My Fake Fiancé (2 page)

However, my perfect guy was very different
from the guy I needed to make Carrie jealous. “He needs to be rich,
successful, handsome, confident, and foreign would be awesome, can
you do an accent?”

“Aye, love,” he said in a perfect Australian
accent.

“Nice,” I cooed. “He has to be generous and
kind and totally smitten with me.”

“I think we can make that all happen in two
weeks.” His grin was dazzling.

My brain fogged over for a moment. “So,
what’ll that cost me?”

“I’ll have to give up a night of tips, and I
usually bring in one-fifty at a decent banquet.”

“How about two hundred?” That’d be worth
making Carrie jealous.

“We’ll also have to get together beforehand
to get our stories straight. How about two-fifty?”

I could buy a few new bathing suits for the
summer with two hundred fifty dollars. But we were talking about
the girl who took a picture of me in my bra in the locker room and
sold copies of it for ten bucks so guys could get a glimpse of the
smallest tits in school. Luckily, they’d grown some since then. But
I’d definitely be wearing a push-up the night of the wedding. Not
quite believing what I was doing, I stuck out my hand. “It’s a
deal.”

***

I drove home in a daze.
Banks, you’re an
idiot
. I hadn’t been thinking straight. Damn. What had I just
agreed to? Acting as a fake fiancé? This setup was not a step away
from a gig as a gigolo. Right? Still, I’d never been paid to go on
a date. Screw it. This was definitely an acting job. It would be a
good challenge. And hell, it would be fun. Samantha was hot, and
clearly had a good sense of humor if she was pulling a stunt like
this. Or was it more like she was neurotic? Didn’t matter. I wasn’t
looking to get involved with anyone. Not when my mom was still
sick. Not when I was still struggling to launch my business idea.
It’d be an easy two-fifty and nothing more. Besides, I was nothing
like her dream man. Wouldn’t be a problem.

I got home and Jekyll and Hyde jumped off the
back of the couch and wound around my ankles as I made my way to
the fridge. I’m no fool, they were only happy to see me because I
could reach the box of dried cat food in the cupboard. If only
females of the human variety were as easy to understand.

Dumping a good-sized mound into their dishes,
I collapsed on the couch with a bowl of cereal. My dog, Daisy,
snoozed in her crate. I was still fifteen thousand dollars away
from my goal of buying a used food truck for catering events. No
one in town was doing it, and I wanted to be the first out there
with the idea.

But it would be at least a year before I had
enough cash, and I didn’t have the collateral or good enough credit
to secure a loan.
Maybe I should be a gigolo
. Juggling
several jobs wasn’t fun; I worked at least sixty hours a week. Just
another reason a relationship was out of the question. Launching a
new business wouldn’t be easy, either. No, it would probably be a
few years before I was looking for love.

Finishing my cereal, I loaded chili
ingredients into my crockpot. It was Mom’s favorite. My secret was
half a cup of brown sugar. I liked to tease her and not tell her
what it was. She came up with a new guess every time she tried it.
She’d come close with molasses one time, but I think she’d be
disappointed if she ever found out because she had so much fun
trying to pry it out of me. I brought Mom a few meals for the week
every Sunday. I chuckled, thinking of my many friends who dropped
in on their parents every Sunday to mooch their one good
home-cooked meal of the week. Here I was delivering the food to my
mother instead. I gave the chili a stir, and chopped up another
onion.

My little sister, Jill, lived across the
country, and my father had left Mom fifteen years ago. We didn’t
talk about the divorce, but I shouldered a lot of blame. If not for
me, they might be together. Now, I was all she had, besides a small
group of friends who helped when they could. Her cancer was in
remission, but there was no telling when it could come back. She
was miserable that I wasn’t married or at least in a serious
relationship so she’d know someone would take care of me when she
was gone. She liked to say if she died while I was still single,
she’d come back to haunt me. I totally believed her on that
one.

***

To her credit, she waited until after
polishing off a bowl of chili—and incorrectly guessing the secret
ingredient was carrot juice—to ask about my love life. “Met anyone
interesting, dear?”

