She seemed perfect to me. Absolutely perfect with outstanding references and could pay a year’s worth of her rent. And, bonus, I didn’t want to have sex with her.
Nahla drew up a lease agreement, and Friday morning we were about to sign it when she started asking questions.
“I love that it’s a gated community. I’m trying to upgrade the security of my clients.”
Did that sound odd to you, or did I hear it wrong? Are the gears turning in your head too?
It’s then, as we’re seated at my kitchen booth, the one I feed my toddler at every morning, that I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach like something isn’t completely legit in Leslie Logan.
Nahla did a background check on her and everything. As far as I know, she wasn’t sleeping with my husband.
Kidding.
I hope she wasn’t, because I don’t know and I can only handle one mistress. Because guess who’s watching Frozen with Tatum at the moment? Freaking Remi. She keeps showing up. This time it’s to bring my lip gloss back that I stuffed in her bra the night we went out. I don’t recall doing that, but I don’t remember a lot of that night. Other than amazing sex, but that’s beside the point. The point is it’s like my husband died and I became a magnet of disaster and gained some dependents. I don’t even know how to handle it, let alone tell Remi to leave because, knowing Collin, he completely took advantage of a young college girl.
Anyway, back to this Leslie Logan. I take in her appearance. Nice clothes, conservative. Eyelash extensions, manicured nails, and lip filler for sure, but that’s common these days. I feel like everyone has that.
My pen halts on the paper, her check for a year’s worth of rent in front of me.
She stares at me, unseeing to my silent alarms. “Do you have discrete parking? Maybe behind the house?”
Okay, what the fuck? “No, just the garage parking in the third stall. You can park there.” I don’t sign my name to the lease yet. “What did you say you did for a living?”
She blinks those impossibly long lashes at me. “I’m an escort. Discretion for my clients is super important to me.”
I push the papers away from me. “I can’t rent you the room.”
She honestly looks fucking surprised. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t have you bringing men here to have sex. I have a three-year-old daughter here, and this is a nice neighborhood.”
Her expression hardens. “I’ll have you know, Sydney, my clients are wealthy businessmen.”
“I don’t care who your clients are. I’m not renting you a room.”
Leslie snatches her check from the table and reaches for her bag. “Fine. Whatever.”
Remi looks over at me from the couch, her eyes wide when Leslie leaves. “What happened?”
“She’s a prostitute,” I mumble, relieved I sold a painting this week because I’m going to need that money to get through the next month if I can’t get this room rented.
She stands, leaving Tatum to watch her Olaf scenes alone. “No cap?”
Ugh. Of course she says shit like that.
Anxiety gnaws at my throat. It’s like I have a permanent lump in there I can’t swallow. I lift my eyes to Remi and her perfect face. “Why are you here?”
Remi smiles. “I like you.”
“I can’t be your friend.”
Her brow collapses. “Why?”
I lower my voice so Tatum can’t hear me. Funny enough, she’s singing along to “Let It Go,” cementing the idea that we might let all this shit go and become gypsies. “You were fucking my husband, Remi. That automatically makes us not friends.”
Her eyes flood with tears. “But I didn’t know he was married.”
My resting bitch face surfaces. “Yes, you did.”
“Okay.” She sighs and sits across from me. “I knew he was married, but he made it sound like you were awful.”
“Surprise.” I sit back in the booth, defeated. “I am.”
Halfway through Tatum’s very loud performance of “Let It Go,” Remi bursts into tears and cries into her palms. Fuck. Why me?
I have no idea if I should hug her, tell her to leave, or hand over my last bottle of wine. Let’s not get crazy. I’m not giving up my last bottle. “Are you okay?”
“I’m feeling really vulnerable right now.” She sobs. “I need someone to talk to.”
“Don’t you have friends?”
Her tears slow. “Believe it or not, other women don’t like me.”
“I wonder why.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Reaching forward, I touch her hands. “Remi, I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time. I’m sure this is