JoAnna’s smile is tight before she puts her glasses back on and turns to her computer.

Shit. I made it worse.

I’ve been dismissed and I’d be an idiot to stand there and try to explain what I meant. I decide to leave it at awkward and not aim for wildly inappropriate.

Like Barrett indicated, Marcus is waiting downstairs for me. He opens the door to help me into the car.

“Hi, Marcus. How are you?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Anderson. I’m well.” He’s so formal. Takes his job seriously. I don’t imagine he ever thought of hosting a party at Barrett’s apartment.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask.

“It’s a short drive. Only about a half mile.”

“I could have walked.”

“Mr. St. Clair wanted me to drive you.”

Of course, he did. He probably doesn’t trust me to make it there on my own. Which is silly because he doesn’t even know about the time I rode the subway for three hours because I was reading a book and missed my stop.

It’s only a half mile, but it takes twelve minutes to get there. Each minute that ticks by only gets me more worked up. Not because of traffic, but because it gives me more time to think about the mortifying conversation I just had with my boss. What she must think.

JoAnna had been surprised to hear about me and Barrett but happy.

When Barrett and I break up will she be devastated? When he moves on will she continue to talk about me, haunt him with stories from the past? The one that got away? God, I hope so.

It would drive him crazy. It puts a small smile on my face in my otherwise annoyed state.

Barrett has made it crystal clear that nothing can get in the way of his business deal, but not to the detriment of my job. My career. That’s the entire reason I’m going along with this.

When Marcus pulls up to our destination, any thoughts of my embarrassing conversation with JoAnna vanishes.

Marcus opens the door and in front of me stands the NYC Racquet Club.

I can see Barrett waiting in front of the large wooden doors. It looks more like a cathedral than a health club. Barrett strides over to meet me. He looks impeccable in his navy suit, crisp white shirt and designer shades. His lips in a firm, straight line like a brooding model. I glance around for the photographer who’s shooting this Gucci ad campaign.

We stand there for a moment, toe to toe, neither of us sure of the proper protocol for greeting your fake significant other. Add it to the list of things we haven’t discussed about this farce of a relationship.