The Pretend Girlfriend

By Lucy Lambert

A chance meeting leads to an indecent proposal...

Confident. Brilliant. Rich. Devastatingly handsome. Aiden seems to have it all. There’s a darkness to him, though. A need to hide some secret.

So why pick me? I’m Gwen. I’m nobody.

Just finished with school, I want to try and make it in the big city. But I made some bad choices and now I need money, bad. It’s like I just hit the self-destruct button on my life.

Just a simple deal, that’s all.

Sign on the line and all my problems are gone. All my problems but Aiden. I don’t know how long I can pretend.

Lucy Lambert’s The Pretend Girlfriend is sure to please readers looking for their next alpha billionaire fix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jillian Cumming
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370641512

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gwen rushed inside out of the rain. Water dripped in tiny rivers from her umbrella as she wrestled it closed, and she tried not to see her reflection in the door, knowing what the moisture did to her hair.

The rain soaked right through her flats, and she could feel her toes getting all pruny.

So, shifting the big messenger bag on her shoulder to try and stop the strap from biting even more deeply into her, Gwen went and checked the mail. Janice, her roomie, usually got it, but Gwen still liked to check out of habit.

Junk, coupons, junk, junk... And one white envelope stamped URGENT! in a shade of red Gwen might have also called urgent. It was from the property management company that owned her apartment.

Probably raising the rent again.

Pardon? Gwen said. She turned around, water droplets spraying in a ring from the bottom of her coat, to see an old lady sat on the bench outside the manager's office, her hands resting on her aluminum cane. The woman nodded at the envelope, indicating it with thin, grey eyebrows.

They're probably going to raise your rent, dear. They like to do that. Everyone's always just in it for the money, now. No sense of community...

Gwen smiled politely, agreeing. Something about that URGENT stamp tickled her insides with anxiety. And the prospect of even higher rent sent her thoughts to her latest bank statement, and the balance (or lack thereof) therein.

Thanking the elderly woman, Gwen called the elevator. She started tapping her foot, but the feeling of the water shifting between her toes stopped her. She made a mental note to make sure and dry them out right away so that they wouldn't be ruined. New shoes were at the bottom of her list, which was topped by things like Rent and Food. All those books she'd had to buy for school (which weighed down her messenger bag so much she started losing feeling in her arm just standing there) cost a fortune!

Finally, the elevator came. She just wanted to get out of these soaking clothes, throw the books into the corner for now, and close her eyes for a few moments on the couch...

Fishing for her keys, she almost didn't see the piece of paper taped to her apartment door, blank side out, over the peephole. She frowned; that was weird. Janice always got home a good half hour before she did. Why hadn't she taken this in?

Gwen took the paper down, shaking her head at the little sticky strip left on the paint. True, it wasn't the nicest apartment building to begin with. Cheaply made, with cream and white walls and awful carpets worn almost to the bare floorboards in spots. But it was all she could afford, even with a roomie.

Janice? You see this note on door...? Gwen said, stooping to pull off her shoes while the door closed behind her. It took some real peeling, and she bit down on her bottom lip, getting the feeling that this pair was ruined beyond the capabilities of a hair dryer to fix.

She wriggled her toes, glad at the touch of air once more. They were all pruny, as she suspected.

It distracted her so much that she didn't really pay any attention to the state of her apartment until she gingerly pulled off her coat and hung it on the stand next to the door.

Janice? she called out again, looking down the front entrance hall. Directly ahead of her was the door to her bedroom, and to the right of that, Janice's room. You could get into the small kitchen through the doorway on her left, and, going through that, into the cramped den.

Janice liked to keep one of those small, thin hallway tables out here. It always had a small vase with a single fake long-stemmed rose, and a rectangular bowl in which Janice and Gwen threw their keys and whatever change remained from buying their customary morning lattes.

Except Gwen couldn't find the table. Only four marks left in the white carpet where it stood said anything once stood there.

