Three weeks later, and I’m still waiting for my luck to change.

“So,” I say brightly, smiling across my living room, “Alicia. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

Alicia looks like I just asked her to explain string theory. She’s my third potential-roommate interview of the day, a Craigslist find with limp blonde hair and a moon-shaped face, wide-leg corduroys riding up over her Birkenstock clogs. She looks like she just got off the bus from Des Moines. The bad part of town.

“Well,” she begins. “I’m studying seventeenth-century American horticulture at Columbia.”

Of course she is. I force myself to listen while she tells me about her antique teapot collection, nodding in all the right places and silently cursing my old roommate Hallie for moving in with her dreamy boyfriend back in the spring. I’ve loved having the apartment to myself the last few months—who wouldn’t love sitting around in their underwear binge-watching The Great British Baking Show?—but my checking account is starting to groan under the pressure. And it’s not like the job offers are rolling in: after Penisgate, I sent my resume off to what seems like every Big Law Firm in New York (and a bunch of teeny-tiny firms too) and hoofed it to about a thousand networking events, but my phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook.

In fact, it’s more the “your line has been disconnected” kind of thing.

“I wouldn’t be here very often,” Alicia finishes finally. “My boyfriend lives upstate, so I go to visit him most weekends.”

“Oh,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Nice. Where is he, the Hudson Valley? Catskills?”

“Sing Sing,” Alicia says pleasantly, like she’s talking about a picturesque vacation town and not one of New York State’s most notorious maximum-security prisons. “We met through a pen pal program.” She smiles. “He’s serving twenty-five years for a triple homicide, but he was framed. He’s innocent, of course.”

“Of course,” I echo faintly. “Well, thanks for coming by. I’ll call you!”

I show her out, locking the deadbolt behind her and banging my head lightly against the door. The worst part is, she’s one of the better candidates I’ve interviewed. Yesterday I met with a middle-aged accountant who had three ferrets as pets, and an IT bro at a startup who asked if I’d mind if his improv troupe rehearsed in the living room on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And they were both worlds better than the guy who measured the closet and asked if the electric in this building could accommodate the wattage of a deep freezer. Because he liked plenty of storage space.

There’s nothing for it but to put on my sweats (even though it’s two o’clock in the afternoon) and settle in for a good long wallow.

I look around my apartment with a sigh. Could I bear to give it up? I’ve been burning through my savings covering all the rent, but every time I think about moving someplace cheaper, I want to cry. I love this apartment—the carefully preserved tin ceilings, the inlaid hardwood floors, even my cranky next-door neighbor Mrs. Comparato, who’s lived in this building since 1962 and is forever complaining loudly about my heels on the floor—but the sad truth is that unless something major changes ASAP, I’m not going to be able to stay.

I wander into the tiny kitchen and peer into my mostly empty refrigerator, trying to figure out if I’m desperate enough to drown my sorrows in the half bottle of Midori left over from a party Hallie and I threw last Halloween, or if a schlep to Trader Joe’s is in order. Do I want to get hammered on bad cocktails or two-buck chuck? The modern woman’s dilemma. I’m considering a compromise trip to the bodega around the corner when my phone rings, the screen displaying a New York number I don’t recognize.

“Jules Robinson,” I answer, trying to sound as professional as possible. Please be an interview. Please be an interview!

“Jules,” says a woman’s warm, smooth voice. “It’s Olivia Danvers.”

“Oh!” I say, my heart sinking. “Hi.”

I met Olivia through Hallie last spring: she runs a high-end dating service for wealthy clients who need someone to take to weddings and business events, that kind of thing. “So, escorts?” I asked, the first time Hallie explained it to me. She insisted it wasn’t like that—and, to my surprise, it actually wasn’t. In fact, that dreamy boyfriend Hallie left to go live with? The same publishing heir who hired her to be his date to his grandfather’s birthday.

Olivia and I exchange pleasantries for a moment before she explains why she’s calling: “I’m sure you’re busy, but is there any way I could get you into my office this afternoon?” she asks. “I’m sorry for the short notice—I’ve got some urgent business, and I think you might be able to help.”

“Sure thing,” I reply. I can only imagine what kind of demented legal problems Olivia bumps up against in her line of work. Besides, there’s literally nothing on my calendar for the rest of the afternoon besides watching a gaggle of good-natured Brits perfect their Victoria sponges.

