A horn beeps up ahead. A siren wails in the distance. Dash says nothing.

So much for not being demeaning. The only thing more humiliating than agreeing to take this gig would be Dash changing his mind, after all. Damn. Disappointment twists in my chest. I’m about to tell him to forget I ever called when he finally responds.

“OK, I’m in. You have a deal.”

And suddenly, I’m wondering what, exactly, I’ve just gotten myself into.

5

Callie

Two days later, I’m at JFK, rolling my carry-on behind me along with scores of other travelers as I search the overhead signs and wonder if I’ve officially lost my mind.

I’m here, at the airport. Getting ready to hop on an airplane to Florida with a virtual stranger.

A sizzlingly hot, annoyingly charming one, sure, but still not a man I know very well. Or at all, really. And the sparse knowledge I do have—he’s a loaded playboy who lies to his grandmother—aren’t exactly stellar reasons for jetting halfway across the country to join in his whole ‘committed relationship’ performance.

When I spy the door for the first-class lounge, I hesitate. It’s not too late to change my mind. I can turn around now and send a text telling Dash I had a change of heart. That’s certainly the safest course of action.

Then again, most entrepreneurs don’t hit it big without taking a few risks.

This is your dream, I remind myself. You can tolerate a few days of Dash Dashford’s infuriating company to turn that vision into reality.

I straighten back my shoulders, yank open the door, and march inside. I’ve never been inside a first-class lounge before, but the interior is tons nicer than the cramped public restaurants I passed to get here. The club-style chairs are spaced out, and soothing music pipes through hidden speakers. A man in a formal black suit stands at the ready in front of a sleek, full-sized bar providing free drinks and snacks.

Because the one thing rich people need is free mini pretzels.

As I start to scan the passengers, a loud, infectious laugh draws my attention to a table near the end of the bar. Before I even turn in that direction, I know who’s having the time of his life at seven a.m. in an airport bar.

Dash.

He’s sprawled in one of the booths like he lives there, looking far too hot in a snug black tee and tousled bedroom hair. And clearly, the woman cozied up to him agrees. With her flowing pale-blonde hair and wide-set eyes, she’s gorgeous… and oddly familiar.

I blink as I realize where I’ve seen her before. On my TV screen, strutting her way through the latest Netflix smash series. In real life, she’s every bit as dazzling as on the screen. Her smile is luminous enough to power a small city as she flirts with him, twirling a strand of that golden hair around a perfect, manicure-tipped finger.

And he wanted me to play his fake girlfriend?