by Lila Monroe
“If you mean, will it get Brett and the lawyers off my case? I hope so.” I reach into my purse and pull out my day-planner—trying my best to ignore that damp, glistening chest. “Now, Brett is suspicious, but he’s invited us to dinner tomorrow night. We need to get our stories straight before then: how we met, our families and backgrounds . . .” I stop. “Where is your family? Scott wasn’t really in contact with his, so that wasn’t an issue, but are your folks going to be OK with the news?”
Fitz gives a careless shrug. “I wasn’t planning on telling them. They’re back in England, so unless it gets reported in Horse & Hound magazine, they’ll be none the wiser.”
“Oh. OK.” I tick off that item on my “fake marriage” checklist. “So, we just need to prep the rest of our cover story. Can you send me a list of your personal history? Likes, dislikes, everything we would have talked about if we’d actually, you know, dated.”
Fitz smirks at me. “What’s there to talk about? You took one look at me and fell head over heels in lust.”
He waggles his eyebrows, and my patience finally snaps. “You’re not taking this seriously!” I exclaim. “Look, I know this is just a joke to you, but I need it to work. If Brett thinks for a minute that we’re not really together, the whole plan will be ruined. I’m counting on you. Everyone is!”
“Alright, alright,” Fitz says, still smiling. “Next thing, you’ll be making flashcards.”
“That’s a great idea.” I make a note of it. “Do you have time to meet tonight? We should start studying soon.”
“I have plans.”
“Then first thing tomorrow,” I insist. “It’s the weekend, so we can take the day.”
“Fine,” Fitz agrees. “As long as ‘first thing’ means after noon.”
Before I can argue, the elevator doors open again, and a tall, stunning blonde woman steps out. “Svetlana, sweetheart,” Fitz greets her, going to kiss her on both cheeks.
Long, lingering kisses.
I cough.
“Go right through to the bedroom,” Fitz tells her with a wink. “I’ll be right in.”
Seriously?!
Svetlana sashays out, leaving me silently fuming. Clearly, it must show on my face, because Fitz quirks an eyebrow at me.
“What’s wrong, wifey? Are you jealous?” He grins.
“No!” I blurt. “But need to keep this fake marriage story alive for another few weeks—and leggy Swedish models don’t exactly scream ‘true love’ and ‘fidelity.’ ”
“Relax. Svetlana’s just here to give me a good rubdown.”
I blink.
“She’s my masseuse,” Fitz explains, looking amused.
Oh.
I flush. “Well, it still matters how things look. You can’t be dating anyone else.”
“And how do you want to define ‘dating’?” Fitz smirks. “Because technically, inviting women to my apartment isn’t taking them on a date.”
Now he really is messing with me.
I give him a look and hitch my bag up. “Tomorrow, we get our stories straight,” I remind him. “There’s a lot riding on this dinner.”
“Don’t worry,” Fitz reassures me. “I won’t let you down.”
But somehow, I feel anything but reassured—especially when he exits, and I hear the laughter coming from the bedroom.
The way-unprofessional-sounding laughter.
I feel a shot of panic as I get back into the elevator. I’ve spent all this time focused on getting someone down the aisle, I didn’t spare a thought to what would happen after we said I do. I thought that marriage license would be the answer my problems, but here I am, hitched to the biggest playboy in town, and it’s clear the drama is just getting started.
Have I just made the biggest mistake of my life?
3
Becca
I leave Fitz’s place and hurry across town to work. I started volunteering a few years back at a community health clinic on the Lower East Side, and somehow, I never left. Now I help in the office, organize fundraising, and guide our patients through the maze of insurance paperwork and forms. It’s a long way from the fancy career in medicine my family wanted for me, but sometimes I think I get to make a difference for just as many people this way—just without the “Dr.” before my name.
Or the extra quarter million dollars in student loans I would have racked up staying in medical school.
“Hey, Becca,” my boss, Mercedes, greets me—from behind a massive stack of paperwork in her arms.
