Читать книгу The Billionaire's Intern - Maisey Yates - Страница 8

Logan Black looked out the window, directly across from his desk. The view of Fifth Avenue was both entrancing and slightly off-putting. Depending on his mood.

And his moods were subject to change at a moment’s notice.

The streets were packed with cars, nothing unusual, but the kind of thing that made his vision swim when it caught him off guard. Like just now.

He should have closed the curtains.

He turned his focus away from the view and leaned back in his chair, looking at the time displayed on his phone. Addison Treffen was due to arrive any moment. The beautiful daughter of the recently murdered Jason Treffen. If her brother hadn’t called in the favor, he would have happily chosen almost anyone else.

There was no place for soft, beautiful women in his life. Not now.

But Austin was one of the few people who tried to maintain a friendship with him since his return. And while Logan hadn’t done much to reciprocate, the gesture was appreciated.

Still, the idea of bringing Addison into Black Book, keeping her here…

Yesterday, it had seemed that it might work. Today, he was less certain.

He was used to that. To his moods changing like the tide. To New York feeling like a storm he could swim through one day—and one that would drown him in the depths the next.

Some days were much harder than others and he could never quite pinpoint what kind of day it would be. It usually started with shoes. That was often the biggest clue. How much did they bother him when he put them on? How much did he resent having to wear them?

If the shoes were a problem, it was a fair bet that the Manhattan streets would be too. That the traffic below would feel like his own personal hell.

Shoes had been a problem this morning. Which meant his meeting with Addison would be interesting indeed.

Though it occurred to him he might need to put his shoes on before she arrived.

He looked down at the pair of shoes and socks beneath his desk. Just a standard pair of black dress socks, and a pair of very expensive, handmade leather shoes.

He’d left them under there last night after he kicked them off.

Funny, he’d owned the shoes for something like five years now, but they’d rarely been worn. In part because they’d been new when he left, and in part because since he’d returned he worn them as little as possible.

He didn’t want to wear them. So he wouldn’t.

Ms. Treffen would learn very quickly what it was to work with him. He did not bend for convention. He forced others to bend to him.

But he was aware now of what was necessary and what was simply an extra rule imposed by society. He’d been a man stripped down to nothing. A man at his simplest, at his darkest. Where there was nothing more than life or death. Where there certainly weren’t rules about what sort of shoes he should wear into work. Or if he should wear them at all.

Though he realized that whether he cared or not, others did.

He also realized that sometimes there was a lot of power in making others uncomfortable.

There was a knock at his office door, and he knew it had to be her. Because she was the only person the front desk had permission to allow up. And because he didn’t like being paged over the intercom, a knock was the only way anyone could signal their presence.

There were a lot of things he didn’t like now. One of the many reasons his old friends, barring Austin Treffen, seemed to find him boring these days. But it didn’t bother him.

The feeling was entirely mutual.

“Come in,” he said, putting his hands on his desk, palms down, as strange, restless energy surging through him. It was like this with people. Always.

The door cracked open, and she led with her leg. A shapely, stocking-clad leg. There was no avoiding the fact that it was a nice leg. That wasn’t even up for debate. Even in his twisted brain, where things often seemed backward or upside down, a nice leg made sense.

The woman that followed the leg was even better than the body part in isolation. Blond, petite, with blue eyes that were like a deep, clear sea. Her lips were full, a pale pink not like anything found in nature on his island. It was far too delicate a shade.

She was wearing a white skirt that tapered to fit her shape, ending just below her knee, a matching, fitted jacket conforming to her curves.

And on her feet, adding, he had no doubt, to the shapeliness of her legs, were a pair of black high heels that added nearly four inches to her height and likely pushed her feet into a near-impossible position.

He’d never given much thought to women’s shoes prior to his experience on the island. But now that he resented his own footwear so damn much, he couldn’t help wondering just how contorted Addison’s feet would be in something like that.

Though the wonderment in no way detracted from her legs.

Every part of Addison Treffen was exquisite. Photos of her in the news didn’t do her justice.

“Mr. Black,” she said, his eyes level with his. “I’m Addison Treffen. My brother arranged this meeting and—”

“I’m fully aware of the details of the arrangement.”

