Dating Games(47)

“Well, I guess he must really look up to you since he took your suggestion.”

She bursts out laughing as she leads me back into the room. “He certainly did not. Much to my dismay, he shot me down right away at the mere mention of him dating anyone. So I suggested he purport to date someone instead. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually figured it was worth a shot. At the very least, it would get the social clingers off his back for a summer.”

“Camille?” I ask as I follow her past the four-poster bed, the sheer material draped over the sides billowing with our movement. Everything about this room is peaceful and serene. I’m not going to want to leave at the end of the weekend.

“Yes?”

“What is this project he’s working on that appears to be so important to him?” I lower my eyes. “Or at least important enough to ask a complete stranger to pretend to be his girlfriend?”

She avoids my eyes as she continues toward a door just past the sitting area. “Oh, he never discusses his business plans with me.” Her response comes fast and shaky. “They’d go right over my head anyway. Dana, Mr. Gage’s stylist, has already been by to organize all the clothing she’s selected for you. It’s all here in the closet.” She doesn’t even pause to take a breath as she changes the topic, opening another door along the far wall.

I want to push and find out what the big secret is, but I’m rendered speechless at what she referred to as a closet. I have to stop myself from laughing. If Chloe and Nora could see me now, they’d piss their pants. This “closet” is bigger than my old apartment. Instead of only a handful of items for me to choose from over the course of the next few months, the walls are lined with a wardrobe suitable for any occasion imaginable, along with several dozen cubbies filled with shoes.

“Mr. Gage provided Dana with a copy of your itinerary for the summer,” Camille explains. “She’s taken the guesswork out of everything.” She heads toward a table in the center of the room and opens a binder. “Each article of clothing is labeled with a number that corresponds to an event in here.” She points to the first page in the binder. I see today’s date, the event, followed by a list of numbers, indicating what I’m to wear. “Sometimes things come up, so in the back are a handful of outfits in case of an emergency.” She closes the binder as she faces me, her stare harsh and direct. “Under no circumstances are you to wear the same outfit twice. Do you understand?”

I’m overwhelmed as I take in everything. The house. The staff. The clothes. When I’d agreed to be Julian Gage’s fake girlfriend, never in a million years did I expect it to be like this. Rules about what to wear and when. But the planner in me appreciates it. There are no surprises. I find comfort in that fact.

“Perfectly.”

“Wonderful.” She clasps her hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you to get situated. Can I bring you anything? I’m sure you’re hungry after the long drive.”

I place my hand over my stomach, which is in knots. “Actually, I had a big breakfast,” I lie.

“Okay, dear. Just dial 2111 on the house phone if you change your mind. I’ll be back to check on you a bit later.” She begins to retreat.

“Camille?”

“Yes?”

I pinch my lips together, unsure what I even want to ask. Perhaps I’m feeling a little out of my element and want someone to tell me I didn’t make a colossal mistake in agreeing to this.

“Never mind,” I say quickly.

“Certainly.” She continues toward the door. When she’s about to close it behind her, she catches my eyes and speaks again.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Mr. Gage wouldn’t have asked you to do this if he didn’t think you could handle it. It may seem overwhelming right now, but once you get settled in, you’ll forget what life was like before you came to the Hamptons.” She gives me an encouraging smile, then closes the door, leaving me alone to absorb this strange life I’ve been thrust into.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I sigh.

This would be most women’s dream come true. A gorgeous bedroom overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, complete with palatial walk-in closet, which is stocked with designer clothes and shoes. So why am I having such a hard time with this?

Restless and unnerved by the unusual silence, particularly compared to Manhattan, I head back into the elaborate closet, flipping the binder open. I scan the first page to find the pre-selected outfit for today’s event — a pool party beginning at three o’clock. Turning my attention to the clothes, I locate the items Dana indicated and place them on a railing by a 180-degree mirror, scowling at the navy-and-white polka-dot two-piece bathing suit. At least she chose more of a vintage, pinup style with a high waist and full coverage for my girls.

“Well, I guess I should shave my legs,” I say to myself, spinning around and going in search of the bathroom. Thankfully, it’s right next to the closet.

Like the rest of the house, it’s impressive and extravagant. Marble tile. Spacious shower with several showerheads. Tempered glass behind an enormous claw-foot tub overlooking the ocean. I can’t remember the last time I’ve lived somewhere with a tub, so I opt for a bath.

I turn on the faucet, spying a canister of bath salts sitting on a shelf above the tub. After sprinkling some into the steaming water, the fragrant aroma of lavender fills the air. I twist my hair into a knot on top of my head, then rid myself of my clothes.