Page 12 of Matched with Her Fake Fiance

“Please, it’s Dani. And it’s not the same company, Sharon,” I say, doing everything I can to keep my tone light and fluffy. I’ve already had an incident with her this week and I don’t need her to think I’m being stubborn. “I wrote down here that I shouldn’t use That’s a Toast Catering and the company I’ve contracted for the mixer is Taste & Fun Catering.” Both names are lame, but I know they are different because I’ve checked. And the notes I have from talking with Sharon are triple underlined. I didn’t forget.

Silence takes over and only the sound of her heavy breathing echoes through the phone.

“Okay, I’m going over the guest list. We’re going to need a better draw, Danielle. We need a multi-millionaire or someone who can help us attract more alumni to these kinds of things.”

I pause a moment, shaking off her use of my first name. Her words sink in. “I thought this function was to give other alumni a chance to connect.” I had pictured a casual evening with people chatting about their businesses, not a New York fashion show with money falling from the sky. Not that I’d ever seen that.

“Correct. But the ones you’ve got on the list already are lower-level. We need someone who can make a splash.” Papers shuffle and she says, “I’ll send you a list of potential alumni you’ll need to start calling. We need this function to go well so they’ll start donating to the university.”

Ahh, there it is. The real reason she’s putting so much pressure on me for this. Half of me wants to just hang up the phone and let her deal with it. I hate being micromanaged and that’s pretty much what’s been happening since I started a couple weeks ago. Let me do my job, and if I fail, I’ll own up to it.

“Will do. Send me the list and I’ll get started.” Once I end the call, I let out a soft cry, knowing I can’t full out scream my frustrations or I’ll wake up the rest of the house.

I pack up one of my notebooks and my laptop, opting to continue working out on the back porch. At least I can pretend my Sunday morning will be full of adventure if I’m not staring at four walls.

I’ve got two weeks until the mixer, and I’ve got to get on top of the details before Sharon runs away with them.

“You look like you’ve been run over by a train,” Millie says from the kitchen table as I make my way through the kitchen.

“I feel it. You don’t have to work today?”

Millie shakes her head. “No, the kids are in Maine with their grandparents. Now I just need to figure out what to do.”

“You could always go on a walking tour of Boston. Or you could be amazing and help me call wealthy men. And women.” There’s got to be women on the list. Sharon better not be discriminating based on gender. I take in a deep breath, hoping it will soothe my irritation.

“I think I’ll pass on that, thanks,” Millie says, taking another bite of cereal.

“Your loss. I mean, who doesn’t want to have people hang up on them all day today?” My laugh is almost a plea for help.

I head out to the swing and set up, my phone charged and ready for several phone calls.

Sharon’s email is stuck in the Spam folder and the email below it catches my eye. It’s from Love, Austen.

Curiosity kills me and I click on it, wondering if they’ve sent official results of my matches or whatnot. Maybe if I find someone I’m actually matched with, instead of the guys claiming we’ve been matched, that would be a step in the right direction.

Guy: Again, I apologize for last night.

It’s always so different to read tone into words on a screen, but everything about the message makes me think it might be another guy.

But maybe that’s the draw. He seems like a punk, strikes out, and then pretends to be someone completely different when his ship is sinking.

I hover the cursor over the button to delete and decide against it at the moment. Instead, I highlight the email from Sharon and the message from Love, Austen and drag them to my inbox.

But I don’t have time to dwell on the message, so I open the spreadsheet, grateful someone had thought to include phone numbers. That will make it a lot easier to get the calls in.

After ten minutes, I’ve called fifteen people and only spoken to two, the rest heading to voicemail. The beauty of the cold call.

I’m onto the C’s now and a quick scroll through the rest of the document tells me this will be a few days’ worth of calls. Why did I want the job I have again? Because the idea of putting together parties and getting paid for it while helping build a college booster club sounded perfect for a communications major.

I move my finger to the screen, reading Miles Clark and then drag it over to the phone number. Dialing, I hope I get a response.

“Hey, I’m glad you called back so soon,” a deep voice says on the other end.

I pull my phone away from my ear to check the number. It’s not one I recognize and with all that’s been happening lately, my brain remembers nothing.

With the phone back next to my ear, I say, “Sorry? This is Dani Higgins with Boston University. I’m calling about—”

“So you got my message then? Are you free to meet this afternoon?”

---