Which she promptly dumps on my desk.
She bats her (enormous false) eyelashes at me. “Please? Pretty please?”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “What is it this time?”
“I have these patients, their kid needs an experimental cancer treatment, but the insurance company is running rings around them. As usual. I figure if anyone can cut through the red tape, it’s you.”
“I’ll do my best,” I agree, moving the file onto my already-overflowing inbox. “I was reading about a pediatric grant at Cedars . . . I’ll make some calls and see what’s going on.”
“Angel!” Mercedes beams. “Just for that, I’ll send Mr. Myers over to Pete’s office. He was asking for you,” she adds, and I wince.
“Thanks. Last time he was in, he kept asking me to look at his wart. And it wasn’t anywhere above the waist.”
“You’ve got it.”
Mercedes leaves me to my mountain of paperwork. When I was training to be a doctor, we never gave a second thought to insurance or medical codes, but out here, I learned it’s the single most important thing keeping people from the treatment they need. Which is I why I don’t even mind combing through small print and spending hours on the phone. Just give me a cape and call me Insurance Woman!
Not that my parents agree. They’re both high-flying corporate CEO types, who loved bragging about their future-surgeon of a daughter. Their volunteer admin assistant daughter? Not so much. That’s why I keep our relationship to a frosty holiday dinner and occasional call—and why Marigold and my neighbors at Waverly Place became like family to me. Sometimes, the people who matter most aren’t the ones sharing your DNA—which is why I need this scheme with Fitz to work, if I’m going to keep my new family together.
I try to push my worry aside and focus on work. I’m buried in a particularly nasty paragraph about pre-existing conditions when there’s a knock on my door. “Pete will see you down the hall,” I say, before looking up. I startle. “Oh. Olivia. Hi.”
The owner of The Agency is hovering in my doorway, looking immaculate as always in cream wide-legged pants and a silk blouse. She’s like something out of the Hitchcock movie—and way out of place in this cluttered, dusty office. “Becca, hi,” she smiles, coming forward to kiss me on both cheeks. She looks around. “So, this is where you work.”
“I know, it’s not much to look at,” I say quickly. “We’re looking for funding to expand.”
Olivia smiles. “I think I attended a benefit dinner for the clinic last year.”
“The dinners are great,” I nod. “Everyone wants to be seen doing good. Not that you only came for show,” I add quickly, flushing. What is it about her that makes me feel like a messy kid again? Probably the fact that her lipstick is still flawless, while mine is decorating the rim of the coffee cup on my desk.
Olivia smiles. “It’s OK, I know what you mean. But it all helps in the end.”
I nod, wondering what she’s doing here. Olivia clears her throat. “I heard about what happened with Scott running out on the wedding, and I wanted to apologize. Lunch?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” I tell her regretfully. “We don’t have time for a break.”
Plus, I already spent half the morning chasing after my new, half-naked husband.
“I thought as much,” Olivia says, producing a bag from the fancy Italian deli down the block. “I brought takeout.”
I manage to clear a spot on my coffee table and heave a stack of books off t
he spare chair. Olivia unpacks a mouth-watering feast and daintily fills a plate with cheese and olives.
I can’t even pretend to be so dainty. I grab straight for the Italian sub and sink my teeth into the carb-y deliciousness with a sigh of satisfaction.
“I want you to know, I’m still out looking for a prospect for you,” Olivia says. “Being so last-minute makes things a little trickier, but I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I promise, we’ll figure this out.”
I pause, my mouth full of deli meats. Wait, what?
“Scott’s behavior was incredibly unprofessional,” Olivia continues, pursing her lips. “The Agency will of course take full responsibility and waive any fees for the next man we find.”
She doesn’t know! I realize, in the rush up the aisle, I never filled her in on the change of plans. I chew and swallow quickly. “I don’t need another man. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, but I got married, after all.”
Olivia blinks. “You did?”
“After Scott ran out, I got talking to the best man, and, well, he agreed to the deal.”