Hey, what's up? Gwen called out. Something was wrong, she could feel it.

She knocked on Janice's door, waited, and then knocked again. After a third attempt, she opened it.

Janice's room was empty. Not even curtains. There were little holes in the drywall over the window where the rod had been mounted.

Gwen had a trusting nature ever since she was little. It came from watching all those Disney movies, where everything turned out all right in the end. Sure, people could be mean and evil. But they always got what they deserved, and the good people always won out. She blamed this trusting nature for her first reaction.

Her thoughts went something along the lines of: Oh! We've been robbed! I hope Janice is okay; I should get a hold of her.

It wasn't until she had to shift the notice from the door and the URGENT letter from the mail to her other hand so that she could find her cell phone that she made the connection.

The notice on the door had the property management company's letterhead in bold face, PATTERSON HOLDINGS, INC. Gwen read quickly, trying to take the entire document in all at once. This, of course, didn't work out so well, so she forced her eyes to scan each individual line, all the way down to, Sincerely, Mike Patterson.

It was an eviction notice. Apparently, Patterson Holdings had not received a rent check in three months. And, unless Gwen could come up with the $3600 owed in back-rent by the end of the week, in addition to another $173.45 in fees for the bounced checks (it was already Tuesday!) she would have to vacate the unit.

Panicking, Gwen dropped the notice and then tore at the letter.

It was about the same thing, except laying everything out in somewhat more depth.

Gwen's first reaction was thinking she was having a nightmare. She went so far as to squeeze her eyes shut and command herself to awaken. But when she opened her eyes, that partially-crumpled letter still waited in her hands.

Her second reaction was that this was all somehow some big mistake. They'd gotten the wrong unit (even though both the letter and the notice both said Suite 705, her unit). Janice always took care of this stuff right away. Gwen always saw the rent come out of her bank account the next day after giving Janice her check.

She tried giving Janice a call. It went to voicemail. Gwen left a message. Then she texted Janice, just to be sure. Something inside told her that she was never going to hear from Janice again.

At least Janice only took her own stuff. When Gwen realized what had really happened, she rushed frantically through the apartment, checking. All her own stuff still waited in her room. The old TV and entertainment center her aunt gave her when she first went off to school still sat against one wall in the living room. The small breakfast table with its two mismatched chairs still waited in one corner of the cramped kitchen.

Gwen pulled one of those chairs out and sat down. Her wet clothes hugged her skin, but she barely noticed.

She always hated it in movies and TV when characters sat around telling themselves This can't be happening! and not doing anything about their problem.

But she really couldn't think of anything. The pittance she earned from manning the desk at the campus library a few days each week barely paid her half of the rent, groceries, cell bill, that sort of thing.

Where am I going to get almost $4000?

It wasn't like she had anything worth selling. No one would want the old TV; it weighed almost as much as she did. Her laptop might get her a couple hundred bucks. She could take on every shift at the library anybody offered. Even so, it would take her months to save up that much. And they wanted the money in three days!

Gwen found the rental agreement from the files she kept by her desk in her room. People are reasonable, she figured, if I just explain the situation to them, we can work something out.

The phone rang once before a deep-voiced woman answered, Patterson Holdings, how may I direct your call?

Hi, I live at your building on Maple, unit 705. I need to talk to someone about late rent.

The secretary put her through to gravelly-voiced guy named Gabe. Gwen associated voices like that with those new Batman movies, and so her mind supplied her with the ridiculous picture of Batman sat at a desk in a boring office, licking his finger to flip through some paperwork as he squinted beneath the fluorescent lights.

Gwen explained the situation as best she could, feeling proud of herself that she managed to keep so much of the panic burbling in her stomach out of her voice.

Look, Ms. Browning... Gwen, can I call you Gwen? Good. Anyway, look, you're already three months behind. Patterson Holdings knows that sometimes people have difficulties, and we do give a grace period. However, you've already used your grace period up. This was all outlined in the letters we've been sending...

