Minted, p.5
Minted, page 5
“Whoa, what are you doing? Are you messaging her right now?” I try to snatch my phone back.
“Oh, no way.” She clutches my phone to her chest. “You’re not allowed to touch anything on this app while I’m your manager.”
“Wait a second,” I say. “I didn’t agree to that.”
She holds out the phone, but I can smell the trap.
“What?”
“No problem. You can take over again for yourself.”
“Oh, come on,” I say.
She pins me with a glare. “Bentley Harrison, if you want me to find you a woman who meets all your criteria, if you want me to weed through the over-made-up and social-climbing masses, then you have to do as I say.”
As a control freak, this does not come easily to me, but I see her point. “Fine.”
“You will not open the app yourself.”
“I won’t.”
She smiles, and I hate how happy it makes me. She may as well scratch me behind the ears and say Good Boy. “Now, here’s contestant number two.” She swivels my phone around again. “Marcia Oppenheimer.”
“That’s a name,” I say.
“Oh, who cares about that? If all goes well, it’ll be Marcia Harrison soon.”
“Unless she wants to hyphenate, and then all our kids will be named something like Kirk Oppenheimer-Harrison, and they’ll hate me forever.”
Barbara rolls her eyes and snorts, which is how I know I’m being the perfect amount of ridiculous. “In addition to being just lovely, she’s also a stand-up comedian some weekends, and she’s very well traveled. She also mentions that she wants a big family.”
When she spins it back to show me photos, I can’t help notice that Barbara’s a little too excited. The petite little brunette is cute, but Barbara’s beaming.
“Why are you trying to sell me on this one? She didn’t threaten you with a bomb, did she?”
“Huh?” Barbara puts my phone down.
“Oppenheimer,” I say. “You know, the bomb guy?”
“Actually, you might have been right.” Barbara purses her lips. “You’re going to have a lot of trouble winning people over if they don’t know you’re rich.”
“That’s rude,” I say.
“Look, our third and final contestant is a librarian, and she’s both pretty and charitably minded. She helps set up little libraries all over the area, getting people to donate the books their kids have already read. She lists her passion as increasing literacy in children in the inner city.”
“That sounds super duper fake,” I say.
“What? Why?”
I sigh. “Who really cares about helping a bunch of people they’ve never met?”
“She likes kids.” Barbara holds up one finger. “She’s smart.” She holds up a third. “And look.” She spins the phone around, and I can’t argue with her. The librarian’s lovely to look at. She’s tall and thin, and her long, blond hair falls like a waterfall down her back.
“Isn’t it strange that a librarian has photos that look like she’s a print model?” I ask.
“Or a runway model,” Barbara says. “It says she’s five foot eleven.”
“I like tall women,” I say. “But I don’t love people who are constantly staring at mirrors and redoing their lipstick. It’s tiring.”
Barbara’s pretending to scribble something down. “Effortless beauty that is never annoying and never takes up any of Bentley’s precious time.” She looks up. “Sorry. I forgot to write that one down. You now have zero applicants who are viable.”
“On eHarmony,” I say.
She chucks her wadded up napkin at me. And then she throws the pen.
“Look, all I’m saying is that there must be some kind of balance. All those women look airbrushed and fake, and I wouldn’t be surprised if half of what’s in their profile isn’t even true.”
“And that, my dear Bentley, is online dating in a nutshell. Filtering out the lies from the truth.”
How tiring.
“You better get ready,” she says. “Because you’re about to buy a fake wardrobe so you can fight fire with fire.” She points at the door to the store and tosses her head.
Oh, no. She’s right.
6
Barbara
When I was little, we had this family that we hung out with all the time. My parents invited them over for almost every big holiday. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Easter. Birthdays. They had a little girl my age named Harriet, and she and I were close friends.
As close as you can be when you’re eleven, I suppose.
Anyway, she was super nice, she was funny, and she was smart, too. Family get-togethers were the only time I ever saw her, since we went to different schools. But then as we got older, our elementary schools fed into the same junior high.
I was so excited that Harriet would finally be a school friend. As a somewhat awkward kid, I didn’t have a ton of friends in my classes. If only we got the same classes, I’d have a bestie.
Finally.
On the first day of school, I hit the jackpot.
Harriet was in four of my six classes! She was a little quiet the first day and barely acknowledged that she saw me, but I knew that once things settled in, it would be amazing. Only, the second day, when I tried to sit by her, she told me the seat was saved.
Saved!
And not for me.
By the third day, it was clear she was planning to act like she didn’t even know me. It broke my little heart, and I was also confused. I was so confused that I didn’t even tell my parents. When my birthday party rolled around a month later, I expected her to skip it.
But she showed up, with exactly the present I wanted: a huge art kit.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I thought we weren’t friends.”
“Why would you think that?” She looked genuinely confused. “I really like you.”
“But you ignore me at school,” I said, even though it felt worse than that. It felt like sometimes she was even mocking me behind my back.
