by Lila Monroe
“Ugh!”
I hurl my phone into the couch cushions—and hurl myself after it. I lay back with a sigh. So, my new husband is a Hugh Hefner-in-training; that doesn’t change my plan. All I have to do is tolerate his playboy antics and devastatingly handsome smirk for a few weeks, then get our quickie divorce and send him back to the grotto. I’ve dealt with worse situations. Last year, the plumbing in the whole building broke and I was stuck sneaking into the fancy SoulCycle down the block every morning to shower without anyone realizing I hadn’t so much as looked at a workout bike in my life. I can make do in an emergency. This will be no problem.
Right?
4
Fitz
Saturday morning, I grab breakfast with my buddy Luke at our favorite waffle spot. At least, I enjoy the carbs, while he laughs so hard at my story of the past forty-eight hours that he upends the maple syrup and attracts stares from every table. Although, that part might be because he’s a famous Hollywood actor.
“You got . . . married?!”
“Fake married,” I point out, remembering the way Becca had gulped when the registrar asked for our vows. I thought she might back out then and there, but she surprised me by going through with it.
“So, what’s she like?” Luke asks. “She’s got to be pretty crazy to agree to be legally bound to you.”
“Actually, she’s surprisingly sane,” I say, thinking back to everything I know about one Rebecca Delaney. Which, granted, isn’t much. She gets tipsy off tequila, can eat fries all day long, and looks disarmingly adorable slumped in despair at the fact her first-choice fake groom scootered off into the night.
Usually, I would have settled for taking her home and distracting her from her problems the old-fashioned way—with a canister of whip cream and three of the more adventurous positions in the Kama Sutra. But there was something about the resignation in her voice as she told me the story of her aunt—or godmother, or whoever this Marigold was—that chipped the ice of my cold, commitment-phobic heart.
That, and the fact she could stop traffic even in that ugly white dress.
All it took after that was a short trip to City Hall and a couple of witnesses, and before I knew it, the deed was done.
Married.
“It’s actually surprisingly simple to get hitched,” I note thoughtfully. “Five minutes and a couple of signatures. I’ve had more vetting at the customs desk at JFK.”
“That’s because you tried bringing a live alligator back from Tanzania.”
“It was a gift!” I protest.
“So, is she pretty? Wait, don’t tell me.” Luke smirks. “You wouldn’t have been so quick to say I do if she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous.”
I chuckle. “Am I that shallow?”
“No comment.” Luke grins. “I never thought I’d see the day. Fitz, lawfully wed.” He shakes his head.
“Fake wed,” I remind him again. “You aren’t a stranger to the fake relationship game, either. Didn’t Olivia fix you up with Stella back in the day?”
“That was different,” he protests. “That was to give my image a makeover. We didn’t take vows because of it. Although maybe, soon . . .”
He gets a bashful look, and I chuckle. “Really? Again? I would have thought your first trip down the aisle would turn you off the sport for good.”
His ex-wife was a piece of work, but Luke shrugs, like he’s conveniently forgotten their very public breakup. “Stella is different. And we’re not talking about her, we’re talking about . . . What’s your wife’s name? Wife. Jesus.”
I have to admit, it sounds foreign to me, too. “Rebecca. I believe she goes by Becca, though.”
“Maybe you want to check that.” Luke shakes his head, still chuckling. “Hey, good luck to you. Who knows? You could decide you like married life.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I grin, catching the eye of a hot woman across the room. She’s out with a guy, but sure enough, she gives me a flirty smile behind her man’s back. “There’s just enough of me to go around. Why would I want to deny anyone the pleasure of my company?”
“It’s a good thing we’re friends,” Luke says, “Because otherwise you’d be fucking insufferable.”
I grin.
“Your doorman said I would find you here.”
We both look up. Olivia Danvers is glowering at me with an icy look on her face.
Luke chuckles. “This is my cue.” He gets up and gives Olivia a wink. “Great to see you, as always—”
“Did you know about this?” She turns his glare on him. Luke can withstand the scrutiny of a hundred cameras on the red carpet, but he wilts immediately under her gaze. “No, I didn’t. Sorry. I’ll just, umm, leave you to it.”
“Good luck,” he mouths at me, before making a quick exit.
Coward.
“What can I do for you?” I flash Olivia my best “you love me really” smile. “Sit down, relax. The waffles here are out of this world.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t shoved yours somewhere particularly painful,” she says, sliding into the booth. She pauses and glances around to make sure we can’t be overheard. That’s Olivia for you, discreet to the last. I’ll bet she could commit murder without getting a spot of blood on her white silk shirt—and then set up her arresting officer with a fake date for the Policeman’s Ball and wriggle out of a charge.
“What’s troubling you?” I ask, lounging back against the plush banquette. I have an inkling, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Olivia so riled up. I’m kind of enjoying it.
“How about this, for starters?” She smacks a thick contract on the table. I recognize my handwriting on the first page.
“Oh, that.” I take a sip of coffee.
“Cut the arrogant playboy act, this is serious, Fitz.” Olivia’s eyes widen. “Entering into a legal agreement like this is a big deal. We screened potential clients for weeks before even submitting a short-list to Rebecca. And you just went and married her on a whim!”
“Actually, it was on a Thursday,” I shoot back, grinning, but she’s clearly not in the laughing mood.
“I didn’t work this hard to have you screw this up for her. Do you even know why she needed a fake husband?”
“Something about an inheritance.” I give a shrug.
Olivia scowls disapprovingly. “She’s trying to save her building. Not because she wants to make a quick buck, but because she cares about the people living there. She’s a good person, Fitz, and I won’t let you jeopardize everything with your reckless games.”