Letters? What letters? Gwen said. The panic swirling in her stomach mixed with cold apprehension.

We normally begin sending out letters reminding you of your obligation one week after failure to pay your rent... Yeah, it says right here that we've given you twelve letters over the last three months, Gabe said, his fingers tapping softly at a keyboard in the background.

Janice... Gwen said. She always got the mail. Insisted on it, even. And no wonder, Gwen knew, she'd been stealing the rent for the last three months and covering her tracks.

Gwen bit back a few choice words doing their best to push their way out through her lips. The way she felt, nothing she could say had any chance of truly expressing her feelings at that moment. Betrayal, rage, frustration, terror. Those came close, but still missed the mark.

So what am I supposed to do? Gwen said, addressing the question to both the ceiling and to Gabe.

Gabe answered first. I'm sorry, really, I am. I'd get in touch with the police as soon as possible. They'll start searching for your roommate. Who knows, maybe she'll even still have your money if they find her in time.

In time for what? Gwen said, the twisting in her stomach telling her she already knew the answer.

In time to pay your back rent. And I see your next rent check is due the end of next week.

Gwen pushed herself off the chair. More like peeled, really, with the way her skin, still dripping with rainwater, clung to the vinyl covering. The pain made her grimace, but she quickly forgot about it in light of other issues.

You can't give me any more time? How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money? Gwen said. She tried to run her fingers through her hair. It helped to calm her down normally. This time, her fingers tugged at knots created by the wetness.

I'm sorry, really I am... He tapped some more at his keyboard, "The best I can do is push it back to the end of next week. You can have until then for the back rent, and next month's rent.

That pushed the total up to more than $5000.

Gwen wanted to get mad. She wanted to scream at Gabe, to tell him how ridiculous this whole thing was, to tell him that she would be homeless. But she also recognized that Gabe really was trying to be nice and understanding. He wasn't the one who'd stolen her rent money. And Patterson had already given her three months to come up with it. Not that she had known about it. And he had just given her an extra week, not that it would make much of a difference.

No, that, too, was Janice's fault.

So Gwen swallowed her anger, forcing the lump back down her throat. She thanked Gabe for his advice, and the extension. He wished her luck.

Right after that call ended, Gwen found the number for the police non-emergency line and called, her cell starting to get hot against her ear.

She told the constable what had happened, and the constable told her that they'd open an investigation into the matter. However, he also said that in cases like this, the suspect usually skipped town, and that all the missing belongings made a strong case that Janice had done exactly that. The constable said they might get lucky and find Janice within a few months, but it was probably going to take much longer than that.

Again, doing her best to keep her feelings in check, Gwen thanked him and hung up.

It was all too much. She felt overloaded, strained, cold, wet, tired, and angry all at the same time. A thousand different thoughts fought for control in her mind, most of them reminding her how there was no way she could get the money in time.

So she went to her room, nearly tripping over the messenger bag full of expensive school books. She stripped out of her wet clothes, throwing them over the radiator, pulled on a set of comforting wool pajamas (the little yellow duckies all over them usually made her smile) and climbed into bed, intent on letting sleep pull her away from the world for a bit.

It was right about now she wished she had a boyfriend she could curl up with. It would be so nice to have a strong pair of arms hug her close as she sobbed quietly, to have a deep, comforting voice to tell her it was all going to turn out fine.

But Gwen had only herself and her comforter. She wanted sleep so badly, even though she knew her problems would still be waiting for her when she woke up, and however many minutes or hours gone, taken from the time she'd been given to come up with the money.

Chapter 2

The thoughts racing through her mind began growing distant. Her eyes stayed shut without her needing to clench them. Slowly, she started to doze.

But then her cell began to buzz. She'd put it on silent and left it on her desk, but she'd forgotten to disable the vibrate function.

At first, she tried to ignore it. But it didn't stop.

Grumbling about being left alone, Gwen climbed out of bed with a stormy look on her face. She snatched up the phone, meaning to just turn the thing off completely and get back to her very important nap.

