If You Were Mine Read online

  A bunch of sites came up, and the top result was called Hotties4Hire.com. After glancing over my shoulder as if I was scared of being caught (which was ridiculous, since I lived alone) and a big gulp of chianti, I opened the link.

  Need a date for a special occasion but don’t have time to find one?

  Tired of all the questions about why you’re still single?

  Want a platonic companion for a limited time who will pretend to adore you?

  Look no further.

  Hire a hottie has a man for you!

  I perked right up. It was like the site was made for me! The guys looked attractive and not too serial-killery, and there were plenty of testimonials from satisfied customers.

  “Hotties for Hire was exactly what I needed to get through the company Christmas party! Ron was a true gentleman, and so hot!”

  “I can’t say enough good things about Shemar! He was polite, attractive, and completely attentive all night!”

  “Everyone was jealous of my Hottie at the wedding, and my ex almost fell over! I felt amazing all night long!”

  The site was run by women, and they had Hotties in twenty-two states, Michigan included. THIS IS NOT A DATING SITE, they claimed. “If you’re looking for a committed relationship or sex, this site is not for you, but if all you need is a fantastic evening with someone safe, friendly, and best of all, HOT, then we can help!”

  Yes! Help me, Hotties!

  Five minutes later, I’d paid my $29.95 to have access to Hottie profiles in my area and frantically searched for one that looked like Ryan Gosling. It didn’t take me long to realize that the guys they used on the home page weren’t entirely representative of the actual stock, but I didn’t see anybody that looked like they just got out of the state penitentiary, either. Finally, I saw someone I thought might work—he had sandy hair, light eyes, a solid eight on a scale of one to ten, and his name was Fred.

  According to his profile, Fred was a pilot and enjoyed traveling, meeting new people, and classic cars. He was six feet tall, thirty-one years old, and had never been married. He had two dozen five-chili-pepper ratings, and the comments were all positive. “So much fun!” said Lisa in Orlando. “An absolute doll,” gushed Jasmine in Phoenix. “Charming and sweet!” exclaimed Shelly in Buffalo. “And an awesome dancer!”

  Orlando, Phoenix, and Buffalo? Wow, he really got around. Was that because he was a pilot? Where was home? Not that I needed to care. All I needed to worry about was that he showed up on time and pretended to like me, which I hoped wouldn’t be that hard of a job, as long as he was a better actor than I was.

  For a hundred dollars an hour, he’d better be.

  I took another gulp of wine and sent him a message via the site. Hello Fred, my name is Claire, and I’m looking for a date for a co-worker’s wedding the night of Friday, December 21st. Are you available? If so, would it be possible to meet for coffee first just to get to know each other a bit? Discuss the situation?

  Right before I sent it, I had a little panic attack. This was totally insane, wasn’t it? Renting a man just to save face? What if he strangled me and stuffed my body in the trunk of his vintage Camaro or something?

  Then I remembered the time I sat at the singles table and the guy next to me recited 369 digits of pi before asking me if I’d like to read his erotic Pokémon fanfic.

  Click.

  Thank you! Fred will get back to you soon!

  I closed my laptop and sat there for a moment, trying to decide if I felt creepy and desperate or modern and edgy. There was nothing wrong with this, was there? After all, I was a woman of the new millennium! We weren’t bound by old-fashioned rules about dating like our mothers and grandmothers! And this wasn’t really dating, anyway. It was just…online shopping. For a human.

  Oh, God.

  I felt a little queasy. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and a few hundred bucks would be a bargain if it shut everybody up and bought me a seat at a better table. Plus I’d spend an evening with a handsome date whose job it was to flatter me all night long. No one would ever know that I was paying him. At the end of the night, we’d go our separate ways, I’d tell everyone at work a breakup story that sounded plausible and definitely not my fault (Fred, you bastard), and that would be that.

  What could go wrong?

  * * *

  At three o’clock in the morning, I awoke in a panic.

  What the hell had I done? Now that the wine buzz had worn off, regret attacked me from all sides. I jumped out of bed and bolted for the stairs, but my pajama pants were too long and my heel slipped, and I ended up bumping down the entire flight on my butt.

  At the bottom of the steps, I scrambled to my feet, hitched up my pants and ran for the couch. Frantically I opened my laptop and clicked on the browser. Damn you, chianti and Hallmark Channel! Was there a way to retrieve my message? Had he seen it yet? What would I do if he’d replied?

  My heart pumped hard as the Hotties for Hire site loaded. I was still logged in and saw right away that I had a message from Fred.

  Hey Claire, I am available on that date. Sure, we can meet for coffee ahead of time. I actually do that with every date I book. I just ask for a $100 nonrefundable deposit at that meeting, which will be applied to your balance, whatever that turns out to be. Let me know, thanks!

  My hands shook as I tried to come up with a reply that didn’t make me sound pathetic.

  Hi Fred, it looks like my boyfriend will be in town that weekend after all, so

  No, that was ridiculous. Now I was making up a second fake boyfriend so that my original fake boyfriend wouldn’t think I was a loser? What on earth?

  I tried again.