She blinked, her expression remaining neutral. “Well, I had thought it possible my brother spoke with someone you worked for.”

“One thing you will learn about me, Ms. Treffen—nothing happens here without my approval. And no one would be permitted in my office, on my floor, in my hotel, without my arranging it.”

The hardness in his tone didn’t ruffle her. The petite, small-framed woman with her smooth hair, skin and clothes, staring him down with an expression that bordered on serenity, was not at all what he’d expected. “Was the hotel room on offer for anyone who took up the spot?” she asked, her fingers shifting on her handbag, the only slight tell of nerves he’d seen since she walked in.

“Yes,” he said. “I understand that an internship, an unpaid one, is not the easiest thing to negotiate, so it seemed a nice offer.” And in addition to that, he rarely left the hotel. Which meant any assistant of his had to be here.

“Technically, that makes it paid in a way,” she said.

“If you like.”

She smiled and for a moment he was at a loss as to the appropriate social response. Smile back, obviously.

Yes. Obviously.

He smiled, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair that was situated across from his desk.

She crossed the room and complied, her gold bag held tight against her stomach, her hands wrapped around it like claws.

Still, her overall demeanor was calm and when she sat, some of the tension eased from her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s been a strange couple of weeks. To say the least.”

“I heard about your father,” he said, watching her expression. Something kicked over in him, reminding him that he had skipped something important. Something appropriate. “I’m sorry.” The words came too late to seem genuine.

She remained utterly still in her chair, stiff, unmoving. “I’m sorry I had to see it.”

The thought of this soft creature witnessing the death of her own father twisted something deep inside him and left behind an emotion that held a vague echo of sympathy. He knew what that was like. To be jolted out of your privilege and headfirst into every ugly thing the world held.

She didn’t deserve it. It could be argued that he had.

“So,” he said, changing the subject, “what is it you want to get out of this time at Black Properties?”

“I’m here to learn. I’d like to open a hotel someday, a small one. So I think anything I can learn from you would be valuable.”

“And what about school?”

“I’m going to school. I’m a senior at Columbia and should be graduating at the end of the year. Majoring in business, minoring in hospitality. I would love to finish on campus, but at the moment that is…difficult. I’m making arrangements with my professors.”

“But you will finish,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Because school is important?”

“Not particularly,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, her lips making the shape of the word and holding for a moment before she continued. “I’ve never had a job. I went from living at home to going to school. And my parents always took care of me. They still sort of are.”

“Are you trying to dissuade me from giving you the position?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The alternative is hiding out somewhere until the press goes away.”

“Or you can hide here,” he said. “And you can get work experience. How does that sound?”

“It sounds slightly more productive than my plan.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Why not?”

“Not a very definitive answer,” he said. “But one I’ll take.”

He rose from his position behind the desk and Addison followed his lead. He watched her movements. Graceful, poised. She was the product of an aristocratic family, as he had been. She’d been given every tool to succeed from an early age, a private school education of the highest quality that had turned each movement into art, and conversation into a performance.

There had been a time when he’d had those things, but they were lost to him now. Funny how two years of solitude could break a lifetime of habits. He was rarely conscious of it anymore, but something about Addison forced him to be.

Perhaps it was the contrast. The society sweetheart who still lived in it, and society’s favorite former playboy who had retreated so far into the darkness he could only peer in on the world he’d once belonged to. Not because the door was locked, but because he couldn’t remember why in hell he’d ever wanted to be part of it. Because even if he wanted it, he wouldn’t be able to.

Just the thought of it made a cold sweat break out on his neck, made a sick sensation slip down into his stomach.

No, it wasn’t even a possibility for him. And he didn’t want it to be anyway.

“Would you like a rundown on your responsibilities?” he asked.

“Aside from making you coffee or tea?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “Or tea.”

“Oh.”

“Or alcohol.”

“Oh,” she said again, a crease appearing between her finely arched eyebrows.

“I never got used to it again,” he said. “Alcohol just makes me vomit. Coffee gives me a headache.” Possibly too frank judging by the brief contortion of her lips. He could never seem to strike the right balance.

“I see. So…what do I get you, then?”