But the screen lit up, showing her a slew of missed text messages with their little green icon, as well as several calls, all from the same person. All from Beatrice. The texts were all along the lines of, Hey! What's up? Come on, let's do something! If you don't answer, I'll tell Steve Messner you think he's cute!

The phone vibrated in her hand again. Beatrice's mug shot appeared on the screen, smiling at her. She had curly auburn hair and full cheeks. They'd been friends ever since meeting during orientation week back in first year.

Gwen bit her lip again, finger hovering over the power button. Beatrice was a bit of a... strong personality. People usually thought she was joking when she threatened them with something embarrassing. But she wasn't. Gwen had learned that early on. And she certainly didn't want Beatrice telling Steve Messner anything. He was a decrepit old Intro to Psych professor who liked to leer at all the girls in class and flirt with them in front of everyone.

Gwen did her best to stay away from any of his classes after first year.

So Gwen answered the phone. Hey, B, what's up?

Not you, apparently? Jeez, Gwen, I was about to come over there and knock down your door. Anyway, you're lucky. I found Messner's phone number off his faculty page; I have it written down here and everything.

You know, that wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to me today, Gwen said. She went over to the window and parted the blinds, peering down at the street as though she might see Janice coming in through the front entrance to tell her this was all just some misunderstanding.

But the only things down on the street were cars and vans and trucks, and none of the pedestrians looked like Janice.

What's up? Beatrice said. Despite her jokey nature, she really did care about her friends, and could be serious if the need arose.

For the third time that day, Gwen related her story. Every time she mentioned Janice's name, she stomped down on her messenger bag. It felt good to hit something, and the books had a nice give to them.

Okay, here's what you're going to do: you're going to meet me down at that Starbucks on the corner in twenty minutes and we're going to figure this out...

I can't afford a latte... Gwen started. It felt good to get some sympathy, but she needed more than a Janice-bashing session over espresso.

My treat. Just meet me in twenty minutes... Beatrice's voice grew mischievous, Remember, I still have Messner's number written down.

Okay, okay, fine. Just make it twenty five minutes; I have to fix myself up.

Twenty, Beatrice said. Before Gwen could argue the point, Beatrice hung up, and the text Gwen sent received in reply an image of a notepad with a phone number scrawled across it and a little devil's face drawn beneath.

To Gwen's surprise, it actually felt good to do something. The urge to crawl back in under the covers receded as she threw socks and jeans and shirts out onto her bed looking for the right thing to wear.

Even though this wasn't going to magically make thousands of dollars suddenly appear in her bank account, it was a step towards some sort of solution. Even if it was just a solution to her burning need to unload on someone.

Just moping about in bed also felt good, but it usually led to just sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, and that definitely wasn't going to get her the money she needed.

So, just shy of twenty minutes later, Gwen stepped into the busy corner Starbucks and out of the only slightly lessened downpour outside. The brief walk kept her from getting soaked again, but the bottoms of her jeans did get wet, and she could already feel the quick drying and straightening she'd done on her hair turning to frizz.

Beatrice waved her over to a set of comfy chairs she'd somehow managed to commandeer. Gwen never got those chairs; they always seemed occupied by middle-aged men in business suits sipping at espressos, pretending to read the Wall Street Journal while they actually just watched the cute young baristas make drinks behind the counter.

Beatrice had them banished to the less comfortable chairs and tables farther back in the coffee shop, and they shot resentful glances her way that she ignored.

How much did you say it was again? Beatrice said, sipping from her grande mocha. She'd bought Gwen a grande vanilla latte, which sat steaming on the little table.

Around $5000, Gwen answered, sitting down. It felt like someone had loaded about 5000 pounds worth of lead into her stomach, which currently tried to pull her through the tile floor.

Beatrice swallowed some of her mocha, then whistled at the number.

Not helping, Gwen said.

