Barrett has added some language at the top that reads like a contract. It states that I will continue to pretend to be his girlfriend for business purposes until his deal with Fred is signed or for six weeks, whichever comes first, and in return he will grant me six conditions that can be added at any time. Below, there are six lines that Barrett has drawn on the page.

“Six weeks,” I say, noting the timeline. “Do you really think you’ll be able to close a deal with Fred in that time frame?”

“That’s not your concern, but yes. I know what I want and I know how to get it.”

“They can be anything?” I ask.

“No conditions on your conditions, with the exception of getting rid of the contract that requires you to be my girlfriend for business purposes. Other than that, it is up to you, but there are only six, so use them wisely.”

“You sound like a genie in a lamp.” I pause to think for a moment. “Why six?”

“One per week. Or you can use them as you choose.”

The waiter returns to take our order, but I’m confused when he sets down a bag on the table.

“Here is that order for you, sir.” The waiter turns to me, “Miss, what can I get for you?”

“What is that?” I ask.

Barrett stands, his chair scraping loudly on the cement patio.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got a meeting downtown.” He turns to the waiter, “Put her meal on my card.” Barrett hands him a fifty-dollar bill, then slides his gaze back to me to add, “I’ll be in touch.”

The waiter is excited about his tip, but when he reads my annoyance, his face turns guilty.

“Your boyfriend is super-hot,” he smiles, obviously thinking the compliment about Barrett’s looks will make me feel better about being ditched at lunch, then tucks the bill into his apron, “and generous.”

The playfulness I felt for a half second between us vanishes with Barrett’s abrupt departure. I need to remind myself of the situation. Barrett and I have a contract for me to be his fake girlfriend. He’s in it for himself. The very fact that he couldn’t take thirty minutes to eat a meal with me is evidence of that. Next time I start ogling his hands, I’ll need to remember that.

“He’s something all right,” I respond, before placing my order.

* * *

Thursday afternoon I’m finishing up notes on a manuscript that I pulled from the slush pile. It’s got real potential and I’m going to pitch it to JoAnna at our next editorial meeting. My phone vibrates from its place on my desk.

Barrett: I need your girlfriend services. Marcus will be picking you up in ten minutes.