"Stop frowning," Paisley ordered. "Or do you want cartoon eyebrows?"

"Sorry."

"Is that another briefing from Brooks?"

I lowered the phone and tried to relax, easier said than done when my next stop was a charity golf tournament at the Rolling Hills Country Club where—according to Brooke's notes—I'd have to act as a human shield against a tsunami of wealthy she-wolves who wanted to eat him alive.

"Yup." The man was freakishly organised. He always sent comprehensive notes on what he expected from me, plus a colour-coded list of issues to be aware of. Briley Beckmann and Chiara Kennedy-something-or-other both had red flags next to their names. "I should have worn false nails because there's a good chance I might have to claw someone's eye out."

"You want stiletto acrylics for that. I could hook you up with an excellent nail technician."

"By eleven thirty?"

I had to be at the country club in less than an hour, and the traffic outside was murder. I'd had to fight my way past a broken-down limo and two drivers arguing beside a fender bender just to reach Paisley's apartment this morning. Since she was scheduled on a night shoot later, she'd offered to smooth out my blemishes before she went to work and I faced off against people who applied makeup for a living.

"Eleven thirty? She's good, but she's not a magician. No, I meant for next time."

"I don't even know if there'll be a next time."

"Of course there will. You're Brooks Carrington's official fake girlfriend. Ditching you would be like chumming the waters for the sharkettes. Close your eyes for a moment."

I complied, and Paisley went to work with a dusky grey eyeliner pencil while I ran through the briefing in my head.

"Have you ever heard of Briley Beckmann?"

"Ah, crap." She cursed under her breath as the tip of the pencil skidded across my eyelid. "Briley's going to be there?"

"You know her?"

"She's a friend of Velvet Jones's. Trust me when I say you definitely want to stay out of her way, and her dogs' way too."

"Uh, I'm literally getting paid to stand in her way."

"Yikes. Okay, okay, wait a second..." She ran into the bedroom and began rummaging. Something hit the floor with a thump, and I heard more cursing, followed by a triumphant, "Found them!"

"Found what?" I called.

"These." She waved two plastic things with elastic straps hanging from them. "They're Derek's shin guards. You know, for soccer?"

Derek was her boyfriend of seven months. I still wasn't sure he'd go the distance, but Paisley was happy for now, and that was the only thing that mattered.

"But I'm playing golf."

"No, no, they're for the dogs. These little plastic bits protect your ankles. See? All you need to do is slide them on under your golf slacks and you might not get rabies."

"I'm wearing shorts." Cute little pastel plaid shorts with a pale pink polo shirt and one of those little sun visors. In Brooks's world, appearances mattered, and he even gave me an allowance so I could purchase appropriate clothes for our "dates." This week, he'd sent me a three-hundred-dollar gift card for a golf store. Three hundred dollars! I'd rather have gotten grocery money, but beggars couldn't be choosers. I'd just have to take my chances with the rabid pooches. "Are the dogs really that bad?"

"They're like furry piranhas in matching sweaters. Selina May locked herself in her trailer and refused to come out until all six of them had left the lot."

"Briley has six dogs?"

"No, five, but I'm counting Briley because she's a bitch as well. She's interested in Brooks? Poor guy."

"Her and an heiress named"—I checked my phone—"Chiara Kennedy-Ford."

Paisley sucked in a breath. "Did you hear there are openings for greeters at Walmart?"

"Is she truly that bad?"

"Uh, yes? If Briley's a velociraptor, then Chiara's Godzilla. I heard she made Ella Lowes cry at a charity gala because Ella arrived with Connor in a regular limo and Chiara's gone all eco-warrior since she got signed up to promote a line of electric cars. Except she flew to LAX on a private freaking jet, so really, she's just a massive hypocrite."

"If she asks, I'll say I came on the bus."

"No! Do not mention buses. She hates public transport more than she hates fossil fuels. Just act enigmatic and don't say a word."

Sheesh. I sure would be earning my money today.

"Next time, I should ask Brooks for hazard pay."

"Good plan—do you know how much that man's worth? He can totally afford it."