Yeah, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to. It's just... wow. Man, that just makes me wish Janice was here, I'd... Beatrice set her mocha down and wrung an imaginary Janice's neck. It was quite a thorough and realistic demonstration.

Gwen couldn't help smiling. Yeah, me too. But something tells me she's already far away. And I bet she's already spent all the money, too.

You know, I always thought she was a jerk. You really should've come and stayed at my apartment.

Gwen forestalled that argument. They'd tried to live together after first year, renting a basement apartment below a bungalow together. But they were just fundamentally incompatible as roommates. Gwen liked things tidy. Beatrice let the dishes pile up for a week. Gwen liked to get up and turn her alarm off right away. Beatrice liked to doze in bed for an extra half hour, her radio blaring. To cut the story short, they decided to save their friendship by agreeing to not live together any more.

Though, Gwen doubted that Beatrice would have tried to make off with the rent money on her.

Maybe, but unfortunately they haven't invented time travel yet, B. What am I supposed to do in the here and now? Gwen said.

I wish I could loan you the money, but I just don't have it, Beatrice said. Gwen knew that she would have, but she also knew that Beatrice only did a little better in the financial department than she did. And Gwen wasn't about to put her best friend into a deep debt hole just to save herself.

What about your mom and dad? Beatrice said.

The bank of mom and dad's been closed for a while, Gwen said. Her parents were nice enough to her, but they hated each other. She'd just started college when they started the divorce. Apparently, they’d just been holding it together for her. Any money they had went to lawyer fees. If she was lucky, one or the other might let her stay with them, but they both lived too far outside the city. She'd have to leave school to do that, and that wasn't an option to her. She told Beatrice as much.

Lame, she answered. Then she perked up, slopping some mocha out onto her hand and licking it off. But hey, if you can't fix it, you should try to forget it for a bit. I wanted to get in touch because I got a line on a big party going down tonight...

I don't have time to party, B. Besides, we're not freshmen anymore, Gwen said, finally taking a sip from her latte. She savored it, knowing that she wouldn't be able to afford another one for months.

Oh, come on. It's perfect! You're not gonna get anything done today. So just come with me and get some of this stuff out of your system. Who knows, maybe there'll be some cute rich boy with too much of daddy's money and too little sense.

B! I'm not about to... Gwen started.

But Beatrice cut her off with a laugh. Oh, Gwen, still so easy to bug. And take it from me, rich guys are all jerks. You're way better off figuring out a way to fix this on your own.

I just had to make sure. Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're being serious or not, Gwen said.

This earned her an indignant look from her friend. "What? Moi, joke around too much? Why Gwendolyn Eveline..."

That's not my middle name...

Gwen's middle name was, in actuality, Gladys, which she had unfortunately inherited from her maternal grandmother. It was a secret she intended to take to her grave. Which just made Beatrice want to find out all the more. Beatrice always tried out a different middle name, hoping to hit the proverbial pay dirt.

...Browning. How could you make such a claim? Beatrice said, doing her best offended Southern belle impression. It was pretty funny, seeing as Beatrice was from Yonkers and sounded like it.

Well now I know. And I really don't have time for a party.

Okay, let me put it this way: you're coming, or I call Messner and give him your telephone number, your email, and a copy of that picture of you in a bikini from when we went to Daytona last summer, and I'll make sure it has a lipstick kiss on it and a note saying with love from Gwen to the handsomest pysch professor at school... Beatrice said, letting her lips curl up in an evil smile to put cartoon villains to shame.

You really are ruthless, Gwen said, unable to listen anymore to her diabolical scheme, smiling back. She thought that it probably was a dangerous waste of time to go so some party, but she really could use some way of getting her mind off things that wasn't sitting on her couch watching rom-coms while nursing a pint of Rocky Road.

Chapter 3

The party was at some rich guy's condo in Manhattan. Beatrice and Gwen shared a cab into the city. And by shared, Gwen meant that she chipped in a $5 she found under her bed a few minutes before getting picked up.