“Oh.” She waved her hand dismissively. “That’s just school. I didn’t realize you were such a dork there. And anyway, it’s too late to fix it now.”
“It’s not too late,” I said. “If we ask Miss Kent, we can trade seats.”
“No.” She frowned. “It’s too late for you—no one likes you. But we’re still friends here, where that kind of thing doesn’t matter.”
That night, I told my mom what was going on, and she stopped inviting their family to our house for any gatherings. I’ve always wondered whether I did the right thing, or whether Harriet was right. Can you really separate your true feelings from your social act? Did I lose a true friend because I couldn’t manage a basic human social function?
I mean, we all put on fronts.
And now, I’m helping Bentley put on the dumbest front of all time. I watch, in awe, as he goes into the dressing room wearing four thousand dollars’ worth of clothing and emerges wearing two hundred.
“That belt is so wrong.” I can’t help laughing.
“Why?” He bends over, trying to see the belt.
“Never mind. It looks alright.” I laugh more. “And those pants.” I intentionally picked the ugliest clothes I could find at first, but I thought he’d filter them out. Instead, he marched out dressed like a British caddy for a pro golfer. Apparently when you don’t shop for yourself, you just dress up in whatever someone hands you, like a living doll.
The worst part is that, even with loud plaid pants and an ugly sweater, Bentley still looks like an ice-cream sundae with extra cherries.
This deal we made seemed like a good idea, but now it feels like I’m just torturing myself. I’ve always known he was too good for me, but now I’m actively involved in setting him up with women who are dozens of leagues ahead of me, and the more time I spend with Bentley, whom I previously only saw at Dave and Seren’s parties, the more I like him.
This could turn out worse than the Harriet debacle if I’m not careful.
While he’s inside trying things on, I check my email to make sure I’m not missing anything critical. I almost scream when I see that I have another inane email from the HR department about the Twinning girls. Our client’s going to be ticked if we can’t set up the details of the holiday campaign in the next two or three days.
I open the email—which is essentially some complaint that the signature on the forms is nothing like the signatures from last year. “Do they think people are robots?” I mutter to myself. “My signature looks different every time.” I click on the attachments, and I suddenly understand their frustration.
The signatures aren’t just different. The signatures are nothing alike. One looks like an adult’s quick scrawl, and one looks like. . .well, it looks like the little girls tried to forge it for some reason. And they didn’t even do a good job. I sigh and fire off a quick reply. I’ll have to go out for a face-to-face visit tomorrow. I’m lucky they’re local.
But then Bentley’s out again, and I’m distracted. Within half an hour, we’ve found some decent options, and while he doesn’t look quite as yummy, he still looks pretty good. “Yes, those pants and those shirts are all interchangeable,” I say. “That’s the good thing about cheap clothes. They’re made to go with most anything.”
“We should get something for you,” Bentley says. “To thank you for helping me.” His eyes widen. “But we don’t have to get something cheap.” He looks around with an expression that makes it clear that to him, Macy’s is like a Goodwill. “We could go to Saks.”
“Bentley.” I wait until he’s looking at me. “I shop here. All the time.”
“Oh.” He shakes his head. “Of course you do.” He cringes. “I need to not say stuff like that, right?”
“People who don’t know you won’t realize you’re a benign snob,” I say. “They might mistake you for a malignant one.”
He laughs. “And I can’t go around being cancerous, can I?”
“It would be better if you didn’t.” I glance at my watch. “Any chance you can drop me off right away?”
“You don’t have time to pick a dress or some shoes?”
Shopping with Bentley? Telling him what size I’m wearing—a twelve with major muffin top or a fourteen—and trying things on while he studies me to see how they look?
I would rather hop up on a grill and barbecue myself.
“That’s a pass for today, sadly. But thanks for the offer.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m very sure,” I say. “But I’m glad we found some things for you.”
After I tell him where my office is, and he puts it into his GPS, he pulls out his phone and dials Dave.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man,” Bentley says. “How’d you like to switch cars with me for a week or two?”
“Yeah, I can’t do that,” Dave says. “I know most people would probably kill for your McLaren or Bentley or that sweet new Bugatti, but I like bigger cars.”
“The Bentley’s not too small.”
Dave laughs. “Dude.”
“Or you could borrow the Porsche.”
Dave chuckling. “You have a problem.”
“It’s only a problem if I can’t afford it.”
“Well, I have a teenager, and I can’t give him rides to or from anywhere without a decent-sized back seat.”
“He can sit in the front,” Bentley says.
“But then where will Seren sit?”
“You can go without her,” I say.
“Why on earth would you want to borrow my Acura, anyway?”
“Never mind.” Bentley hangs up.
“Uh oh,” I say. “What’re you going to do? None of those cars are something that someone who makes two hundred grand would drive.”
Bentley sighs.
“Fine. If you insist—”
But Bentley’s already typing something into his GPS.
C. A. R. D. E. A. L. E.
“Please tell me that you aren’t about to buy a car so you can look like a regular guy.”