Right. Since last week? Then I remembered
that I had. Only not in the way Mom meant, of course. But a little
white lie wouldn’t hurt. And Sam was interesting. What the hell, I
could concoct a fake relationship, too. One that would end in a few
weeks and would never require a visit with Mom. At least it might
make her feel better if she thought I was “getting out there” as
she liked to say. I can’t imagine the anguish Mom would be in if I
were a daughter and still single at thirty-two. Luckily, my sister
was married with a kid.

I smiled at Mom. “Actually, I met this great
girl. We’re going out again later this week.”

She clasped her hands and sucked in a breath.
“Really? What’s she like?”

I paused for a moment. If Samantha could
create her own dream guy checklist for me to follow, I’d do the
same. How would my mother know? She’d never meet her. “She’s great.
She’s a cute blonde, funny, friendly.” I didn’t mention her killer
curves and sexy pout. She was on the short side, around five foot
four, which was perfect for me. For some reason, I was drawn to
shorter women.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. What does she do,
dear?”

Huh. I hadn’t even asked. Well, this is my
dream girl we were creating; she could be whatever I wanted her to
be. “She’s an art teacher.” That surprised me. Normally, I’d think
of a swimsuit model or an actress. No, that was more of a hookup
dream girl. This was the fake girlfriend you’d want to bring home
to Mom that I was creating.

But an art teacher? Yeah, Samantha seemed
like she could be an art teacher. And something about that appealed
to me—a woman with creativity and passion that was bound to show up
in bed. Plus, good with little kids, getting home in time for when
our children got out of school. Wow. That set off alarm bells. Good
with kids? It sounded like something my mother would say.

Mom cleared the dirty bowls off the table.
“She sounds wonderful. I’d love to meet her.”

I coughed, trying to cover up the strangled
feeling in my throat. “We just met. Let’s not rush things.”

“Of course, dear. But you know, I’m not
getting any younger and we never know when this cancer could come
back.”

“Stop. It’s not coming back.” It just
couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to see her battle the rounds of chemo
again, losing her hair and her appetite, unable to eat no matter
what I made her. Not to mention the insane medical bills. She’d
been too sick to handle the piles of paperwork coming in from the
doctors, so I took over paying off the bills. She gave me access to
her checking account, but it wasn’t enough. She had no idea I’d
spent a good chunk of my money paying them off, too. She’d be
livid, but what was I supposed to do? Let her go bankrupt trying to
stay alive?

Mom rinsed out the bowls and stood in front
of the sink, staring out the window, pulling her cardigan tight.
The top button was missing. “You’re right. I should be more
positive. I have a doctor’s appointment next month. I’m sure
everything will be fine.”

I kissed her head and grabbed a bowl to dry.
“You’ll be okay.”

“I have to be. I have to live to see you
married. I’m not so sure I want to come back as a ghost.”

I sighed. If my mother had beer in her
fridge, I’d be grabbing a few right about now.

***

I stood in the bathroom, inspecting my hair
while polishing off a chocolate bar—dark chocolate, so at least I
could pretend I was eating it for its health benefits. At this
rate, I’d pack on ten pounds trying to cope with this damn
wedding.

“Sam, are you really going through with
this?” Micki asked, as I got ready to meet up with Justin to create
our backstory. I’d tried on five different outfits since a google
search didn’t turn up any wardrobe suggestions for a meeting with a
fake fiancé.

I hesitated and leaned out of the bathroom to
look at her lounging on the couch. “Sure. Why not?”

She tossed her magazine aside. “You’re not a
very good liar.”

This was true. Back in high school, when I
turned in a fake excuse to get out of school for senior skip day, I
confessed on the spot and got two days detention. “I have a very
good incentive for lying this time. It’ll be fine.” I doused my ‘do
with hairspray again, like that might somehow help firm up the
fib.

With the wedding now a week away, I had work
to do: dress shopping, a hair appointment, and a meeting with the
man I was supposedly going to marry. In all my childhood wedding
fantasies—sometimes solo at the beach, sometimes in a big
royal-worthy ceremony—paying someone to pretend he was going to
marry me was never part of the deal.