I glance down at my grubby sweatpants and NYU Law tee. “Give me an hour? I can be uptown by three.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Jules.”

I rush into the bedroom and change. I know some women hate business-casual, but for me, a good suit always feels like my superhero costume: ready for anything. And pulling on a chic little black pencil skirt and silk blouse, it feels like a little piece of my old self is clicking back into place. So what if this is just a quick consult for a friend? I haven’t been out of elasticated waistbands all week, so I add a fierce pair of raspberry-pink suede heels and a vintage scarf I picked up in Soho before heading for the subway. Look out, legal problems: here I come!

---

Olivia’s office is in a chic brownstone on the Upper East Side, all plush antique carpets and tasteful stained-glass lighting fixtures. I climb the polished wood staircase to the third floor, where a pretty assistant in a neat black dress promises me Olivia will be right out. “Can I get you anything?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks.” I take a seat on the buttery brown chesterfield sofa to wait, startling a bit as I catch a scruffy-looking cat eyeing me from the top of a filing cabinet.

“Here, pussy,” I beckon, but it just gives me a haughty look and stays put.

After a few minutes, a door at one end of the lobby opens. “Jules,” Olivia says warmly, stepping out of her office. She’s as elegant as a Hitchcock blonde in a sleek-looking pencil skirt and navy-blue silk blouse. “Thanks so much for coming in.”

She leads me into her office, a cozy, light-filled space outfitted with a fireplace and a well-loved antique desk, a fiddle-leaf fig soaking up the spring sunshine beside the window. “How have you been?” she asks, pouring me some tea from the china set on the table. “We didn’t get to chat much at Hallie’s engagement party.”

“No, I wasn’t there long. I got called back to the office on a case,” I tell her, remembering that particular last-minute drama. “But I should let you know I’m between jobs right now. But I can definitely freelance on whatever you need,” I add quickly. “I’m in good standing with the New York State Bar and I’m covered by malpractice insurance, so I’m all yours!”

Olivia looks surprised. Then she smiles. “I didn’t call you for legal advice, Jules.”

I blink. “You didn’t?”

She shakes her head. “Hallie mentioned your . . . troubles at your last job,” she tells me, “and I’ve got a last-minute assignment I thought you might be interested in.”

“An assignment?” I repeat. Then the penny drops. “You mean, like . . . ?”

“I’ve got a client in Boston,” Olivia explains, sliding a folder embossed with the agency’s logo across the wide desk. “He’s the CEO of McAdams Automotive.”

“The race-car company?”

“You know it, then.” Olivia nods with satisfaction. “That’s good. The client is Caleb McAdams. He’s the legal guardian of his godchildren, a seven-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl. Their parents passed away in a car accident a few months ago. He was out of the country at the time, so their aunt moved into the family home to take care of them, but, well, she’s refusing to leave. She’s suing for full custody, and it’s turned into a whole mess.”

“So he needs a lawyer?” I ask, frowning. I don’t want to talk myself out of a job, but my background is in corporate law, which is a world away from family courts and custody.

“No, he has lawyers.” Olivia smiles. “What he needs is a wife.”

I spit my tea out in surprise.

“Shit. Sorry.”

Olivia already has a napkin out, dabbing the mess, and I’m comforted by the fact she’s probably seen a few spit-takes in this office. “A wife?” I repeat, hoping I heard her wrong.

“Caleb is a playboy,” Olivia explains, “or at least, he used to be. He grew up on the Formula One racing circuit. Fast cars, extravagant parties, pretty girls . . . you get the picture.” Olivia sits down again. “He’s grown up now and cleaned up his act, but his reputation is still pretty wild. He’s worried that the other side will try and use it against him in the custody hearing, and he needs to show he can be a stable parent for these kids. Which is where you come in.”

“Pretending to be a stable family?” I frown. “I don’t know about that. Is it actually in the best interest of these kids to live with this guy?”

“Their parents thought so,” she points out. “They’re the ones who made him guardian. He’s just trying to make sure their wishes are kept.”

OK, maybe she has a point there. I pause, thinking it over despite myself.

“There’s another thing,” Olivia continues, “according to the will, whoever raises the children also takes control of the family’s multi-million dollar estate. Caleb says this aunt barely paid the kids attention until she found out about the money.”