“I can tell you’re already slightly concerned that rumors of my mental state are true,” he said, watching the momentary flicker in her expression, which was now smooth as glass. As telling as any expression of horror could ever be. “But not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy.”

He walked out from behind his desk, and her eyes fell to his bare feet. She blinked a couple of times.

“Not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy,” he repeated, “but there are other things.”

“I see.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, looking back at his face as if she was determined to skip over the lack of shoes. “What do I do for you, then?” she asked, the softly spoken, crisply articulated words moving over his skin like a breeze that signaled an impending storm. “If I can’t make you coffee or pour you a drink.”

“You can start by fielding the endless messages I get every day.”

“Pardon my impertinence, but why is it you don’t have a paid PA or secretary for this?”

“They keep quitting,” he said. “Hence the internship. I needed someone with no job experience who couldn’t just go out and find another position.”

“Why is that?”

He looked back down at his feet, then back up at her, the left side of his mouth turned up of its own volition. “You’ll see, I imagine.”

Her blue eyes remained level with his. Unblinking. “I have a feeling I will. So, would you mind giving me directions to my room?” she asked.

The idea of her wandering around on his floor without direction made his pulse spike. For the first time, he questioned the wisdom of allowing her to stay here.

But it made sense. And she was just a woman. Nothing to get crazy about.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “Did you bring your things?”

“Yes,” she said. “The staff assured me that they would be sent up ahead of me.”

“And yet you were still testing me. Seeing if I would dismiss you. Hoping I would?”

She smoothed her hair. “Probably that’s what I was doing, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t just turn you down. Austin would have a fit.”

“Would he?”

“He thinks he’s taking care of me… I think he believes this internship is going to magically fix everything that I’ve been through recently. It’s not that simple.”

“You’re preaching to the converted,” he said. “I know all about that.”

“I imagine you do. Which brings me back to the question, what drink do I bring you? Should I juice a pineapple?”

He nearly laughed at that. The impulse was strange and unfamiliar.

“Water,” he said.

“Water?”

“That’s all you need, isn’t it?”

“Most men I’ve met are more concerned with want than need. Sometimes it seems like want must be…more important.” She sounded confused by the concept. As though she didn’t operate on that level. But he knew differently. A woman like Addison Treffen couldn’t possible know about self-denial.

“Here it is,” he said. “But there are a lot of other places where that isn’t the case. I can think of one in particular.”

The corners of her lips turned down. “I apologize. For the comment about the pineapple. It’s probably not something you like people to make joke about.”

He thought about it for a moment, processing the feeling he’d had when she made her pineapple juice comment. Sometimes it took a while for him to evaluate what he felt when he talked to people because he’d spent so long feeling nothing. Well, nothing nuanced. Elation, rage, terror and despair were his primary emotions. The rest had been squeezed down and sorted into one of those four.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said finally, because that was true enough. “Actually people don’t like to mention it, unless they want to grill me, and I’d prefer a casual joke to that.”

“Well, that’s good to know. Or not, if I’m still trying to get you to fire me.”

“You may as well stick this out. You don’t have any better prospects and I’m willing to bet that after your father’s assassination no one will want you around.”

“I think the assassination bothers them less than the fact that he dealt in…very unsavory things, but I could be wrong.”

“Are you in danger?” he asked.

“Would it bother you if I was? Because if the grudge was against the Treffen family, it could make me a hazard.”

“No, it wouldn’t bother me.” For some reason the idea of a rogue gunman bothered him less than stepping out onto the city streets.

He’d given up trying to make sense of himself.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, anyway, the best the police can figure is that it was a professional hit. My father was targeted because he was prepared to accept a plea bargain. To name names in order to shorten his sentence. So it has nothing to do with me, because I know nothing.”

“One hopes the sniper knows that.”

She blinked rapidly. “Thank you for that.”

“Sorry,” he said, knowing the words had little weight. He barely felt them at all. “Sometimes I’m too blunt.”

“Strange. I was expecting a little more charm. Especially given that, from what I’ve heard, you’re a notorious playboy.”

“I haven’t been one of those for quite some time. That was in my other life. Now, would you like to see your room?”

