CHAPTER TWO
JOSETTE
I THOUGHT I WAS NERVOUS calling The Meat Market to place my “order,” but that was nothing compared to the acid climbing up my throat waiting for my date to arrive.
Date…ha! Can you call it that when you pay for it? And I mean pay for it…a lot.
Filet Mignon seemed like the most prudent choice even though he was by far the most expensive. I chose him specifically because it said he has extensive higher education and can charm even the most difficult crowds.
Please God, let him be able to hold an intelligent conversation with the partners at the party.
Otherwise, I’m royally fucked, underwent all this stress, and spent my money for nothing.
I just need to get through this night.
All I need is one night of them taking me seriously as a partner candidate. The rest, I can figure out later. This will at least show them I’m capable of having a relationship, even if it is fake.
Everyone needs a man, after all.
The eye roll is only seen by me in the mirror, but I can’t stop it. It’s the twenty-first century, and I still need a man to advance in my career. What an absolute dinosaur-size load of shit.
Chill, Josette.
I need to tamp down my anger and annoyance if I want to make a good impression tonight. It’s so damn easy to control my emotions in the courtroom, but anywhere else, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve.
And that won’t fly tonight. We need to be the perfect, happy couple if there’s even a rat’s chance in Hell of convincing the old farts that our “love” is real. I need to play the part perfectly.
A layer of mascara turns my practically clear lashes into long, black, elegant ones. I step back and give myself a final look in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The shimmery black cocktail dress is definitely going to turn some heads tonight. But it’s tasteful, not over the top. And my highlights are perfect platinum thanks to a trip to the salon earlier today.
At least I know I look good tonight. Hopefully, he’s as handsome and charming as Ginger’s boyfriend. Having to spend a night pretending to be a couple with a guy I have zero attraction to or who is a total bore would be pure torture.
The doorbell rings, and I take a deep breath to steady my fraying nerves.
I check the clock. It has to be him. At least he’s prompt. With one last glance at myself in the mirror, I grab my clutch and head toward the front of the house.
For some reason, the walk to the door feels more like I’m walking down death row toward my electrocution than to answer the door to—hopefully—an attractive date.
A look through the peephole doesn’t help much. All I can make out in the dim porch light is a dark head of hair on a very tall man.
Here goes nothing.
My shaking hands smooth down my dress before I throw the door open, and my breath catches in my throat.
Wade Saxon.
You have got to be kidding me.
WADE
If you would have given me a million guesses to figure out who would be opening the door for my date tonight, the last person I would have named is Josette Westmore.
The perky blonde is a damn shark in the courtroom.
I’ve noticed her.
It would be impossible not to, with the way she commands a room and always appears so confident in her sky-high heels and expensive, tailored suits. The woman is an absolute powerhouse, and from what I hear, she pretty much wipes the board in every case she handles. This is a woman who is always in control and always comes out on top.
But right now, she’s anything but confident and in control. If anything, she looks like she’s going to puke. Her alabaster skin is even whiter than normal—something I would never have imagined possible. It only makes the pink flush of embarrassment spreading across her chest and cheeks even more apparent.
Shit. She’s beautiful when she’s flustered.
I wait for her to say something, but the uncomfortable silence just continues to linger between us while we assess the situation analytically, like we are both trained to do. This has to be even worse for her than it is for me.
Traffic whizzes by on the busy street behind me, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
Fucking awkward.
Someone has to say something. It might as well be me, I guess.
“Uh, hi Josette. I didn’t realize…”
How could I have known? She told Jason her name was “Jo.” That could be short for anything. And there’s no way she could have known it would be me. I try to maintain some anonymity by using my middle name, Lewis, when I go on dates.
Still, what are the fucking odds…
One lawyer working as an escort; one lawyer hiring one. This could not be more fucked up.
She finally pulls her jaw up from off the floor and narrows her blue eyes on me.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I concur, counselor.
What else can I do but shrug? Until she tells me to get lost, I’m committed to be her date for the evening, for whatever she wants. She sure as hell paid for it. “I wish I was, Josette.”
Christ, I really, really wish I was.
This could be so horrifically, fucking bad for me. One report to the Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Committee about what I’m doing, and my law license is fucking toast. Even if I argue that there were no sexual activities happening, which would be perjury, just being associated with an escort service is enough to end my career.
Her head shakes from side-to-side, sending her blonde bob swinging just under her chin.
“But…but how? Why?”
She squeezes her eyes closed and pinches the bridge of her nose momentarily. When she returns her gaze to me, the questions still linger in those blue orbs. Keeping her eyes on me seems almost like a physical struggle at this point; they bounce behind me to the street, across to the neighbors, and then down to her feet while she waits for my response.
We would need several hours and a couple bottles of good bourbon before I could fully answer those questions. And it would probably be less painful if she submitted them in interrogatory format so I can just type them out instead of having to verbally answer and relive the last two years of my life.
I look down at my watch—anything to avoid maintaining eye contact with her when she so obviously doesn’t want to look at me.
It’s only been five minutes? I feel like I’ve been standing here for an hour already.
“Do we need to be anywhere? Your instructions said to be here promptly at seven thirty.”
“Shit!” Her head jerks up, and she looks over her shoulder at a clock hanging in the entryway of her condo. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Yeah, we gotta go. We can discuss how fucking awkward this is later.”
Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it, even though that’s the word that’s been rattling around in my head since the moment she opened the door. This is epically, totally, and royally fucked-up.