Faking It (30 page)

Falling in love is the ultimate faux pas.

Anything can happen in a year! Unemployed, homeless, and left at the altar, Vivia Perpetua Grant could see her future as a flannel pajama wearing spinster—or worse, a bag lady shuffling around Golden Gate Park. But for a girl obsessed with rock music, Chinese take-out, and the color pink, misfortune is another word for opportunity. Vivia has found her niche as an international travel writer and the long-distance lover of Jean-Luc de Caumont, an über-hot French literature professor and competitive cyclist.

Still, even with so much going right, Vivia can’t help but wonder if something isn’t missing. The long distance thing is taking its toll on a girl who didn’t have that many tokens to begin with. And fate seems to be tempting her at every turn, first with a hunky Scottish helicopter pilot, and then with a British celebrity bad boy...Will Vivia continue to keep it real or will she discover some old habits die hard?

“Leah Marie Brown has a wily way of bringing her stories to life with sharp dialogue and drop-dead sexy characters.”

—
Cindy Miles, National Bestselling Author

“Prepare to laugh, to sigh, to turn pages fast! I want a one-way ticket to Vivia's world.”

—
Kieran Kramer,
USA Today
Bestselling Author

“A funny, romantic, fast-paced, all-expense-paid pleasure read through France and Tuscany you don't want to miss.”
—
Gretchen Galway, Bestselling Author on
Faking It

“When it comes to crafting clever, intelligent, wonderful escapist fiction with a heroine every woman wants to know, Leah Marie Brown is a new voice to watch. Prepare to fall in love!”

—
Renee Ryan, Daphne du Maurier Award-Winning Author

“Audacious, adorable and addictive!”

—
Catherine Mann,
USA Today
bestselling author

!

Learn more about Leah Marie
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/31735

Rubbing with Royals

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

Don’t believe the hype: Prince Harry is not a regular approachable bloke. #IAmNotAStalker #FreeVivia

8:22 AM

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

Dear Buckingham Palace Guards: Well done, you! One less tourist with a tripod off the streets. #KeepingLondonSafe

8:34 AM

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

I keep asking myself, “What would @wizkhalifa do?” #FreeVivia #TooPretty4ThePokey #PrisonCellfie

8:35

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

If #GetArrested is on your London itinerary, head to the Westminster Borough. The cells in Belgravia Station are really quite comfortable. @MPSWestminster

10:41

“I am not stalking Prince Harry.”

Basil Rathbone ignores me and jots something in a slender notebook.

“I am not a stalker!” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jacket. “This is such…”

He looks up and raises an eyebrow.

Bullshit
!

“This is ridiculous.”

Basil resumes writing in his notebook.

I cross my legs and wait. I have seen enough crime dramas to know that most perps incriminate themselves during questioning. I’m not bumping gums. I’m not going down like that. Not me, man.

Basil is still writing, his fine-tipped pen scratching against the paper.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

He pauses, flicks his cool gaze in my direction, and resumes writing.

It’s been several hours since Buckingham Palace Guards and Westminster Police burst into my hotel room, slapped handcuffs on my wrists, and transported me to the Belgravia Station. The initial terror I felt over being arrested on suspicion of stalking a member of the royal family has been replaced with insolent outrage. I was raised to respect the badge, but the whole situation really is…ridiculous bullshit!

Our silent game of chicken continues. I shift positions, slouching in the cold metal chair and crossing my arms like a gangster, hands shoved in my armpits, chin lifted defiantly. You’re not gonna break me, Po-po.

The door opens. A uniformed officer pops his head in. “Call for you. Line seven.”

Basil stops scratching and closes his notebook. He tosses the notebook on the table between us before striding out of the questioning room.

I maintain my “Get back, muthafucka” pose until the door closes, and then my bravado fails. My arms and legs begin to tremble. Despite my
Boyz in the Hood
demeanor, I am no Ice Cube. I’ve never popped a cap in someone’s ass. I’ve never been in the pokey. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket!