Not really being a party girl, her selection of clothes had been, in a word, abysmal. She'd finally settled on the obligatory little black dress every woman kept in her closet and a pair of short heels. Beatrice whistled at her when she sat down, and Gwen tried to keep the hem of her dress pulled down while her cheeks burned.

She kept apologizing and telling Beatrice she would pay her back, but Beatrice just laughed it off. You want to pay me back? Just be my wingman. I want at least five guys to ask for my number tonight.

Five? That's... oddly specific, Gwen said.

Hey, don't look at me like that! Get your head out of the gutter. And yes, five. It's a numbers game, you know. Say only one guy wants my number. He does that dumb three-day wait thing and asks me out for a coffee. It doesn't go anywhere. Now say two guys get my number. It doesn't pan out with the first? Maybe the second's more interesting! But probably not. Especially with these rich guys. They think having money makes them unforgettable. I figure five's a nice number. I mean, at least one has to work out, right?

It was interesting logic, anyway.

Whatever happened to rich guys are all jerks? Gwen said.

Momma needs a new watch, Beatrice said, watching the river flash by between the girders of the bridge as they crossed, Besides, they usually drive cool cars.

Gwen snorted at this. Leave it to Beatrice to say what jerks rich guys were in one breath and then express her desire to speed around the city in a Lamborghini in the next.

So how'd you know about this? Gwen asked. This wasn't just some normal frat house party.

I got connections. Look, stop worrying about all that. Let's just go, have some expensive champagne, flirt with some boys, and get me those digits I need. I promise, tomorrow you're going to feel better about everything. Hung over, maybe, but better. Okay?

Okay, Gwen replied. She still wasn't sure about this whole thing, but Beatrice's optimism and charm were infectious. Besides, Gwen couldn't shake that need she'd felt earlier, lying in bed all by herself, for comfort and company.

Though now, she knew, would be the absolute worst time to try and cultivate any sort of relationship that wasn't going to enlarge her bank account.

Another possibility crossed her mind, then. Suppose something did happen tonight? Suppose she did meet some rich boy desperate for attention? It wasn't unheard of. The term sugar daddy did exist after all, didn't it?

Gwen let herself entertain that fantasy only briefly. It would be an easy way out, she admitted, and a tempting one. But she wasn't that kind of girl. She intended on fixing this whole thing herself, even if it meant taking some time away from school and taking on a couple more part time jobs.

Of course, that little voice in her head kept screaming that it was all too little, too late. And that by the end of next week she'd be negotiating with her parents over a place to stay, or biting the bullet and moving in with Beatrice (because of course Beatrice would offer) even though they both knew that it would most likely be the end of their friendship.

So Gwen craned her neck to look up at the skyscrapers crowding the Manhattan streets. The deep blue of the evening sky looked back down at her.

Okay, Gwen said.

Okay? Beatrice replied, looking up from her phone, one index finger poised to stab at the screen.

Yes, okay. I'm agreeing with you. Tonight's about fun, about forgetting all this stuff.

That's my girl! Oh, hey, here we are. Driver, pull over, will you? Yeah, here's fine, Beatrice said.

The doorman let them in when Beatrice gave him the name of the guy hosting the party, and they found their way into a beautiful, big lobby with marble accents. It really made the building Gwen lived in seem like a tenement. It smelled nicer, too, with the faint scent of lemon in the air. And not the cheap knockoff cleaner stuff, either.

Gwen suddenly felt underdressed. A thread coming out of the strap on her right shoulder caught her eye. Way, way, underdressed.

They went to the elevator. Get your game face on. Arch that back, Beatrice said, pressing her hands against the small of her own back for emphasis.

The doors chimed, and they stepped in. Beatrice prodded the button for the very top floor, the 40th. Even the elevator smelled nice. A small, neatly concealed vent up in one corner washed them with gently cooled air, and the tones of some old symphony, Bach or Beethoven or someone like that, lilted down to them.

