He’s true to his word. The car is waiting outside my building at eight-forty-five the next morning.

I wish I had chosen a better time for him to arrive. Pre-dawn, maybe. I could’ve made the sacrifice if it meant avoiding the nosy gazes of my neighbors as they left for work, or came back from dropping their kids off at school. Not that Red Bank is a dump. Well, I guess, it is compared to Brock’s penthouse, obviously, but not in general. Even so, nobody expects to see a limousine parked at the curb of a converted three-story house with a chain-link fence separating the side yard from the sidewalk.

There are a few whistles in the air as I hurry out to the porch, struggling to get my wheeled luggage down the uneven, wood planked steps.

Tom gets out, wearing a dark blue suit and hurries over to me. “Let me help you with that, Miss Saber.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Actually, I nearly told him I can manage, but I remember just in time that I’d better get used to treatment like this if I expect to be believable as the fiancée of a man like Brock. He wouldn’t pick just anybody off the street. His girl would have to be sophisticated, sharp, worldly.

Well, I’m none of those things. I’m barely removed from the days of wearing ill-fitting, grease-stinking clothes from the Goodwill. There are certain formative experiences which never wash away. That’s one of them. I carry it around with me like a badge, but not of honor. Of shame, more like. I still get the feeling sometimes that people are watching me, judging me. The way they’re watching as I climb into the back seat of the limo. But I can pretend. And I can pretend good.

Now that I’m on the other side of the tinted glass, I turn to look at my neighbors.

Mrs. Morgan is smoking one of her day’s many cigarettes. The old mason jar which she converted to an ashtray sits on the wooden railing, waiting to be crammed with hundreds of butts. She ashes over the side, onto the plastic flowers. The only things she can manage to keep alive.

Her porch adjoins Mrs. Weaver’s, and the two of them are muttering to each other over the bannister which separates them as Mrs. Morgan gestures to Brock’s car with her cigarette.

They just happen to be the only two outside at the moment. There are others watching from inside their homes, pulling back faded curtains to get a look at what that strange, reclusive, dark-haired girl is up to. I can just imagine what they’re thinking and saying in their thick North Jersey accents.

Is she some sorta big shot or somethin’?

Who does she think she is?

Who’s she friends with?

Must be nice...

“Are you ready, Miss Saber?”

I realize the driver is speaking to me and smile gratefully. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

He grins at me and at that moment I decide to forget my gossiping neighbors. They’re nothing. They can only make me feel as small as I allow them to make me feel. One of the many self-help mantras I’ve mastered over the years of trying to get past my troubled youth.

It comes back to me in moments like this. Even sitting in this sleek, ultra-comfortable car with its buttery leather and a minibar inside. I can’t help but go right back to being that poor little girl everyone laughed at again. I remind myself that she’s in the past. Just a page in my history, and I’m stronger as a result of what she had to go through. Even so, I hate it when people stare at me.

Penelope’s advice rings in my head. Have fun.

She’s so right. When will I ever have the chance to do something like this again? I’m going to live the life of a glamorous, wealthy woman, and pretend to be the fiancée of a gorgeous billionaire. I don’t know who his ex is, but holy cow, she must be something else not to keep him. I’m going to make the most of it, and that means no more negativity. Brock won’t want to hear about it, and he’s the one paying me to pretend with him. I’m going to turn this experience into the best vacation ever.

First though, there’s something I just have to know. “Excuse me?” I call out to the driver.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Oh, you can call me Dani.” I scoot forward until I’m seated just behind him, since I can’t imagine shouting throughout the ride even if it’s a short one. “I have a crazy question for you.”

“What can I help you with?” He’s middle-aged, maybe late forties, with kind eyes.

I feel like I can trust him. “How long have you been driving for Brock?”

“Mr. Garret?”

Oh, right. His last name. I didn’t think to ask for it. I have to be smarter.

“I suppose it’s been nearly three years now.”

“Have you picked up a lot of different girls in this car?”

I see him blanche in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your boss. We’re not romantically involved or anything like that. I don’t even care outside of wondering where I fit in here. Does he do this sort of thing often?”

“Send me out to Red Bank to pick up a charming young woman?”

I roll my eyes, but can’t help giggling.

“No. He does not.”

“You mean that? Like I said, I won’t rat you out or anything like that. I just want to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Scout’s honor.” He grimaces a little, like he doesn’t know whether or not he should share the next bit of info.

“Go on,” I encourage.

“It’s not as though he’s a saint. He has his girlfriends, of course, but they’re nothing like you. They’re usually a bit…uppity, if you know what I mean.” He lifts his nose to demonstrate.

I laugh.

“And he’s certainly never invited a young lady to move in with him for any length of time.” He meets my eyes in the rear view. “You have a suitcase. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

My cheeks go red. “It’s not like—”

“It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me,” he says with a shrug. “You’re pleasant company.”

“Thank you, Tom. For the record, Mr. Garret is paying me to stay with him and oh, God—that didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” I bury my red-hot face in my hands.

He chuckles. “Please, don’t worry. You won’t find any judgment from this area of the car. And I can tell you’re not that sort of girl. For one—and I don’t mean this in a negative way, not whatsoever—the sorts of girls who charge for their time don’t normally live in such a modest area.”

I smile. “That’s a very gentle way of pointing out how poor I am.”

“I don’t mean any insult by it.”

“And I didn’t take it as an insult. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

He grins at me.