Instead, I called my best friend, Rachel.
She listened quietly.
Then said,
“You need a date.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then acquire one.”
I laughed.
“Acquire a man?”
“Rent one.”
I stopped laughing.
Rachel did event planning for corporate clients, so I assumed she was joking.
She wasn’t.
“There are agencies,” she said. “Actors. Models. Professional companions. People hire them for reunions, weddings, business events.”
“That is completely insane.”
“Your ex invited you to his wedding specifically so you could attend alone.”
I considered that.
“Okay. Less insane than Mason.”
“Exactly.”
Two days later, Rachel sent me a number.
The agency owner was a woman named Denise.
I expected her to laugh when I explained the situation.
Instead, she said, “What kind of impression are we trying to create?”
“I want my ex to believe I’ve moved on.”
“Successful?”
“Preferably.”
“Handsome?”
“Obviously.”
“Affectionate?”
“Not obnoxiously.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
Then Denise chuckled.
“I’ve got someone.”
His name was Julian Cross.
We met four days before the wedding at a coffee shop in downtown Richmond.
I arrived early.
Then he walked through the door.
And I immediately understood why people paid him to attend things.
Julian was tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A charcoal jacket over a plain white shirt.
Not flashy.
Just effortlessly put together.
He spotted me, smiled, and came over.
“Claire?”
“Julian?”
He shook my hand.
“Your temporary boyfriend.”
I nearly spit out my coffee.
“You say that very casually.”
“Occupational hazard.”