* * *

Addison looked at the man, taller than she’d anticipated. She’d only ever seen Logan Black on TV. Years ago as the playboy moving his way through all of Manhattan’s socialites—her being an exception, as she was barely legal at the time—and now as the miracle heir to Black Properties, back from the dead after two years. Pictures that had flashed onto the television and on newsstands then had been filled with a thinner, more hollow-cheeked version of him. Long hair, a beard. More Swiss Family Robinson than Swiss banker. But none of those articles or clips on TV had prepared her for the presence of the man.

Of course, he was frequently mentioned in business news now, the photo of the grinning playboy back, in place of the gaunt castaway. Before his time away, he’d always been a heartthrob. His lean frame and wicked smile had dropped panties from St. Bart’s to the Upper East Side. He was different now. He didn’t smile. Any snapshots she’d seen on TV recently were definitely old. Because this Logan didn’t look capable of a real smile. And the spark was gone from his eyes. He was larger too. Broader. Any hint of boyishness was gone now.

“Yes,” she said, the word coming slowly. “I think I would like to see my room.”

Logan circled around behind her and Addison felt like prey being hunted by some kind of big jungle cat. And she had the feeling she was willingly walking into his den.

“I’m happy to take you there.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying to force some air into her lungs. Something about him made it hard to breathe. Which was strange because she didn’t usually have that issue with men, even nice-looking ones.

Her aim had always been simple. To conform, to please. To try and gain that elusive, impossible approval from a father who had never deserved that kind of devotion. Not from her or anyone.

So she’d dated one man, the man she’d been expected to date since before she was old enough to even have a crush on a boy. And that relationship had been…passionless didn’t begin to cover it. It had been an obligation.

Because Eddie was the son of one of the firm’s partners. And they were expected, she was sure, to have some kind of dynastic union. Now that she thought about it, and his behavior, she had a feeling he was as coerced as she was.

With all that tied up in her dating life, she hadn’t really looked at men recreationally.

Good-looking guys didn’t thrill her. Usually. This one seemed to be choking her.

“Great, thanks,” she said. “I have some things to do.”

“You have some work to do.”

“Could I get a moment to set up?” she asked.

He assessed her, his expression unreadable. Well, this was going to be a long few months. “I suppose.”

“You’re going to be fun,” she said, “I can tell.”

“No. I won’t be. Ask anyone who knows me.” He pulled open the office door and held it for her and she walked out in front of him, a whisper of electricity shimmering over her skin, a shot of nerves settling in her stomach. Having him behind her made her uncomfortable. And she couldn’t quite figure out why.

Maybe it was because in many ways he seemed to resemble a predator more than a man.

There was something untamed about him, which was a strange thought, here in the middle of a highly polished hotel. That added to it. Heightened the contrast.

They walked down the long, dimly lit hallways. The wall sconces casting glimmering light onto the polished black marble, the tiles shimmering like an oil slick. The deep purple walls reminiscent of an old-fashioned gaming house. Rich with decadence and sin. A shining mix of Victorian Gothic elegance with an edge of modernity. Several stages of civilization represented under one roof, with a man that seemed to possess only the thinnest veneer of the civilized.

And no shoes.

Or maybe she was crazy, and because of that, she was overthinking. Considering all she’d been through lately, that thought wasn’t completely without merit. Actually the fact that she wasn’t showing signs of crazy seemed to worry the people in her life a lot more than witnessing her having a mental breakdown might have.

Which reminded her that she owed Nora a text. Nora was sort of acting as “big sister by default”, since Harlow was in Europe working an internship in the European branch of her father’s law firm.

Another pocket of the world no doubt hit hard by Jason’s uncovering, and his demise. She wondered how it was there. How Harlow, and everyone, was doing.

Harlow had been Addison’s assigned big sister in the sorority house when Addison first pledged, and she still seemed to feel the need to take care of her.

As Harlow’s best friend, Nora was filling in that overprotective gap since Harlow had gone off to Europe. It was hard for Addison to feel close to people. It always had been, with her father’s presence in her life looming so large, his expectations so daunting she had a tendency to hold people at a distance.

Harlow was the person she’d been closest to at school, and when she’d graduated two years earlier, Addison had felt alone again. Even more so since she left the country.

