance you can tell me who I’m going to find inside?” I ask on impulse. Forewarned is forearmed and all that…

He frowns in confusion. “You don’t know who lives here?”

Sure, when he says it out loud, it sounds weird.

I shake my head. “Confidentiality and all that,” I gesture vaguely.

“Right.” The guard rocks back on his heels a little, looking conflicted before he stills completely, listening to something through his earpiece and then sending me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, ma’am, they’re waiting for you.”

Great. The one time I’m late and they’re freakin’ on time. I just about resist the urge to face-palm in view of the security guard and follow his directions to park in front of a bored-looking man in board shorts and a vintage Nirvana shirt.

Is this the welcoming committee or my client?

I scramble out of the car as fast as I can, half-tripping as my foot gets tangled in the seatbelt, because that’s how I roll.

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