Who cares if the stalking and harassing charges are totally bogus? I am going to have a record! An international rap sheet. I’ll never be able to make a run for the presidency, or get a top secret security clearance, or adopt a rescue poodle.

What will my parents say when they find out my new crib is Shawshank? My poor mum. She always hoped I would spend my life doing charity work, like collecting unused eyeglasses for the blind or doling out mosquito netting to malaria-plagued Africans. She even has a journal wherein she records her “Visions for Vivia.” I found the journal one day, in a lockbox, in the back of her closet. In her neat, tight script, she recorded her highest hopes for my future. The list would intimidate Mother Theresa.

1. I named you after Saint Vivia Perpetua, a blessed woman revered for her chastity and charity. Always conduct yourself in a manner that pays homage to your namesake. (Fail)

2. Attend Ivy League university, study medicine, graduate summa cum laude, and devote your life to caring for the ill. (Fail)

3. Never lie. (Fail)

4. Attend church twice per week. (Fail)

The list went on and on and on. I stopped reading when I reached number 132—“Think before you speak.” (Epic Fail). I am pretty sure “Go to prison and become some skanky crack ho’s bitch” wasn’t on my mum’s Visions for Vivia list. Maybe she could start a new journal and title it ”Dreams My Daughter Dashed.”

1. Audition for and win the part of the Virgin Mary in our church’s annual Nativity Play. Then, humiliate your mother in front of Father Escobar by dropping your woolen robe and marching around the stage in your Wonder Woman bathing suit. (Check)

2. Let your high school boyfriend feel you up in a movie theater. Get caught by your mother’s gossipy nemesis. (Check)

3. Fall in love with a handsome, wealthy man from an influential family. Tell him you are a virgin (when you are not) and then confess the truth on the eve of your wedding. Lose man of your mother’s dreams. (Check)

4. Get stupid drunk in Cannes, France, and let mega movie star talk you into getting a tattoo of a cartoon sushi roll on your ass. (Check)

5. End up in the pokey for stalking a member of the British royal family. (Check)

Basil’s notebook distracts me from thoughts about my disgraceful past and my bleak poodle-free future. It’s still lying on the table in front of me, close enough to touch.

I grab the notebook and flip through the pages until I come to the last page with writing on it.

I am trying to decipher Basil’s shockingly illegible script—but can only make out random words like
barking, mad, colonial, media
, and
suspicious activities
—when someone clears their throat. I spin around to find the detective leaning against the door, his eyebrows arched, a thick manila envelope in his hand.

“This is not what it looks like…”

“Really? Because you appear to have nicked my notebook.”

Basil’s clipped, posh accent is as intimidating as his piercing, accusatory gaze. He is staring at me as if he knows all of my deep, dark secrets, like I am a twisted puzzle he effortlessly solved. I am waiting for him to point his bony finger at me and say,
“It’s elementary, my dear Miss Grant, when I eliminate all other factors, the one which remains is the truth, and the truth is, you are barking mad, a stalker of princes, a quibbler of truths, an imposter in a wretched Burberry knock-off.”

As so often happens when I am nervous, I begin blabbering ridiculousness, incriminating myself.

“Look,” I say, dropping the notebook on the table. “You got me. I was reading your notebook, but I wasn’t stalking Prince Harry.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He drops the manila envelope on the table beside his notebook and perches himself on the edge of the desk, crosses his arms, and looks down his beak-like nose at me.

“I am a columnist with
GoGirl! Magazine
on assignment to cover the lifestyles of the rich and royal. I told my editor I could get an interview with a member of the royal family, that I have connections, but…”

“You lied.”

“Yes!” I toss my hands in the air. “I lied! I lied!”

I’m squealing like a jailhouse snitch. I draw a deep breath and try to channel 50 Cent, Eminem, and Snoop Dogg, but I think I am projecting more Vanilla Ice than hardcore hood rat.

“Listen Basil—”

“Basil?” The detective looks at me beneath knit brows. A second later, his brow relaxes and a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Rathbone?”