“And now she’s running for relative of the year?”

“Exactly.” Olivia smiles. “You have experience with kids, don’t you? Hallie mentioned you came from a big family.”

“Three brothers and sisters, seven nieces and nephews,” I admit before I can think better of it. “I can sing Moana with the best of them.”

“I have no idea what that is, but I trust you.” Olivia slides a file across the desk to me. “Here’s the contract outlining the Agency’s policies and procedures, along with the compensation package. I’d love to give you more time to think it over, but like I said, this is all very last-minute.”

“How last-minute?” I ask, already flipping through.

“The first hearing is tomorrow afternoon in Boston, so I need an answer tonight.”

“Oh.”

God, I’m not actually considering saying yes to this, am I? Of course I’m not. Still, I take a peek at the bottom line, just out of curiosity.

It’s a good thing I don’t have a refill, because I would be spit-taking all over again.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” I read faintly, not sure there isn’t a typo.

“Along with any travel and wardrobe necessities, of course.”

“Of course.” I try to keep my face neutral.

“So,” Olivia says. “What do you think? If you agree to the assignment, we can get you on the early train tomorrow morning, so you’ll have time to get acquainted with Caleb before you go to court.”

I hesitate, glancing from the paperwork to Olivia and back again. I never thought I’d be tempted by something like this, but wasn’t I just telling Kelly how boring and predictable my life has been?

Besides, it’s not just about the money. There are two kids’ futures on the line, and after spending the past few years grinding away so a few corporate bigwigs can buy out some other corporate bigwigs, I kind of like the idea of doing something good.

What the hell.

I take a deep breath, set the folder back on the desktop. “Where do I sign?”

---

Which is how I wind up in a business-class seat on the train to Boston the following morning, watching the Northeast Corridor hurtle by outside the grimy window. I’m twisting the fake diamond engagement ring Olivia gave me—“Fake engagement, real diamond,” she promised—around on my finger when my phone pings with a text: Hey, it’s Caleb McAdams. Hearing time got bumped forward, so I’ll send a car and you can just come straight to the courthouse when you get off the train.

I swallow, wondering for the millionth time in the last twelve hours what exactly I’m getting myself into. Olivia’s file didn’t include a picture, and despite my above-average skills as an internet detective, Google didn’t deliver anything where he wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a racing helmet. I wonder if he’s hiding some kind of gruesome facial tattoos or a botched nose job. Not that it matters. After all, this is a business transaction, and after Penisgate, I’m not looking to get up close and personal with any more co-workers’ junk.

No problem, I text back, my thumb moving quickly over the keypad. See you soon.

There’s a black SUV waiting at the station, just like Caleb promised; the driver loads my suitcases into the trunk, then weaves expertly through city traffic without—thankfully—asking a single question about what I’m doing in Boston. I can feel my heart pulsing in my throat. There’s a part of me that still can’t believe I’m doing this, but it’s too late to turn back now.

The driver slows to a stop right in front of the courthouse, setting my bags on the sidewalk and washing me luck. “Thanks,” I say with a watery smile, then take a deep breath and climb the wide marble steps. Inside, I navigate to the right courtroom. McAdams vs. DuPuis. There’s a cluster of women standing in the hallway outside the judge’s chamber, and only one man among them. He looks about the right age, and he’s short, with a receding hairline and a tweed jacket.

I pause. It could be Caleb McAdams . . . or it could be the lawyer for the opposing side, who might be pretty interested if Caleb’s supposed fiancée greets him with a hug. One wrong move and I could blow this whole job before it even starts.

Shit, what do I do now?

I pull out my phone and quickly send another text. I’m here. Brunette, navy jacket.

The man doesn’t check his phone, but a voice comes from behind me.

“Jules?”

I turn—and freeze. The man striding towards me definitely doesn’t have a receding hairline: he’s tall and broad-shouldered in a designer suit, with smiling blue eyes and a full, tempting mouth.

Wait. I know that mouth. And I know that person.

Like, in the biblical sense.

Because Caleb McAdams, CEO of McAdams Automotive—and my brand new fake fiancé—is actually . . .

“Cal?”

He stops dead. For one horrifying second, I can’t decide if it’ll be worse if he remembers me or if he doesn’t, but even from this far down the hall his expression is full of recognition. “Holy shit,” he says, arriving in front of me. “It’s you.”