Page 2 of If the Suit Fits
People who care more about their fake reputation than they do about their own daughter.
“I should’ve bailed when the invitations first went out.” Dread is a living, breathing, aching ball in the base of my stomach that grows heavier the closer we come to April twenty-fifth. Because I’m the millennial, people-pleasing, boundary-lacking nerd raised by parents who, as already established, value societal expectations overliterallyanything else. “But it’s too late now, Anna. The bridal party is set, and the dresses have been ordered. Karla has already planned the dances and thewalking down the aisleorder. The speeches and wedding favors and all that stuff… it’s done! It’s too late for me to bow out. And despite how hard you’ve tried over the last six months, I’m yet to meet a man the traditional way. The best we’ve landed is a new friend in the ladies’ bathroom inside Club Slate that one time.”
“We’ve met men,” she moans. “You just weren’t interested.”
“I blame 90s Rom-Coms for how unprepared I was for dating in this day and age. We were being groomed to expect perpetual man-sluts. The ‘tap it and run’ and the ‘never gonna call her again’ player. But in the real world, intoday’sworld,” I emphasize. “They all want to marry up! Commitment. Let’s go on vacation together. Let’s talkallllllthe time.”
“God forbid a mannotbe a total whore with commitment issues. Oh wait,” she sneers, “that’s you.”
“I actuallylikenot sharing my home with someone who creates more work and stress than he does peace. And now that Iknow what it’s like to be an adult andnotin a relationship, I’ve decided I prefer this. I won’t apologize for that.”
“No.” She cocks her hip and casts a judgmental look toward my laptop. “But you’ll put aHelp Wantedad in the newspaper and flit around for a week with your fake boyfriend. All for the tidy sum of two thousand bucks and zero ‘next weeks’. That’s where we’re at now, Mel? Seriously?”
“It’s where we’re at.” Resolute, I lift my chin and stare into my best friend’s eyes. “Because then it’s a business transaction. No sex. No feelings. No drama. I get a handsome date, I survive this stupid wedding withsomeof my dignity intact, and in the end, Nicolas takes his money and never bothers me again.”
“Nicolas.” She firms her lips into unforgiving lines. “You’ve decided?”
“Well, I’m not calling Reginald the Foot Fetish guy.” I sweep my laptop up once more. “Nicolas seems nice, and he could do with the cash, I guess. It’s business.” I nibble on the corner of my lip and glance up. “It’s win-win.”
“Until you end up on the seven o’clock news. Your headstone will read:Here lies Melanie Hamilton. Twenty-nine-year-old architect. Friend, sister, daughter, and wannabe slut. She held onto her naivety with the strength of a thousand overweight toddlers screaming to keep their Halloween candy.”
“Colorful.” I drop back onto my couch, the cushionsharrumphingfrom my shifting weight, and set my feet on the coffee table so my legs can become a laptop platform. I ignore Reginald, and Kyle, andCord, and a man who looks horrifyingly like if Elvis Presley and Hugh Grant had a child. Instead, I focus on Nicolas, his dark eyes that somehow bounce off the screen and stare straight into my soul. His heavy brow andlong lashes. He was genetically gifted with lips millions would pay for and cheekbones others wish they had.
He’ll do. He has to, because the others seem far more likely to chop me up and put me in a stew.
Please, God. Don’t let him kill me. Anna’s ego is already big enough.
TWO
NICK
Istep out of the pouring rain and into The Coffee Bean, a little café on the corner of a trendy, upscale neighborhood where all the ‘I was born in the eighties’ broke folks moved to, back when properties were cheap, and jobs paid a livable wage.
Neither is true now. But those lucky enough to jump in before prices went nuts are now asset-rich and insanely stupid if they leave. But then again, their loss is my gain, and I’m not gonna stand on a street corner with a sign begging them to hold on to their property.
I drag my hat off and shake it at the door, raindrops hitting the glass pane with a splatter that’ll annoy the poor girl tasked with cleaning it later. Then I peel my jacket off because the humidity today is like sitting in a fuckin’ sauna.
I never liked those things.
With Melanie’s last text fresh in my inbox, and her ‘I’ll be sitting by the far wall. Light brown hair just past my shoulders. Reddress,’ in my mind. I cast my gaze around the room and find her in an instant.
Hell, I found her before I even stepped inside.
But what she doesn’t know, I feel no need to divulge.
Squeezing the brim of my hat and tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans, I catch her wary observation—of course, she’s watching the door every time the bell above jingles—and showing her a friendly smile, I drop my eyes and start in her direction.
She’s pretty, I’ll give her that. With bright blue eyes too large for her face and glistening red lips to match her dress, she’s a spotlight in an otherwise dull room.
She could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’s nervous, too. Her fidgeting hands. Her bouncing knee. Her dress, sliding along her thigh, though she doesn’t realize I can see since, to her, it’s covered by the table.
She swallows, the movement of her throat a visible, noticeable thing that softens the edges of my mood as I cross the café and come to a stop beside the chair opposite hers.
Do I speak first?
Introduce myself?
She’s the boss. She’s the one with the money, so maybe I let her take the lead?