“It was an obvious comparison,” I say, my own lips twitching. “You look a little like the actor.”

The detective rolls his eyes. “Why can’t Americans make British literary references beyond Sherlock or Shakespeare?”

“You mean like Austen, Dickens, Shelley, Byron. Brontë, Tolkien…” Now he’s pissed me off. It’s one thing to call me out on my cheap trench coat and my penchant for snooping, but don’t insult my knowledge of literature. “You might want to actually consider leaving your little island and crossing the pond. You would be amazed to discover most Americans possess a refinement beyond
Real Housewives
and Honey Boo Boo.”

“Have you taken any photographs?”

The abrupt change in conversation throws me off my game.

“Photographs? Yeah, I took a selfie in one of those red phone booths, another beneath the Harrods sign, one with the cab driver who picked me up at the airport...”

Basil releases a sigh “Out the window, madam. Did you take any photographs of the palace out your window?”

“No…but if Prince Harry happens by, I might take a snappie or two.” Shit! Why did I say that? “Kidding. I am just kidding. I haven’t taken any photographs of the palace, and I won’t be taking any of Harry.”

Old Basil frowns. If we moved through life with thought bubbles suspended over our heads, his would read:
We are not amused.

“Right,” Basil says, retrieving his notebook. “Again, why did you have a tripod in your hotel window aimed at the palace?”

Although I explained the situation to the Buckingham Palace Guards who busted through my hotel room door
and
the uniformed officers who escorted me to the Westminster Borough Precinct, I take a deep breath and begin again.

“My editor texted me last week to ask if I would like to write a piece on rubbing elbows with royals. You know, an article detailing all the places the royals like to romp: über-swank restaurants, shops, clubs. Well, who wouldn’t want to rub elbows with Prince Hottie Harry, right?”

Basil’s stoic expression remains frozen in place.

“Did I mention I am a magazine columnist?”

“
Go, Girl
.”

“That’s right! You are paying attention.”

“Yes, well”—Basil sniffs—“attention to detail is rather a prerequisite of my occupation.”

I fiddle with my trench coat belt and try to remember Basil’s original question. The unflappable British detective has rattled my nerves like a coffee can filled with coins.

“The tripod?”

“Yes! The tripod,” I say, warming. “I might have exaggerated my connections to the royal family just a little.”

Basil smirks.

“Okay, a lot. I exaggerated a lot. But my mother has a cousin who shares a hair stylist with Fergie…”

Basil looks at me blankly.

“The Duchess of York, not the Black Eyed Peas singer.”

“I trust this pointless but scintillating information is but a prelude to the story of how you ended up stalking His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales?”

“I am not a stalker!”

“I beg to differ, madam.” Basil flips through the pages of his notebook. “‘Suspect detained after Buckingham Palace Guards observed questionable movements in a hotel room window facing the palace. WMB officers questioning hotel staff learned suspect made numerous inquiries as to the movements of members of the royal family and possible ‘hidden’ access points into the palace.’”

“I was only joking.”

“Joking?”

“Yes.”

“About stealing into the palace?”

“I’m an American. I have a sense of humor. I realize it’s a foreign concept to the British, but humor is a common conversation starter in America.”

“Let us assume you are telling the truth, that your ill-conceived comments about ‘hunting down Hot Harry’ and sneaking into the palace ‘like a thirteen-year-old Belieber at a Justin Bieber concert’ were woeful attempts at humor...”

I knew I shouldn’t have made the Belieber comment.

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing at the Rubens?”

“I was in the hotel because I am a paying guest.”

“Naturally,” says Basil in his easy good-cop voice. “And what made you choose that particular hotel?”

“Duh!” Though I try, I can’t keep the sarcasm from staining my tone. “It’s called Rubens at the Palace for a reason. It’s the closest hotel to Buckingham Palace. Proximity is everything in reporting. I thought staying close to the palace would increase my chances of running into a royal. Besides, I am writing a piece about London’s poshest places, and the Rubens is pretty posh.”