Whether or not that was a good idea, I’m still not so sure.
“We even used your contract,” I add, in case she thinks I really lost my mind. “Same deal, same terms. We just crossed out Scott’s name, and put Fitz’s there instead.”
Olivia’s expression changes. “Fitz?” she echoes.
“Arthur Fitzwilliam Fitzgerald,” I explain. “I know, it’s kind of a mouthful. Anyway, I’m sorry I rushed into it without talking to you first,” I add, wondering if I’ve offended her. “But I didn’t see another way out.”
“Oh, no, I’m not worried about that.” Olivia pauses, looking concerned. “It’s just, I know Fitz. And, well . . .”
“He’s not the marrying kind?” I finish, not surprised the great playboy’s reputation has spread far and wide. “Yeah, I get that vibe from him. He’s more like the ‘wild weekend in Vegas’ kind. Or the ‘make my ex-boyfriend jealous’ kind.”
Or the “strip his clothes off and show me that delicious body again” kind . . .
Olivia clears her throat. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Probably not,” I agree. “But it’s too late now. I already met with the lawyers and told them to get the will processed, or executed, or whatever it is they need to do. We won’t need to keep up the act for more than a few weeks. Fitz has promised to put on the show until then.”
I suddenly realize for the first time that PDA will be part of that performance. I figured I would brace myself when it came to acting affectionate with Scott, but now I try to imagine fake-kissing Fitz. Fake-holding his hand.
Fake doing all kinds of things . . .
Olivia gives me a searching look. “You do remember what I told you about boundaries, and lines, and how easy it is to get things . . . confused?”
I cough. “You mean . . . with Fitz? No! I mean, yes! I remember!” I blush. Can she read my mind? “You don’t have to worry about me. I know exactly what kind of guy he is.”
“Still, I’ve seen it with my clients before. You spend all that time together, start believing your cover stories . . .” Olivia gives me a knowing look. “It’s easy to forget the truth.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget,” I reassure her. “This is just a business arrangement. Fitz is definitely not my type.”
“Still, he has his appeal.” Olivia gives me a smirk.
I blink. “Did you two—?”
“What? No!” She laughs. “But that man could charm a cactus. Watch out, that’s all.”
“I will,” I promise her.
And if all that watching happens to be of his hot, ripped body . . . ?
Well, a girl deserves some perks from the deal.
After work, I head over to Poppy’s place for pizza, beers, and good old-fashioned girl-talk. Usually, she’s the one with romantic drama going on in her life, but for once, I know I have the trump card.
“What do you mean, you got married?!” Poppy does a spit-take all over her studio floor. Our other friend, Natalie, grabs my hand to take a look.
“Wait, why aren’t you wearing a ring?”
I take a deep breath, a gulp of beer, and fill them in on the whole story. Immediately, Natalie finds her phone and starts googling. “He’s hot!” she exclaims, as I reach for a slice of double-pepperoni. Hey, if it’s going to be a carb day, I might as well go big before I go home.
“Very hot,” Poppy agrees, crowding around the handset. “He looks like he should be wading out of a lake in a British costume drama. You got yourself a good one.”
“It’s just pretend,” I remind them, laughing.
“Still, it’s been how long since you dated anyone?” Natalie reminds me. “You’ve been practically living like a nun since you broke up with He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
“Ahem?” I arch an eyebrow.
“OK, since he dumped you out of nowhere and broke off your engagement—”
“And did you the biggest favor of your life, because if he hadn’t, you would be married to him right now, instead of Hottie McHotterson,” Poppy finishes with a grin.
I laugh and get comfy on the couch. “What about you guys?” I ask. “How are things at the newspaper, Natalie?”
“Nowhere near as interesting as your fake marriage!” she cries. “Come on, details. What’s he like? Have you two kissed yet? Don’t you just want to rip his clothes off and climb him like a tree already?”
“Stop it!” I protest, flushing. “It’s just a business arrangement. Seriously, the contract is carved in stone. There’s going to be no climbing.”
