A/N: This idea has been bugging me for a while and I finally decided to write some of it down. The story will be AU and, as the title suggests, it is somewhat inspired by the movie Pretty Woman. I have no idea if people are interested in reading this, but I hope you are. :)

Disclaimer: Pftyeah, I wish.

"Go ahead," Hardy said encouragingly. He toyed distractedly with a corner of the label latched onto his empty Heineken bottle, smirking like he found this whole thing just too entertaining for words. "Open it."

I couldn't.

I stared at the crisp white envelope in my hands with a growing suspicion. It was my birthday, yes. But Hardy didn't do birthday presents.

"Are you sure this is from you?" I asked him, holding the paper item up with a swaying gesture. "Because I can get my own fucking mail."

Hardy's grin widened, though he was still a few beers away from rolling his eyes at me. "It's an envelope, Fitz," he groaned. "A harmless piece of paper. Quit being a pain in my ass and just open the damn thing already."

Having had Hardy's presence forced upon me for four years as my college roommate, I figured I'd grown to appreciate his company. But maybe I'd just learned to tolerate him, I mused to myself as I narrowed my eyes at his sprawled out form on my apartment couch.

"You've got somewhere better to be?" I asked him sweetly. He simply grunted something unidentifiable in response.

I swirled the scotch in my glass under the dim lighting. Whether it was to stall or brace myself, I wasn't sure. Birthdays at the Fitzgerald's household were never a picnic and I'd learned to cope accordingly; by drinking myself into oblivion for one blissful day of the year. It was a routine I was comfortable with. Hardy getting me a present was a first—and an unsolicited interruption from the chain of events I'd planned for today.

Reluctantly, I tore the envelope open and with deliberately slow movements pulled out a business card. It was blank. I inspected it briefly before meeting Hardy's expectant stare with inquisitive eyes, unsure what to say.

"Um, thanks?" I offered, eyebrows knitting together.

Hardy's amusement never faltered. "Turn it over, genius," he remarked.

I did as he suggested, flipping the card around in my fingers. A cell phone number was scribbled on it in blue ink and I gave him a sheepish smile. Besides the number, it simply read "Satisfaction." I turned it around again, finding the back was still devoid of ink, and looked up to meet Hardy's gaze.

Oh, hell no.

"What's this?" I asked him warily.

"That's your birthday present," he replied easily, giving me a look that implied I was incapable of asking intelligent questions.

"Ha, clever!" I grumbled, earning a cocky grin from my friend. I raised my glass to my lips and allowed some of the amber liquid to burn its way down my throat, before holding the tiny card up. "Please tell me you didn't give me the business card of a hooker on my birthday."

Hardy readjusted himself on the couch, making himself more comfortable, a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth as my words hung in the air for a moment. He appeared to consider something and finally muttered, "I had to wrap… something."

I could feel my eyebrows rise without me telling them to. I wanted to laugh. If this had been happening to anyone but myself, I probably would have. But something in his face told me he wasn't joking.

"You gave me a prostitute for my birthday?" I asked incredulously.

"High end escort," Hardy corrected. "Classy girl."

I cocked an eyebrow. I stopped myself short from telling him there was no way in hell that was going to happen, but I'm pretty sure my face delivered the message. A tiny part of me was horrified that he evidently thought I needed sex that desperately. A slightly bigger part was petrified by his unspoken conviction that I lacked the necessary ability to persuade a girl into sleeping with me without anything in return.

"I don't even want to know how you got that number," I muttered darkly under my breath, throwing the card dismissively onto my wooden oak coffee table. I emptied the remaining content of my glass in one effortless swallow, my other hand already reaching for the cheap bottle of single malt scotch I'd purchased especially for this occasion.

"Don't give me that disapproving look," Hardy replied gruffly. "Some guys from law school were passing these out at the bar and I took one before I even realized what it was. God knows I never intended on using it—it's been gathering dust for three months now on my kitchen counter. But you, my friend, are in a rut and, whether you want to admit it or not, you need this."

I removed the cork from the bottle, though it lacked the satisfying pop it'd had when I'd first opened it, and raised my eyebrows, debating whether to comment first on the area of choice to store my birthday present or the accusation of my being in a rut. I decided on the former, not eager to discuss the latter.