Okay, so I might have googled him. Repeatedly. Brooks Carrington, reclusive businessman, helped his billionaire father, Wynn, to run the family business. Carrington Holdings invested in everything from real estate to rockets and had cemented the Carrington family among California's elite. But somehow, Brooks managed to be a genuinely nice guy and surprisingly normal compared to most of the Beverly Hills crowd. I still pinched myself that he'd picked me as his fake date, but as with so many clients, he'd come via a referral. I'd escorted one of his old friends to a wedding after he drunk-googled me following a bad breakup. The friend had been a bit of a dick, but I'd laughed politely at his terrible jokes—I'd gotten good at smiling through pain, thanks Sebastian—and the effort had paid off because then I'd landed Brooks and his OCD-inspired briefings.

"It was a joke," I told Paisley. "I'm not going to ask Brooks for more money."

I mean, I'd already inflated my fee. The first time he'd called, he wanted me to attend a product launch first thing on a Wednesday morning, a Wednesday morning that followed a big fat Irish wedding on a Tuesday night. I just knew I'd end up with a hangover. The last thing I wanted to do was sit through a product launch—yawn—with a headache, so I'd doubled my hourly rate. Brooks had agreed to pay it without hesitation.

And despite what I'd said to Cooper, I did kinda like Brooks and his obsessive organisation. He always acted professional. Gentlemanly. Oh, sure, he was way out of my league, but a girl could dream, couldn't she? And who wouldn't be attracted to a guy who could afford to buy groceries, called when he said he would, and didn't try to cop a feel because he thought having a dick made him entitled?

"At least make the most of the free food," Paisley said.

Oh, yeah, that was a given. I was no size zero, and my left thigh wouldn't fit into the sample size, let alone my boobs and my ass. One day, I dreamed of starting a fashion line for women who were shaped like me.

"I absolutely will."

***

I can't believe people play golf for fun.

The Rolling Hills Country Club was something of a misnomer because there wasn't anything grand enough to be called a hill, just gentle slopes of manicured green interspersed with the occasional perfectly raked bunker or neatly pruned copse of trees. And thanks to the number of slender, well-dressed women with their foreheads frozen in place above ruler-straight noses and too-white teeth, it felt as if I'd taken a wrong turn into Uncanny Valley instead.

On the plus side, with all the wealth washing around, this painfully posh golf tournament should raise plenty of cash for Live without Limits. The charity helped disabled children to achieve their dreams, which made the evil glares I was getting from Brooks's wannabe bed buddies worth it.

"I can't believe people play golf for fun either," Brooks said.

"Crap, did I say that out loud?"

"You did." His lips twitched, but he soon grew serious when he spotted an older man heading in our direction, followed by a caddy sagging under the weight of a bag. How many golf clubs did one man need? "Senator Monroe, it's good to see you again. Ally, have you met Carson Monroe?"

Of course I hadn't, but I held out a hand. "It's a pleasure."

Rather than shaking my hand as I'd intended, the senator flipped it upside down, brought it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles. Ugh. What a slimeball. When he released me, I was about to shove my hands into my pockets in case he got tempted to say goodbye in a similar manner, but Brooks got there first. I appreciated that about him. Although I was a paid employee, he still looked out for me. A tiny shiver ran through me as he held my hand lightly in his, no over-the-top possessiveness, just a subtle sign that misplaced affection wasn't welcome.

"How's your father, son?" Monroe asked Brooks. "Been a while since I've seen him."

"He's been busy with some of our overseas investments."

"No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"There never is."

The senator gave a knowing chuckle. "Pass on my thanks for the donation to my campaign."

"I'll do that."

Brooks steered me away. He talked to a lot of people at these events, but he never lingered in one place for long or answered personal questions. In the world of business, it seemed quantity beat quality when it came to small talk.

"You don't like golf?" I ventured as we walked to the fifth hole. This gig called for me to play too—unfortunately—and I'd already exceeded the par thingy for the whole course and lost two balls in a pond. I sure hoped whatever Paisley had sponged onto my face covered up my burning cheeks. A less financially desperate woman might have died of humiliation by now, but I had to think positive—at least I'd be able to pay the rent this month. And it had been nice to see Brooks smile, though. Mr. Control Freak didn't do that often.

"I prefer surfing."

