“Okay.” This is not an uncommon conversation for us. As teenagers we used to cover for each other often. Well, me for Amie more than her for me, but still, covering happened. There’s a reason her nickname was Anarachy Amie when we were growing up. She was far more likely to use staying at my place as a ruse to go make out with whatever boy she was seeing at the time. Who would’ve thought that same girl would be marrying someone named Armstrong?

This is a little different because there’s a lot more at stake than just being grounded for getting caught in a lie. This is a potential place to live and buying me some time to find an actual job that pays real money again. Enough to help pay my debt down without my father’s help. Enough to save me from working with his whore of a wife. Without his financial assistance, I’m finally seeing exactly how easy life has been for me up until now. I know I should be grateful that if I really needed help, he’d be there for me, but the truth is, I wanted to prove, more to myself than anyone else, that I could do this.

“Why don’t you have a place to live?” Amie asks, patting my hand reassuringly at my cringe.

“My lease was up and instead of renewing I planned to move into an apartment closer to the theater district, but the new lease agreement fell through.”

“Excellent. And why did that happen?”

“Is this really necessary? I doubt it’s going to be an inquisition.”

“It’s better to have a full story outlined with lots of details than something half-assed.”

“I can improv.”

“I’d agree, except you’re sick and I’m not sure your improv skills are all that amazing right now.”

“Can you refrain from saying that word aloud right now?” Even that’s enough to make me queasy again.

Amie’s right, though, my ability to do anything other than breathe and stay upright are severely compromised. I sigh anyway, because we went over this three times before we left my apartment. “The lease fell through because there were problems with the pipes in the apartment above mine. They have to gut the apartment. It could take months to renovate.” I give Amie a wide-eyed, sad look, indicating I’m distressed by the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in. And I honestly am.

“Perfect.” Amie nods her approval at either my recollection of our fabricated scenario, my superb acting skills, or both. “And why can’t you stay in your current apartment?”

“It’s already been rented out and the new tenant takes over the lease in five days,” I continue rambling, “The only unit available in my complex is scheduled to be rented out mid-month, so I’d be moving my stuff only to move it again two weeks later.” Dabbing the back of my neck with a tissue I say, “I still don’t think this needs to be so elaborate. Can’t we just say there were issues with my new apartment?”

Amie gives me a withering look. “Didn’t you learn anything from high school? We want the story to be plausible, the more details the better. What about your job situation?”

“I’m between roles right now, but I have several auditions lined up.” This comes out monotone, mostly because yesterday’s audition was the last one I had scheduled with my now-retired agent. I’m on my own until I find someone new.

She squeezes my arm. “You’ll get something, Ruby, you’re too talented not to.”

I’d like to believe this, and honestly, a few months ago I did, but my inability to find a new agent and my small Off-Broadway roles make it hard to keep the faith.

“Here we are.” Amie smiles as the Uber pulls into the valet and the attendant opens the door. Before we head inside Amie smooths out my hair. “Okay. So when Armstrong or Bancroft brings up the trip I’ll be the one to mention the pet-sitting and you can get excited about his guinea pig or whatever it is.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay. Let’s get you a place to live.”

I nod, take a deep breath, and let her link arms with me as the doorman hurries to allow us entrance. Tonight’s restaurant choice is exactly as I predicted. Over-Botoxed women in their sixties cling to the arm of their balding, paunchy husbands with wandering eyes. Excessive jewelry tells me the wandering eye has probably extended to a wandering hand, and likely their dick.

I’m familiar with this particular scenario considering it’s exactly what my dad did to my mom. Although she was never really one for baubles, so I’m guessing my father found other ways to apologize for his indiscretions. At least until she got tired of the philandering and left.

My mother is gorgeous, but she refused to play by the same rules as so many of the other women in this environment seem to. She wouldn’t get the surgery, the facelifts, whatever tucks and nips to keep her looking like the twenty-three-year-old my father married. So he upgraded to a newer model, and test-drove a lot of them along the way.

It’s why I’m a little jaded when it comes to the trust-fund boys. Like father like son is usually how it tends to go, and I haven’t met many fathers who aren’t looking at their daughters’ friends like they’re the next toy they want to play with. It’s disgusting really.

Armstrong is already at our table drinking scotch, or bourbon, or some kind of amber alcohol, sans his cousin Bancroft. The waitress at the table has her back to us, her tray balanced on one palm, her other hand perched on her jutting hip. She laughs at something he says and flips her long dark ponytail over her shoulder.

I glance at Amie, who’s stiffened, her grip on my arm tightening just a little. I want to believe this match is a good one, but I’m not sure I do. On the outside, Armstrong appears to be ideal husband material. But I worry that this whirlwind romance is clouding her judgment, as is her parents’ approval of this match.

Despite being a bit of a wild child, Amie is also an approval seeker. Anarchy Amie used to like to get up to no good, but she’d suffer serious remorse if she got caught in her acts of defiance. On the rare occasions our cover story didn’t work, she would spend the next month attempting to be the perfect daughter to atone. It’s an interesting dichotomy. She wants to do the right thing, but she also likes to push the boundaries.

Even her degree was more about making her parents happy than actually doing what she wants with her life. Although, she seems reasonably satisfied with her job—and she has one, so there’s an upside to all her pleasing of other people. Maybe if I suffered from that affliction I’d also be gainfully employed. With my own fiancé.

Armstrong’s smile dips for a second when he notices our approach, and then widens to reveal his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. He nods to the waitress and slides out of his seat, smoothing a hand over his tie as he gives Amie a heated once over. She’s wearing the same simple black dress she had on when she showed up at my apartment. It’s cinched at the waist with a pencil style skirt that highlights her curvy hips and an ass shaped by hours of Pilates and uncountable squats.

“My gorgeous fiancée.” The waitress moves aside and Armstrong takes Amie’s hand, pressing a kiss to each one of her knuckles.

Amie giggles and blushes when he pulls her in close to whisper something in her ear. I’m assuming it’s in relation to activities taking place later in the evening based on how red her face goes.

It’s short-lived anyway. Armstrong steps back and turns his charming smile to me. “Ruby, I’m so pleased Amalie extended the invitation for dinner tonight. I trust you enjoyed yourself at the engagement party.”