"You kept it on your kitchen counter for three months?" I asked him dubiously. I poured some whiskey into my glass, resisting the urge to fill it to the brim.

He raised one challenging eyebrow. "Yet you never noticed it. Why, you ask?" He paused briefly for good measure. "You haven't left your apartment in weeks. You and Jackie broke up six months ago, Ezra. Your new job starts in eleven days—it's time to move on."

I couldn't help the sarcastic chuckle that escaped my throat. "And you think this is the answer? Paying a girl to sleep with me?"

Hardy's expression was dead-serious. "Yes."

"I'm not that kind of guy, Hardy." I shook my head. This was surreal. My best friend was trying to fund my sexual endeavors with a woman possessing a serious lack of money and self-respect. It was a strangely unsettling thought. "I don't… I don't pay girls to sleep with me."

"Well, you won't be paying her," he pointed out. "I already have."

My first instinct, perhaps unsurprisingly so, was to ask how much, but I squelched it. I'd never before been in a situation where I'd had the desire to know just how much it was that women who sold their bodies made for the actual body-selling, but if I had to take a wild shot in the dark I'd say it was at least a couple hundred bucks a night. It was money Hardy could afford to lose—not only had he just landed himself a job at a law firm serving the rich and prosperous of the area, but his parents had also been scrambling together a very generous trust fund for him ever since he'd exited the womb. Nonetheless, I hoped the money was refundable.

"It doesn't matter who's paying," I said. The statement, in my eyes, was self-evident, but I felt obligated to share it, not entirely certain if Hardy agreed with me. "The problem is that someone is." It was illegal and I'm sure that, given his profession, that had crossed his mind already. I could rattle off an entire list with all my other objections, but I kept them to myself for the moment being.

"You're a lawyer. Aren't you supposed to prevent these things?" I asked Hardy. I was fairly certain he sure as hell wasn't supposed to condone and advocate them.

"I'm not a cop, Ezra," he reminded me.

"Well, at least that's something we can both agree on," I conceded bitterly. I remembered the still full glass in my hand and took advantage, taking a gulp in the naïve hope more alcohol could make this conversation a little less painful. And embarrassing, because God, this was embarrassing.

"Look," I said, reluctantly making direct eye contact. "I appreciate the gift. I really do," I told him, the saying "it's the thought that counts" running through my mind as I forced myself to say the words. "But I'm fully capable of finding a girl without your help." Then, as an afterthought, "Or your money."

I half-expected a skeptical eyebrow to be raised. I was grateful Hardy didn't, even if he would have been joking. Jackie Molina had broken off our engagement two weeks before we were supposed to walk down the aisle. That was six months ago. I wasn't sure how much longer I was allowed to postpone dating and blame it on the fact that I was still getting over her.

"I believe you," Hardy assured me.

"I'm not sleeping with a girl for money," I rephrased in case I hadn't made that clear.

"Fine, so don't sleep with her."

He placed the beer bottle in his hands on the table in front of him, getting bored with the label he'd been picking at. An expression of disbelief crossed my face as I watched him. Given his sudden change of tactics, I couldn't stop myself from uttering, "What?"

"Take her to the bar downstairs. Have a few drinks with her. Try to have a semblance of a normal conversation. Don't bring up your ex-fiancée. Leave with all your morals intact. I don't really care," Hardy told me. "All I want you to do is come out of your isolated little bubble for one night."

Sipping from my glass, my taste buds screaming in protest, I chortled sarcastically, nearly choking on my drink in the process. "You're aware I didn't invite you to insult my social life, right?"

"You didn't invite me at all," Hardy grinned impishly. "Which only proves how lame it is."

I willed the corners of my mouth not to move, but they finally curled up into a tiny smile as we both fell silent for a moment.

"I told her you'd meet her this Saturday," Hardy informed me quietly after a couple beats. The way he said it—carefully, yet like it was set in stone already—made me wonder if he genuinely thought I'd show up. "The Golden Tulip hotel in Philadelphia, 8 pm. Room's already been reserved and paid for. All you need to do is tell them your name at the check-in counter in the main lobby and they'll hand you the key."

I opened my mouth and closed it again. I wasn't sure what to say.

A/N: Well, there it is. I hope you liked it.

PS. For those reading The Deal, I have the first half of chapter 32 ready. I just finished my finals and my summer break just started, so I should be having plenty of time to update.