It had only been six months since Harlow left, and it felt like a lifetime since they’d all stood around, toasting her success. Now she doubted Harlow was feeling so triumphant. She had to wonder if her friend felt it was all tainted since the revelation about Jason. Harlow had always been involved in human rights volunteer groups at school, and over the last year, her focus had been turned to human trafficking, and how she could use her law degree to combat it. All a bit too close to Jason’s poison of choice.

That made her want to avoid Nora and Harlow even more. She was embarrassed. That she was connected to Jason. That she cared about Jason. That part of her grieved him.

But, as so few people seemed to care, unless they shared the same last name she did, she supposed she should try and placate Nora with an “I’m fine” text.

It wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to hide. For the next decade. Maybe right here in Logan’s hotel. Possibly forever. So she could find a way to be Addison Treffen again. Rather than Addison Treffen, the daughter of the man who victimized countless women, and who was shot in front of her by a sniper. And the girl who then huddled in the bathroom until the police came, and even then had to be essentially forced out of the corner she’d wedged herself into.

Maybe if she hid under the covers long enough, she would find out she’d been sleeping the whole time. That it was all just a dream. Stranger things had happened, surely.

Maybe she would wake up and find out that her father wasn’t evil. Distant, yes. But not a pimp. Not dead.

She stopped, reaching up to touch one of the ornate gold light fixtures, the metal burning the tip of her finger. She hissed and pulled her hand back. The heat seeping into her fingertips didn’t lie. She was awake.

This was reality.

Her head started to thud, the floor feeling unsteady against her feet.

She looked back at her escort, who was standing a few paces behind her, his face shrouded in shadow, light casting a spray of brightness over his broad chest and shoulders, his neat black tie. Then he stepped forward, the light bursting over his face, sharp cheekbones, blue eyes and his lips…

They were still wicked. As if they belonged to a playboy he’d been. But his eyes…they were cold. The chill reaching in and making her shiver deep inside.

She didn’t know what to do with that. She wouldn’t know what to do with that on a normal day, and today was not a normal day.

“So…I don’t know where I’m going.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. A smile attempt. She’d seen him do it a couple of times now, and each instance rang false. “End of the hall.”

“Okay, thank you.” She turned away from him and continued walking, stopping at the ornate black door at the very end of the corridor.

“You can program the door with your own code,” he said. “It can be whatever you like. You can do it all from your phone. Now, I can override it, but I probably won’t,” he added, reaching past her and entering in number on the keypad quickly.

“You probably won’t?”

“Never say never.” The light on the door handle turned green, and then he stood back, as if waiting for her move.

“You really could say never to invading my privacy,” she said.

“With the way my life has gone so far, I never discount anything. Now go in. Or go home.”

“Is this my out?” she asked, her throat dry.

His lips curved upward again, and this time, there was no mistaking—at all—that this wasn’t a smile in the way other people meant them. This was predatory. Deadly. Once again, she had the strange feeling she’d gone from the frying pan into the fire.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

“No,” she said, trying to keep her breathing steady.

He moved away from her then, his gaze steady on hers. “Interesting.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, keeping her tone steady. “Interesting.”

“Just what it means. Interesting.”

“Well, then.”

She reached past him and pushed the door open. The room was…well, as expected, she supposed, but unexpected in a way that she never could have anticipated either. A giant four-poster bed with black, wooden columns that nearly touched the ceiling took up most of the space in the room.

There was a desk in the corner, fashioned like an ornate writing desk, but obviously equipped for modern conveniences. In the opposite corner was a large wingback chair and a little table. Probably intended to be eaten at. Or not. Perhaps the person this room was designed to accommodate was supposed to eat out with friends or family.

But not her. Because her family had their own issues, her friends—such as they were—were gone. And if she dined out, it would just be Addison and the paparazzi.

“I only meant I will be interested to see if that changes,” he said, still in the doorway. He hadn’t crossed the threshold. “I have plenty of time to frighten you.”

The air in her lungs contracted, making it difficult to breathe.

He almost sounded as though he wanted to scare her. And the really strange thing was…not even that scared her. She was…numb. Numb except for that strange bit of something she felt when she looked at him.