Hiring him wasn’t that strange, was it?
Because if you think about it, were I in fear for my life—like if
I’d witnessed a mob hit—I’d be totally justified hiring a bodyguard
to accompany me to the wedding. And truthfully, I was afraid; I was
terrified for my emotional well-being by going to Carrie LaMont’s
wedding. I might lose it. Why karma hadn’t ridden a bus over that
girl a time or two is beyond me. She didn’t deserve this good luck.
Especially when I’d had so much bad luck. So Justin really was more
like a self-esteem guard than an escort, I told myself. Not a far
leap from a bodyguard at all.

I blinked at myself in the mirror.
Damn,
I’m good at justifying things
. Too bad there isn’t a job where
that skill comes in handy. I guess it might help lawyers, but I’d
rather gnaw off my big toe than be a lawyer. I really didn’t know
what my dream job was, but I knew it wasn’t my receptionist gig. I
could feel my heart crumbling as I assessed my life, and felt
perfectly justified hiring a fake fiancé. My self-esteem depended
on it. I grabbed my purse and headed for the bar.

Boy, I hope this guy doesn’t think I’m a
nutcase
. I snatched another candy bar from the emergency stash
for the ride over.

***

I walked into the hotel bar with a thundering
heart and chocolate-scented breath.
Guys like chocolate,
right
? It was a Friday night and Justin was finishing up his
shift after working a banquet. He slipped off his bowtie and
loosened the top button on his shirt as he walked up to me. “I’ve
been thinking about you all week, Sam.”

I felt my eyelashes flutter and my hand
landed on top of my breasts. Oh, my God. He’d been thinking about
me?

Then he grimaced and said, “Sorry, I meant,
I’ve been thinking about you all week, Sam,” delivered in a perfect
Australian accent.

Embarrassed that I’d been swept away by the
ruse, I forced a big laugh. “That was great. Really
convincing.”

He gestured to a table where we could sit
down. “Let me grab us drinks. White Russian again?”

I nodded, and did some deep breathing before
he came back. He was more charming than I’d remembered. That damn
Carrie LaMont would probably try to steal him away from me at her
very own wedding.

He slid our drinks on the table and sat
across from me, folded his arms on the table and smiled. “This is
different.”

“This could be a whole new job for you: the
fake date. You could help women out all over New England. Probably
some guys, too.” I puckered my lips around the straw for a long
sip.

He laughed. “Let’s see if we can pull this
off next week first.”

“Oh, we have to pull it off. My entire
emotional health depends on it.” I tried to sound sarcastic.

He rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get
to work and figure out how we met, what I do that drives you
crazy—in and out of bed—and the sickeningly sweet way I proposed to
you.”

I lost my breath again, but remembered how to
nod. I wondered how fictional the bedroom details were going to be.
I found myself leaning across the table toward him, biting my lip,
while my eyelids slid to half-mast, all the while wondering if I
should throw a clause into our contract about mandatory
kissing.

Then I snapped out of it, sat up straight in
my chair and thought about my inbox at work. And the national debt.
And puppy mills.

“So, did we meet through work? What do you
do?” he asked.

I frowned. “I’m just a receptionist. Kind of
fell into it when my English degree got me nowhere. I can quote
Shakespeare, but employers never seem too impressed by that. Guess
we need to come up with a better story for me, too.”

“Something that’s not easy to check.” He
studied the ceiling for a few moments, then snapped his fingers.
“Say you work for yourself. Maybe a writer, with your English
degree?”

I shook my head. “I’m more of a reader than a
writer. Plus, she’d go looking for my books.”

“Good point. You’re an artist.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. I did have
a lot of coloring books as a kid. And I always loved playdough.
“Okay. I’m a sculptor.”

“Who only works on commission, just in case
Carrie wants to know where your stuff is on display.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, liking how this was coming
together. “And you hired me to design something for your
office.”

“Very good. Now, why do you love me?” A smile
split his face.

I blinked at him. Carrie could take one look
at Justin and get a good idea why I loved him. Theoretically loved
him, that is.