But, and here’s the kicker, it’s not like I can pay over the course of the semester.
Nope, they want it all paid in full by the end of the week.
There is no hope for me.
I’m going to be a college dropout. Although, does it count as a dropout when you’re forced into it?
The real kicker is Aldridge is rolling in the dough. They wouldn’t even miss the money if they let me slip through, but we all know they’re not going to do me any favors. Not some poor, pathetic scholar—
“Hey.”
I look up at the sound of the voice, appalled someone has caught me crying—red-faced and splotchy. I must look halfway insane.
My horror is made worse when it’s none other than Teddy McCallister.
Not only did he witness my complete and utter humiliation at being told my scholarship is poof gone, now he’s found me crying my eyes out like I did when the news dropped in the middle of class that One Direction had broken up.
That was the third worst day of my life.
This obviously being the first now and the second I try not to think about.
“Oh, God,” I mutter, embarrassed at my state. “Um.” Sniffle. “Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
He squints. “It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re lying.”
“What gave me away? Was it the tears, hysterical hiccupping, or red face?”
He grins. “All of the above.”
I sigh, picking up my bag and standing. “Look, I’m fine.”
I’m the furthest thing from my fine, but this is the last guy on campus I want witnessing my breakdown. I can cry from the comfort of my car, and I very well might be sleeping there too because I don’t want to shell out what little money I have for a hotel.
“You don’t look fine.” He’s amused. I guess to him my problems barely register on his radar. I’ve heard he comes from one of the wealthiest families in the world, not just the United States. I can’t even begin to fathom what it would be like to have that kind of money.
“I will be. Thanks for checking on me.”
I start to walk away, but his voice calls me back. “Wait, don’t go yet.”
There’s a slight desperation to his tone.
Turning back around, I give him a curious look. “Why not?”
He fidgets awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. His nose scrunches and he finally blurts, “I think I can help you.”
“Help me?”
“With your tuition. You said you’re a senior, there’s only one semester left—”
I hold up a hand to shut him up and surprisingly he presses his lips together. “How the hell do you think you’re going to help me? It’s a lot of money even for just one semester.”
“Listen, I need a favor, a huge one. You help me, and I’ll help you.”
I look at him in disbelief. “What could you possibly need that’s worth that much money? Do you even have that amount?” I know he comes from a wealthy family, but it doesn’t mean the riches are his.
“I have enough. I don’t get my inheritance until I graduate, but I have an account from my mom. It’s got several hundred grand in it, that’s more than enough to pay your tuition.”
He says several hundred grand the way I’d say I have five bucks. Casually and unaffected.
I gulp. “I’m not blowing you for money.”
He snorts. “Didn’t ask you to, sweetheart.”
“What would you want in exchange for paying for this semester?”
I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this. Am I really this desperate?
Answer: yes, I am, in fact, this desperate.
“Look,” he starts, then shakes his head. “You should sit down.” He points to the bench. “We should sit down.” Now he’s stuttering, and it would be kind of adorable if I weren’t so emotionally strung out.
“I like standing.”
“Fine. Okay. Yeah, um.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I need a girlfriend, a fake girlfriend because I kind of lied to my dad—he’s a real prick by the way—because he didn’t believe me when I told him the truth, so the only way out of it was to convince him I have a girlfriend. Which he doesn’t believe I have. So, he’s challenged me to bring her home next weekend, so yeah, you would do me a real solid pretending to be my girlfriend. Knowing my dad, next weekend won’t be good enough. There’s no telling how long this relationship will last. It might even go as far as marriage and babies.”
I don’t think he takes a single breath in that long-winded rambling speech.
“I hope you’re kidding about the marriage and baby part.”
He pats his crotch. “I would never kid about future Teddy Juniors. Scratch that, I would never name a kid what my parents named me. Our kids can have their own names.”
“I’m not having your babies.”
He scoffs. “Why not?”
“This is insane.” I cover my face with my hands, tears long since dried. Letting my hands fall, I level him with a look, one like my mom would give me as a warning that if I didn’t stop whatever it was I was doing that I would regret it. “You, you are insane.”
“Nah, babe, I’m perfectly sane. This is a rational decision. Mutually beneficial. You need your tuition paid, and I need a fake-girlfriend.”
“That’s a lot of money for a fake-girlfriend. You’re popular. I’m sure you could find any lucky lady on campus that would do this for free.”
“I’m sure I could, but you don’t know me, and you don’t seem to want me. I mean, you’ve already scoffed at the idea of having my children, when most would be more than glad. That makes you the perfect fit, because you won’t get attached.”
I snort, a totally and completely unladylike sound. “Yeah, you definitely don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’ll go back in there right now,” he points over his shoulder at the administration building, “and pay. Say the word.”
“You’re crazy,” I gasp in disbelief.
“I promise you, I’m not. I’m completely rational.”
“No sane person pays for another’s tuition.”
He shrugs. “It’s not that much money.”
I reel at his words, and realize that to him it’s not, but I can’t wrap my head around that. I count every cent, divvying it out and deciding if I have enough extra to treat myself to a coffee or order a new pair of leggings, but he’s talking about nearly forty-thousand dollars for one semester of school like it’s nothing. I can’t relate to what it must feel like to throw money around willy-nilly.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, his eyes following my movement.
“Say yes … I don’t actually know your name.” He scratches his brow. “That’s bad. If you’re going to be my fake-girlfriend I should know your name.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything and it’s Vanessa.”
“Vanessa,” he swirls my name around his tongue like an expensive wine he’s trying to identify the notes of, “you need me and I need you. This is a symbiotic relationship.”