"Surfing?" Great, now I'd be compelled to google "Brooks Carrington +surfboard" as soon as I got home. Why hadn't I seen those pictures during my extensive online stalking—I mean, client research? "I can't imagine you surfing?"

"Why not?"

Because the ocean was unpredictable? He couldn't send the waves a PowerPoint presentation on exactly what he expected from them?

"Isn't it dangerous?"

Brooks sighed. "Have you been speaking with my father?"

"Absolutely not."

But I had looked the man up, and Wynn Carrington was the type of man who could wither a person with a single glare. In fact, I'd been a little nervous about taking the job in case Brooks turned out to share the same traits, but the genetic lottery had come up trumps. Or maybe Brooks was adopted? Or his mom secretly had an affair? Or—

Brooks cut me a sideways glance, and his lips twitched again. "I see Dad's reputation precedes him."

"Oh, no, no, no. Okay, so maybe I happened to see an interview with him on YouTube, but that's all."

"Was it the one where some jackass questioned his investment strategy?"

"The one where he left the jackass visibly shaking? Yes, but other than that, he seems like a really great guy."

That elicited an actual laugh from Brooks. "He doesn't suffer fools gladly."

We reached the fifth hole, already way behind schedule. At the rate we were going—okay, at the rate I was going—we'd be lucky to make it to the clubhouse by nightfall. We'd miss dinner. There was a twenty-four-hour pizza joint on my way back to Cooper's place, and Brooks probably had a personal chef waiting at home, but I was still messing up a paid engagement.

"Sorry I'm so bad at this," I muttered. "Sport really isn't my thing. Can't we just write me down at seven hundred strokes and save the grass?"

"And spoil my entertainment?"

"Can I propose a future contract amendment: no laughter at your date's expense?" When Brooks didn't reply right away, my guts knotted. We didn't usually joke around, and I feared I'd overstepped. "Unless I'm jumping the gun. I realise we don't have any other events scheduled."

Again, silence. Was Brooks trying to let me down gently? Had he finally realised that no matter how he instructed me to dress, I'd never fit into his world and decided to upgrade me for a better model? Since I started The Ex Files, a dozen competitors a month had sprung up, many of them prettier than me, and Paisley, who took her position as research assistant a little too seriously at times, had informed me that several of the newbies offered "extras."

I waved a hand down the fairway. "So I guess I should..."

"There's a funeral," Brooks said softly. "Next Tuesday. Laughter would certainly be inappropriate."

Shit, somebody died? "Uh, I'm sorry for your loss."

He gave a barely perceptible shrug, back to his usual impassive self, and I wished he'd just laugh at me again.

"Are you free?" he asked. "I realise a funeral isn't your usual type of gig."

"I'm free." Should I ask who died? What was the etiquette in a situation like this? "Where's the—"

I broke off when my caddy stepped forward, holding out what I assumed to be an appropriate club, but before I could take it, I was swarmed by tiny furry missiles that yipped and snapped as I backed out of the way. Oh, hell, they were everywhere. I leapt sideways as one of the chihuahuas launched itself at my ankle, but too late, I found out that the caddy had already set a ball on the tee, and I landed right on top of it. My ankle buckled as the ball rolled away, and now I knew how the last human in a zombie movie felt. Destruction awaited, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Did my crappy health insurance cover dog bites?

"I've got you."

Pain shot up my leg as I fell, but before I became chihuahua chow, Brooks waded into the fray. I found myself in his arms, but not for long. One of the caddies stumbled into us, Brooks lost his balance, and then we were all on the ground. He shielded me from razor-blade teeth as the other caddy tried to shake a dog off his shoe.

"Where the hell did these dogs come from?" someone yelled. It might even have been me.

Too late, I realised where my hand had landed, and either Brooks carried a nine-iron in his pants or I'd just broken my own "no touching below the waist" rule in the worst possible way. I snatched my hand away, but it was too late. My gaze met Brooks's, and as his eyes locked onto mine, something flashed in the deep blue depths that looked an awful lot like anger. Dammit. Dammit! A dog ran over my face, breaking the fleeting connection, and yeesh, the baby hellbeasts even had painted toenails.

I rolled over, exposing my jugular. Death by chihuahua was actually the most palatable option right now.