“Because that’s so much stranger than buying all those clothes?” Bentley looks absurdly handsome when he looks over at me, his eyes flashing.
“It’s not necessary,” I say. “You can just borrow my car.”
“You have a car?” He frowns. “Then why am I taking you—”
“Mine’s at the shop, but it’ll be done today. I had to redo the brakes.”
“Oh.” His brow furrows. “What kind of car is it?”
“It’s a Buick LeSabre,” I say, lifting my nose just a little.
“A Buick?” he asks. “Are you serious? I thought you had to be fifty or older to even buy one.”
“Well, the person who bought it was.” My eyes drop to my hands.
“Oh.” His hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. “I’m sorry.”
“I should sell it, I know,” I say. “But Mom drove it for years, and honestly, it kind of smells like her a little.”
“It does?”
“Well, I keep buying the same air freshener she used, so yes.”
He laughs. “Good call. That’s not something you could do with any other car.” But the judgment’s gone from his tone.
“I hate to play the dead mom card, but sometimes it comes in handy.”
“Still, do you really think a Buick LeSabre is the right impression for me to make?”
“I think it won’t scream that you’re rich, and if you hit it off, you won’t have to explain to the girl that you bought a car you had no interest in driving so you could deceive her.”
“Interesting. I never thought of it like that.”
“Your clothes are nondescript, so I doubt she’ll even think about them if you hit it off. But a car? At least you’ll be able to say you just borrowed one.”
“Alright, alright,” he says. “I get it. I’ll borrow yours.”
“Which of yours are you going to loan me?” The perks of this job just keep improving.
“Which one do you want?”
“This one’s pretty nice.” I run my hand down the armrest, and I sigh. “It doesn’t smell right, though. Do you think they’d have the mothballs and old mice nests air freshener at the corner store over there?”
“No air fresheners allowed,” Bentley says.
I’m laughing as I get out of his car. “Don’t worry. I’m sure once I’ve spilled a few sauces from Chick-fil-A, it’ll smell just fine.”
He’s cringing like he’s not sure I’m kidding. Which is exactly what I want. “When’s the first holiday party?”
“Oh, shoot,” I say. “I forgot to text you.” I cringe a little. “It’s tomorrow. Can you still come?”
“For sure,” he says. “Text me the time. We can change cars afterward.”
“Right,” I say. “Good plan.”
“What should I wear?” he asks.
“Not your undercover stuff. I want you to knock everyone’s socks off.”
“Knock socks off,” he says. “Check.”
“I’ll be wearing a bright green dress.”
I’m about to go in when he freezes. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
He flips the phone toward me. “Someone sent me a reply.” He swallows. “Why does it say a reply?”
“I messaged them, remember?” I gesture for the phone. “Gimme.”
He hands me his phone, and I pull up the message. “Lila says she’d love to get to know you better,” I say. “I think we go ahead and meet her. Yes?”
“Who’s Lila?” He looks lost.
“Lila the Librarian,” I say. “She was the most promising one.”
“I don’t think you told me her name, and I disagree that she’s the most promising.”
I tap a few things into the app, and hit send. “Well, I guess you’ll find out the night after tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Two days?” All the blood drains from his face. “I need more time to prepare.”
“Trust me,” I say. “You’ve had three dozen more matches since this morning. You’ll have plenty of other options if this one isn’t a love connection.”
He nods slowly. “Plus, you can prep me more at the party.”
I can’t help smiling. Does he really think he needs to prepare? “If you two click, then you click, Bentley. It should be easy.”
“Right.”
I’m about to close the door when I hear my name being called.
“Barbara?” It’s James.
I slam the door as quickly as I can and turn around, hoping Bentley didn’t hear.
“I’ll be ready with the numbers for the lunch meeting,” I say.
“You’re sure late coming in.” He’s craning his neck to look at the bright yellow Bugatti.
And the window rolls down. Bentley’s leaning toward it so he’s easy to see. “Hey, James.” His two hundred watt smile might be a bit much.
“Bentley?” James does not look pleased. He never said so, but maybe he never liked Bentley either.
“I’ve got to run,” Bentley says. “But I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.” He kisses his fingers and throws his hand toward me.
I’m terrified that James will laugh, but he doesn’t. His eyes bug out and his mouth drops open, and he splutters as Bentley’s engine roars.
“You’re dating him?”
“Don’t want to be late for the meeting.” I rush away as fast as I can, and during the meeting, I refuse to meet James’ eye. Because this may be a lie that’s just too big to pull off.
No one on earth will believe that I could be dating Bentley Harrison.
Nobody.
7
Barbara
Normally, my makeup doesn’t take me very long to do, because I don’t wear very much. But when I’m going to a party for Clinique’s management team, one of our biggest clients, I make sure to use only their products, and I take great care in application.
Unfortunately, that means I’m running a little late for the party.
Apparently James is too, because he knocks on my office door. “Hey, can you bring the gift? Kristy’s meeting me there, and I’m not sure I can carry it by myself without damaging it.” He smiles a little too smugly, and I realize he’s fishing for information.