  Hey Fred, turns out I can’t make it to the wedding. Sorry for the

  No, that was stupid, too. What could have happened in the few hours since I’d messaged him that would prevent me from being able to attend?

  I chewed the tip of one finger. Should I go through with it? I looked at his picture and read his message again. He was cute. And he sounded nice.

  I can just meet him for coffee. What’s the harm in that? If it’s a disaster, I won’t book the date. I’d lose my hundred bucks, but at least I wouldn’t be stuck with him all night. And a coffee shop was a public place, so there’d be no strangling or dismembering or anything. Just a quick introduction and a brief chat about how things would go the night of the date. If we got along OK, I’d book him.

  I sat up taller and typed a response.

  Hey Fred, thanks for the reply. Could you meet me downtown at 5:00 pm on Wednesday the 19th? Great Lakes Coffee makes awesome lattes.

  I took a breath and clicked send. Then I went back up to bed, rubbing my sore butt and wishing Boy-Meets-Girl wasn’t so complicated. Why couldn’t life be more like a storybook, where fairy godmothers granted wishes or handsome princes needed saving from shipwrecks or stable boys turned out to be the one?

  * * *

  Fred had replied that my suggested time and location for coffee worked for him, so after school on the 19th, I ran home, took my hair down from its messy bun, noticed I’d gotten paint on my shirt, hurried upstairs to change it, rushed back to the bathroom, re-applied my makeup, and scolded myself a million times for being so flustered.

  He was just a guy, right? And this wasn’t a date; it was a business transaction. I didn’t have to meet his approval—he had to meet mine! But my stomach jittered nonstop on the drive downtown.

  I parked in a lot off Woodward and took deep breaths of icy cold air as I made my way up the snowy street. Right before I pushed open the heavy glass door of Great Lakes Coffee, I took a second to look through it, hoping to spot where Fred was sitting. Nothing worse than walking into a crowded place and trying to find someone while everyone stares at you. It always made me feel like I’d forgotten to put pants on or something.

  But the place was busy, and I wasn’t able to stand out there for long because people were behind me, rushing to get out of the cold. I held th
e door open for them, and once I was in, I stepped aside to remove my gloves and surreptitiously glance around. I didn’t see anyone who looked like Fred sitting on the stools at the counter, nor seated at any of the tables close to me. Hmm, maybe he’s running late, too. Or maybe he’s at a table in the back.

  Hoping to appear relaxed, casual, and not at all desperate, I strolled toward the counter to order, allowing two people to go ahead of me in line since I wasn’t in a hurry. Desperate people hurried. After I ordered my lavender latte, I stood aside and waited, scanning the place again. Still no Fred. What would I do if he didn’t show?

  When my coffee was ready, I spotted two empty stools at the end of the counter and figured I’d grab them, just in case he made it. Unfortunately, the couple who’d come in behind me had the same idea I did, and we moved for them at the exact same time. “Oh, go ahead,” I told them, backing off. “My…person isn’t here yet anyway.”

  One more look around the shop. No Fred. My entire body drooped. Feeling dejected, I took my latte to a table at the back that had a couple open seats. I slipped out of my puffy white winter coat and hung it on the back of my chair, then I sat down and stared at the empty space across the table, feeling more than a little sorry for myself since it looked like I might be stood up by a date I was willing to pay for.

  Maybe I was doomed—the stars were never going to align for me. Perhaps I was born under a black cloud.

  After all, storybooks have curses, too.

  Three

  Theo

  * * *

  I knew three things about Claire French within minutes of watching her walk through the coffee shop door.

  One: She was a rule-follower. She didn’t go in the out door, up the down staircase, or beyond the No Trespassing sign. She didn’t jaywalk, speed, or cheat. She never parked in handicapped spots, always said yes when someone asked for a favor, and didn’t cut people off on the freeway. A genuinely good person. I also got the feeling she saw mostly good in others, too. I liked that, although it probably meant she trusted too easily. Forgave too soon. Got taken advantage of.

  Two: She was a girlie girl. A romantic. Everything about her was soft and lovely and feminine, from her fuzzy pink sweater to her long, wavy hair to her puffy white coat and little knit hat. Her voice was warm and honey-sweet, even to strangers. I couldn’t smell her—and I wouldn’t—but I knew that if I did, it would be like when I was a kid and my grandmother used to make these treats out of marshmallows dipped in melted butter and rolled in cinnamon and sugar, then sealed up in crescent rolls. While those things were in the oven, the entire house smelled like you could eat it, like in a fairy tale.

  I didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore, but I’d bet my life she did.

  Three: She had no idea how beautiful she was.

  Women like her never do.

  Four

  Claire

  * * *

  I pulled off my hat and fluffed my hair, figuring I’d give him at least the amount of time it took to drink my latte. But before I could take my first sip, a guy in a black leather jacket set a coffee cup down on the table and sat opposite me.

  I looked over at him, feeling slightly awkward since I’d have to tell him he couldn’t sit there. He was handsome, with warm brown eyes and short dark hair, but he wasn’t Fred. “I’m sorry, I’m waiting for someone,” I said. “But I can move.”

