“It’s a shame, then. I’m out of town this weekend,” he says. He takes a sip of his drink, and when the glass leaves his lips, I see a grin lingering there. “I’m around other weekends, though. I hope that doesn’t take me out of the running.”

My stomach flip-flops. “Not necessarily.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket; it’s buzzing. He gives it an annoyed glance and sends the call to voicemail.

“Unfortunately, I have to head out,” he says. “But I’d love to be considered for, you know, the position. Could I take you out sometime?”

His smile is just as genuine as one could hope for in this ridiculous scenario. I get that sensation that every girl who’s ever felt beautiful and valuable and important has ever felt: like you’re zooming over the top of a roller coaster, untouchable, winning, perfect.

I grab his phone and enter in my number. I don’t leave a last name—too traceable. For now, I’m just Eliza. I return his phone when he closes his hand around it, the gleaming face of his watch winking back at me.

“It’s been a pleasure, Eliza,” he says.

For a split second, I wonder if he’s moving toward me for a hug or a kiss, but then he slips past me into the crowd. If I need a fake fiancé who won’t ever question why I look engaged on Instagram, Blake might be my jackpot. All I need to do now is convince him.

• Chapter 4 •

Click. A flashbulb pops. Click. Another one. Click.

I clench my left butt cheek to give myself a better grip on the metal stool I’m leaning against, precariously balancing in silver stiletto booties. Unbelievably, those emails I sent actually panned out. My story was picked up by jewelry blogs and wedding websites right away, and then I caught a big fish: a women’s magazine. It was an easier reel than I ever could have dreamed. Elle’s digital director apparently follows Brooklyn Jewels on Instagram and was eager to assign a piece about my business and, yes, my engagement. Now, less than a week later, it’s happening.