“Could I have a few moments?” she asked. She needed time alone. Needed some time to try and orient herself to her surroundings. To her life.

“If you need to. But I expect to see you again in a couple of hours.”

“As you wish,” she said, unsurprised when the movie reference failed to make him smile.

He turned away from her, his broad back filling the door frame, before he closed the door behind him without giving her another glance.

She walked over to her bag, like a robot completing motions it had been programmed to do. She opened it and took out her computer, going to the wingback chair and setting the laptop on the small table, situating herself so that she was in a rather uncomfortable, rigid position.

She typed in her password and opened her email, waiting for the client to wake up and connect to her inbox. No new messages. Well, that sounded about right.

She thought back to all the people she’d known over the years. To cocktail parties and luncheons and teas. She did well in those venues. She always knew what to say, knew how to keep inoffensive conversation flowing.

But outside of those settings? She didn’t know those people. They didn’t know her. Were they in her position, a liability to the ease of a dinner party, she doubted she would be in touch either.

Because dealing with serious issues required a depth that none of her relationships seemed to have. She was aware of a lot of people, and a lot people were aware of her. She wasn’t certain if anyone knew her. If she really knew anyone.

Especially after discovering her father had a secret life…she wasn’t sure she knew anyone at all.

The closest thing to friends she still had were Nora and Harlow. And that meant there could be no more contact avoidance.

She took her phone out of her pocket, typing in a quick text.

Things are OK. Austin got me an internship with Black Properties, so I’ll be busy. Don’t worry.

She also felt as if her insides were imploding, but she didn’t want to tell anyone that. Because there was no place for that. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t what people wanted to hear.

If there was one thing she’d been trained in, it was the fine art of talking about what people wanted to talk about.

Pain was not one of those things.

A message pinged back a couple of seconds later.

Great news! Hey, have you heard from Harlow at all lately? She’s not answering texts.

No. But I haven’t tried in a while.

K. If you hear from her let me know?

Sure.

Addison put her phone down and frowned before pulling up a new email message. She typed in Harlow’s name.

Hey, sorry to bug you. I know you’ve been working hard. And I really hope things haven’t been shaken up too much, given…recent events. But Nora and I are getting concerned, so please touch base?

—A

She closed her computer and let the silence in the room settle over her. It felt thick. Oppressive. She was used to a large house full of staff and movement. A sorority house full of talking and laughter.

For a hotel, the Black Book was strangely quiet. At least on this floor.

She felt like throwing herself on the bed and crying. Wailing. Filling the silence. But some voice, her mother’s, her father’s maybe, whispered in her ear and said ladies in Chanel skirts didn’t thrown themselves around.

Not that she felt much like a lady. She felt like a wraith. And she imagined they were genderless. Or, at the very least, that they didn’t have to care about what anyone thought about the way they lay down.

Still, she sat in the chair, her posture so rigid her neck ached. Her eyes ached too.

She was arid. Her eyes were dry. Her brain was dry. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. Not anything other than this stale, crackling burning that pervaded her entire body and left her feel like that patchwork dirt you saw in desert climates.

She just felt fuzzy and disconnected.

She suddenly noticed a little white card, folded like a tent on the edge of the table. She reached out and picked it up, reading the embossed lettering on the front.

Welcome to Black Book. Download the Black Book app to create your unique pass code.

She pulled up the app store on her phone and searched for Black Book, finding the app with an insignia matching the little white card and loading it.

Then she opened it. It pulled up a white screen with black script and four blank boxes that were, she imagined, for numbers.

She entered in the digits for her mother’s birthday, and it accepted them. Then she closed the app and set her phone on the table, trying to decide if she should leave it on. She decided to switch it off. To give herself some time to be alone. To be inaccessible. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. It wasn’t good hostess behavior, that was for sure.

But she wasn’t hosting anything. And no one was inviting her.

And Jason was dead. So why not break a few of his rules? At least one.

She just needed a couple of hours. And she then had to at least go pretend she was living. For Austin. For her mother.

She stood from the chair and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress.

Maybe if she faked it long enough, she would start to feel as if it was for her.