  To my surprise, he smiled confidently. “Claire, right? I’m Fred.”

  I screwed up my face. “You can’t be. Fred has blond hair and blue eyes. I saw his picture.”

  He laughed, almost condescendingly. “I don’t use my real picture, Claire. People are crazy.”

  What? This made no sense. “I don’t understand. How can you advertise yourself with someone else’s photo? Don’t women get mad when you show up?”

  He shrugged, his grin turning a little cocky. “Haven’t had any complaints so far.”

  Actually, he was more attractive than the photo he’d used online—more rugged and masculine, with his scruffy jaw, big shoulders, and brawny chest. Meeting the real Fred was kind of like ordering the chicken piccata and being brought the Porterhouse, which hadn’t even been on the menu.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  (And I’d described someone completely different to Elyse.)

  “So, what, you use a fake photo to lure potential clients and then you set up the coffee meeting to check them out first?” I asked indignantly.

  “Wouldn’t you?” He shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s a scary world out there.”

  I crossed my arms, sitting up tall. “No! That’s a scam. I don’t like scammers.”

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t take any money from them. I don’t even talk to them, I just leave.”

  Frowning, I said, “That doesn’t seem right to me. These people are willing to pay you to hang out with them and probably feel bad enough about themselves already, and you just walk out without even giving them a chance?”

  He shrugged. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve only walked off a job once, and that was because I thought I recognized the woman. I prefer to keep my personal and professional identities separate. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  Professional identity? He was a rent-a-date! I shook my head in disbelief. “Is your name even Fred?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “How am I supposed to know what to call you?”

  He grinned as he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Call me anything you want. You’re the boss.”

  Was he flirting with me or making fun of me? I cleared my throat and pressed my knees tighter together. “I’d like to call you by your actual name, please. Bad enough I have to pay someone to play my fake boyfriend. I’d like something to be real, at least.”

  He held his eyes steady on mine for a moment. I felt like he was sizing me up, trying to decide if he could trust me, so I stared right back without blinking. If anyone at this table was trustworthy, it was me.

  “Theo,” he said quietly, his eyes dropping to my lips for the merest fraction of a second. “My name is Theo.”

  There. Was that so hard? I smiled at him before picking up my latte.“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Theo.”

  “What, you’re just going to believe me? You’re much too trusting, Claire. I bet people take advantage of you.”

  I set the cup back down on the saucer with an angry clank. “Is your name Theo or not?”

  “Shhh, it is, it is,” he said, laughing. Then he glanced over his shoulder like he was in the fucking CIA. “But I don’t give that out to just anyone. You should feel special.”

  Good grief. Could I take an entire night of this guy? I picked up my latte again, wishing it had something stronger than caffeine in it. This was not going the way I’d hoped. “I don’t feel special. I feel ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I gaped at him over the cup I held with both hands. “What kind of person has to pay someone to take her on a date? It’s humiliating.”

  “Think of it as a business transaction,” Theo suggested, lifting his muscular shoulders. He wore a dark brown Henley that reminded me of Dexter Morgan from the series about the serial killer.

  Not an association I wanted to have at the moment.

  “That doesn’t make it any better,” I said. “Dating is supposed to be about romance, not business.”

  “So why couldn’t you get a date?” He picked up his cup, which looked like it held plain black coffee, and studied me critically as he took a sip.

  I sat up taller, feeling my cheeks burn. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.”

  “Oh, I already know what’s wrong with you.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I’m just curious what you think is wrong.”

  My jaw dropped. I was half-tempted to toss the remainder of my latte in his face, but some stupid part o
f me was like, What if he does know what’s wrong with me? “And?” I demanded peevishly, angry with both of us.

  “You’re scared.”

  “Scared?” It came out louder than intended.

  “Shhh. It’s nothing to get mad about, Claire.” He was frustratingly calm. “I just mean that you seem like the kind of person who’s very careful not to take too many risks in life.”

  He was right. It infuriated me. “What! You’ve known me for two minutes! How can I seem like anything to you?”

  His expression was smug. “I have very good instincts. I can tell a lot about a person very quickly.”

  “That’s ridiculous. And I’m not scared.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “OK, Mr. Psychic. I”ll play your little game.” I set down my cup and leaned my elbows on the table. “If your instincts are so good, tell me exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, squinting at me. “I’d have to get to know you better.”

  “Ha!” I shot him an imperious look.

  “But if I had to guess, I’d say you were afraid of rejection.”

  Well…wasn’t everybody? While I was trying to decide how to defend myself, he went on.

  “I bet you’re a hopeless romantic, and you want the kind of love you read about in books or see in the movies. You want someone perfect. But you think someone perfect won’t fall for you, for whatever reason, so you don’t really give anyone a chance. You don’t really put yourself out there.”

  “That’s not true,” I blustered. “I put myself out there all the time. I go on a million terrible dates because I can’t say no to people.”

  “That’s because you don’t want anyone to dislike you,” he pointed out. “Being nice is your thing. You hold the door for people, you let people cut in line, you give up your seat for others…” He glanced over toward the counter.