“Not even a little shimmy to a low branch?” Poppy asks.
“Or a dangle on the rope swing?” Natalie grins.
“I don’t even know what metaphors you’re mixing right now, but no, nothing’s going to happen. You haven’t met him,” I add, wiping cheese from the corner of my mouth. “This guy is a total player.”
“Even better!” Poppy insists. “You have your wild fling, clean out the cobwebs, and then go your separate ways—with your inheritance from Marigold. Win-win!”
“First of all, there are no cobwebs down there,” I joke. “And second, come on! This situation is crazy enough without me making it even weirder. That’s even assuming Fitz would want to be climbed by me.”
Based on my glimpse of Svetlana this morning, he’s not at all short of options when it comes to his bedmates. And maybe it’s the carbs talking, but something tells me the kind of girls who catch his eye aren’t the ones curled up on the couch on a Friday night with an expandable waistband and mismatched Snoopy socks.
“Are you kidding?” Poppy protests. “Any guy would be lucky to have you scale his trunk. You need to get back out there, you know. I mean, imagine the Earth got hit by a meteor tomorrow. Would you really want the last guy you kissed to be the last guy you kissed?”
We all pause.
Natalie winces. “Mine was a guy from the bar who stank of spicy wings.”
“Random Tinder date who bragged that he hadn’t read a book in a year,” Poppy says gloomily.
“I let Stanley and Lionel set me up on a date last month,” I offer, naming the gay couple who live downstairs from me. “The guy took three calls from his mom during dinner, and then invited me back for tea. With both of them. At the apartment they shared. He was thirty-five, by the way.”
We look at each other and start laughing.
“OK, so you’re not the only one who needs to find a good tree,” Natalie says, smirking.
“Speak for yourself. My climbing adventures can wait until this whole legal thing is squared away,” I insist, remembering the smug look on Brett’s face. “There’s way too much on the line to risk it all. Especially with a dude who probably doesn’t even remember my name by now.”
“I don’t know.” Poppy gives me a mischievous look. “I think there’s potential with this Mr. Darcy. He might just surprise you yet.
”
When I get back to my place, I can’t resist grabbing my laptop and settling in for some good old-fashioned google stalking. I mean, research.
Wild nights with the Fitzwilliam heir!
Taylor’s new man?
Ten Things You Need to Know about Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor!
My nerves twist in new, interesting knots as I scroll through the pages of paparazzi photos and gossip blogs. According to these stories, Fitz is from a wealthy British family, and spends his days sauntering between fashion shows and yacht parties—and his nights out on the arm of every gorgeous, single celebrity in the city. And plenty of married ones, too.
Arthur Fitzgerald flashes his trademark smoldering grin and orders another round of drinks. For a man who stands to inherit the Fitzgerald insurance fortune back in England, he’s unconcerned with settling down. “I leave the suits to take care of business,” he says during another leisurely afternoon at his favorite private members’ club. “Why spend my days locked in some stuffy office somewhere, when I could be out enjoying the city instead?” And enjoy it he does. Linked to a host of beautiful woman, Fitz refuses to kiss and tell—or settle down. “I’m all about living life to its fullest,” he twinkles at me. “Why tie myself down just yet?”
I slam the screen shut. Is he serious? He sounds like the worst kind of trust-fund playboy, one of the rich guys who wouldn’t dream of working for a living. At least, not when they could be jetting off to some hotspot destination and partying instead. I pretty much turn and run when I see a guy like that coming . . .
And now I’m married to one.
Still, he is doing me a massive favor by playing along with this ruse. Maybe the press has got him all wrong?
I pull out my phone and send him a text, reminding him about our meeting tomorrow to go over our cover stories. A moment later, a reply flashes up.
Sure you don’t want to get down to it now? There’s a bottle of rosé with your name on it.
Attached is a photo, clearly taken in a nightclub, with the bottle on the table. Also in the frame is a row of tanned, bare legs in short skirts belonging to whatever girls he’s got cozied up in the VIP section.