Posh, Gwen said, Who is this guy, anyway?

The guy who owns the condo? Ben something. Astor? Yeah, that's it.

And he invited you?

No, it was someone else. What's with the third degree? It's just a party; enjoy yourself! I know how hard that is for you, but just make the effort.

The elevator ran so smooth and silently that Gwen hadn't noticed it until the car stopped, the music muting while the doors chimed. Do you know which apartment it is? she said.

She didn't need to ask that question. The elevator doors opened directly into the most opulent room she'd ever personally visited. Marble everywhere, big paintings on the walls, and an enormous doorway at the far end with a bay window that gave a stunning view of the park. The sky had turned from blue to a bruised purple as evening stole away the daylight.

As soon as they stepped through the threshold, a man in a tuxedo offered them champagne. Still awestruck, Gwen took the glass without saying anything. Beside her, Beatrice started going on about how great the place was, how it probably cost more than she'd see in her whole life, that sort of thing.

This room turned out to be some sort of entrance hall, apparently. Stunning, really, seeing as Gwen knew her whole two-bedroom apartment could fit comfortably within. They followed the sounds of music coming from deeper within this modern day palace, and soon found the rest of the partygoers.

The room had to be about the size of her old high school's gymnasium, at least. Three honest-to-God crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the entire space. It's a ballroom, Gwen realized.

Again, Gwen experienced some culture shock. Many of the men, all in tuxes or other expensive suits, crowded around a bar, while the women on the dance floor wore the latest fashions while shifting their bodies to the beats the DJ off in the corner spun out.

Definitely underdressed, she knew. Her little black dress would have served her well if Beatrice just took her out to a normal club where normal twenty-somethings went, but this place was anything but normal.

Meanwhile, Beatrice eyed the bar hungrily. Gwen didn't know if her interest lay in the alcohol, the men, or both. But suddenly she realized just how bad an idea this all was. There were probably bottles of champagne in that bar worth more than her debt to Patterson Holdings.

Gwen bit down on her lip, unable to keep her eyes from fixing on that thread on her shoulder. I should have looked more closely! she thought. An overwhelming urge to find the bathroom where she could pluck it out in private took over.

What do you think of Mr. Handsome over at the corner? Beatrice said, nodding towards a penguin-suited man sitting at the corner stool sipping from a martini, doing his best Bond impression, Think he's Mr. My First Number of the Night? Come on.

They're all so pretty, Gwen thought, her eyes glued to the women swaying on the dance floor. Perfect skin, perfect bodies, $100 (or more) hairdos. They probably all had personal trainers and dietitians and all that. The feeling of smallness, of insignificance, welling up inside her reminded her the way she felt sometimes if she looked up at the stars on clear nights, at their incomprehensible vastness and age. Her throat started closing up.

Gwen? Let's go! Time's a-wasten'! Beatrice said, trying to tow her along by the arm.

I'm sorry, I just... I have to find the bathroom, Gwen said, pulling away from Beatrice's grip. She moved so hastily that she stumbled her first step, but managed to keep it from turning into a full-on fall.

Picking one of the doorways exiting the ballroom at random, she found herself in a library, the bookcases towering up towards the ceiling. Continuing on, her pulse and breathing coming more under control the farther away she got, she ended up in what she could only guess was a billiards room, judging by the green-carpeted tables occupying the space. There was another bar in the corner.

She wouldn't have noticed the man sitting at the bar if he hadn't turned around. He looked just as startled to see her as she did to see him.

Oh, um, I'm sorry. I was just looking for the restroom, Gwen said.

This guy seemed different, somehow. Sure, he wore a tux just like the rest of them, and his well-defined and handsome face with its high cheekbones and strong jaw spoke to good breeding, but Gwen couldn't quite figure it out. He looked around her age, early to mid twenties, but who could be sure?

See that door there beside the bar? he gestured.

She did. Thanks.

Gwen pushed the door open, then locked it behind her. She