A Not So Meet Cute(29)

“All three,” I answer. “Do you think I made a huge mistake?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Kelsey lets out a heavy breath. “I think there are risks and rewards with everything. It’s a huge risk being contractually obligated to hang out with this Huxley guy until he secures the deal. But think about the rewards from it all—and I’m not just talking about where the business could go. Think about being debt free from your student loans.”

“Yeah, I still don’t feel right about that.”

Kelsey stacks one of my boxes of clothes on top of a box of shoes. “Think about it this way. Huxley is probably making a lot of money off this deal, or else he wouldn’t have gone to the lengths that he has to secure it, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, just treat the student loan payoff as your commission for helping him.”

“Huh, I guess I could think about it that way.”

“See?” She hoists up another box. “These will have to go here until I can figure out the perfect storage system for us.” She points to my bed on the floor. “Are you sure you don’t mind sleeping on pillows? I can trade with you every other night.”

I wave my hand at her. “It’ll be fine. And look at how cute you made the bed too. It’ll work.” I sigh. “Thanks for taking me in.”

“What do Mom and Jeff think you’re doing?”

“They think I moved in with Huxley.”

“Uh, what are you going to do when they ask to visit your new place?”

“We’ll set up a time, I’ll take over some personal effects, and then I’ll pretend I’m living there. It’s not as if they’re going to check the bathrooms to make sure my tampons are locked and loaded.”

“True.” Kelsey laughs. “Didn’t imagine that. Well, it seems as if you have everything planned. What about tonight? Are you ready? Do you have your story straight?”

“What story?”

“You know, how you met, how he proposed . . . how far along you are?”

Oh God, we don’t have a story.

Nothing was in the contract.

And I’ve only heard from Huxley once since he left my house the other day, which just makes things that much more comforting.

Can you sense the sarcasm?

Because it’s heavy.

My anxiety peaks as I realize we haven’t talked about any of our backstory. The only thing we’ve spoken about to each other is the contract and if I signed it or not. I had a lengthy conversation with his lawyer, who basically threatened my life with an NDA. I asked him if Kelsey counted in that NDA, and once discussed separately with Huxley—I was left out of the conversation—I was told no, she didn’t count, but then they made her sign an NDA as well. It’s been an ordeal.

“We haven’t talked about any sort of backstory.” I nibble on my finger, attempting to tamp down the bile starting to rise in my throat.

Kelsey cringes. “Ooo, I’d text him, see what time dinner is, when he plans on picking you up, and what your story is, because I doubt he’ll be thrilled about any slipup on your end. Didn’t he say something in the contract about committing to character?”

“Did he? Oh God, I should’ve read it better.”

“Did you not read the contract?” Kelsey asks, horrified.

“It was twenty pages, Kels. That’s far too much legal jargon for one sitting.”

“Jesus, Lottie. You signed your life away without reading it?”

“I got the gist of it.”

“Clearly not.”

I can taste the bile on my tongue now. “You’re not making my anxiety any better, you realize that, right?” I reach for my phone and shoot Huxley a panicked text.

Lottie: What’s our story? How did we meet? How did you propose? How far along am I? Should I be showing? Are we having a boy or a girl? What are the names of the people we’re having dinner with? Why on earth did I sign that GD contract?

I toss my phone down and sit at the two-seat oak bistro table. “This was a bad idea,” I say. “I promised to stay in character, and I don’t even know what the character is. I signed a contract, Kelsey.”

“Yeah, not going to lie, I have secondary anxiety for you.”

“That’s not helpful.” I pin her with a stare.

Knock. Knock.

“That’s the food,” Kelsey says, bouncing toward the door. “Put a pin in that anxiety. Spring rolls don’t go well with it.”

Does anxiety go well with any main dish?

As the door opens, I rest my head against the wall, but only for a nanosecond, because Kelsey’s startled gasp draws my attention. Frightened by what might be on the other side of the door, I hesitantly lean forward just in time to see a man carrying a few dress boxes and bags full of shoe boxes into the apartment. He sets them on Kelsey’s twin-size bed and then leaves as Huxley steps forward, looking rather expensive and quite serious. When his eyes meet mine, I’m met with a frown. Why the hell is he frowning at me?

“Can I, uh, help you?” Kelsey asks.

He turns to Kelsey, and his frown lightens as he says, “You must be Kelsey.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Huxley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”