I pause. I know everyone thinks I’m a charming waste of space, and sure, maybe I play into the role, but I’ve gotten to know Olivia over the past few months, and it stings to have her just assume I’m going to mess this up.
“I understand the deal I signed,” I say, defensive. “And believe it or not, I was trying to help. She said it would only be for a few weeks. I can play along until everything’s legal with the will. Unless you think I’m going to blow the whole deal up, just for the hell of it,” I can’t help adding.
Olivia softens. “I don’t think you’d do that,” she sighs. “It’s just . . . you’re not exactly reliable. When was the last time you made a commitment longer than a half hour at the barbershop?”
“It takes longer than thirty minutes to make me look this good,” I crack. Olivia doesn’t smile.
“This is exactly what I mean. You think this is just another of your wild jokes, but Rebecca has everything riding on this. She works hard, and she’s trying to make a difference.”
Unlike you.
Olivia doesn’t say it, but I can read between the lines.
“Relax, sweetheart.” I flash another grin at her, hiding my annoyance with my trademark careless attitude. “Becca and I are already getting to know each other. We’ll be the best fake-married couple in town before the weekend is out.”
“Emphasis on fake.” Olivia gives me another suspicious look. “She’s not one of your party girls you can j
ust whisk off to Vegas and never see again.”
“I know. Becca strikes me as more of a South Beach kind of girl.” I wink. “Or maybe the Bahamas . . . What do you think?” I add, knowing she’s this close to losing her temper. “Would a week on a tropical beach be against the contract rules? I hear they go nude down there.”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Why, thank you.” I peel off a hundred-dollar bill and drop it on the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with my new wife. You wouldn’t want me to keep her waiting, would you?”
I saunter away before she can answer.
Immature, I know, but I can’t help it. When everyone expects you to act like an arrogant asshole, sometimes it’s easier just to give them what they want. And besides, Olivia is wasting her time reading me the Riot Act. I may have married Becca for the fun of it, but I’m not about to go back on my word.
Well, aside from the whole “until death parts us” bit.
I head over to meet Becca for our study session, wondering what kind of boyfriend boot camp my new bride has planned. Either way, it’s a change from my usual weekend routine—and I’m actually looking forward to it. Despite everything I said to Olivia, I have been feeling kind of . . . restless lately. The whole playboy routine gets stale after a while—there are only so many Playboy bunnies one can frolic with before wishing they’d go back to school and plan for their retirement—and with Luke settled into domestic bliss, I’ve been down a wingman for my wild escapades. It’s part of the reason I said I do to Becca. After all, a change is as good as a rest, apparently, so maybe being fake-married will do more to jolt me out of my comfort zone than a week at that spa in the Alps.
And if not, well, the Alps will wait.
I check the address she sent me and navigate deeper into Greenwich Village, an area of the city full of narrow cobbled streets, brownstone buildings, and hip designer stores. It’s a lovely day in the city, blossoms on the trees and people actually smiling on the sidewalks instead of pushing their way with a scowl. I have to admit, I’m curious about the famous apartment building that’s causing all this drama. Couldn’t she just find someplace else to live, instead of embarking on this harebrained fake marriage plan?
132 Waverly Place . . .
I look up, arriving at the place. It looks fairly non-descript, just a red brick building on a tree-lined street. There’s a hipster coffee shop across the street, and some kind of ultra-fashionable store next door, and two dapper men in their sixties are sitting on chairs on the narrow front stoop, swapping pages from the newspaper and drinking from brightly colored mugs.
One looks up and sees me standing here. “Morning,” he calls down. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Rebecca,” I say, climbing the stairs.
The men exchange a look.
“Are you from that law firm?” one asks, looking suspicious.
“No. I’m . . . a friend of hers,” I decide. I have no idea if she’s going public with this wedding, but something tells me she keeps her personal business under wraps.
When she hasn’t hammered five shots of tequila, that is.
“Well, come on up.” The suspicious looks are replaced with smiles. “Any friend of dear Becca’s is a friend of ours. I’m Stanley, and this is Lionel.”
“Fitz,” I say, shaking their hands. Stanley looks like he’s heading to the Hamptons in a white linen suit, and Lionel is sporting a rather snazzy red sweater vest. “Pleased to meet you.”
“An Englishman!” Lionel exclaims. “Whereabouts are you from? I spent a marvelous year there in the ’80s, treading the boards in the West End.”
“I grew up in Sussex,” I say. “But I haven’t been back there in a while.”
And, God willing, I won’t for a while longer, too.
“The countryside, nothing like it.” He sighs happily. “All bucolic rolling hills and mossy dales, you can see where Keats got his inspiration.”
“Oh boy, now you’re in for it,” Stanley chuckles, giving him a good-natured nudge. “Get him doing his ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ and we’ll be here all week.”
I laugh. “I’ve always been more of a Byron man, myself.”
Lionel clasps his chest dramatically. “She walks in beauty, like the night—”
“Fitz!”
Becca interrupts us, darting out of the doors. She’s dressed in jeans and a print blouse that hugs her shapely figure, her brunette hair falling in a tumble, and a seriously flustered look on her face.
I smile. As far as fake wives go, I picked myself a hot one.
“Hi,” she blurts. “You’re early. How long have you been here?” she asks, her eyes darting nervously between me and her neighbors.
She definitely hasn’t told them about us.
“Oh, we’ve been hanging out here for ages. We’re old friends,” I wink, teasing.
Becca visibly gulps. “Great!” Her voice is high-pitched. She’s clearly freaking out here, and I finally take pity on her.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” I tell the others. “But we have plans.”
“See you soon, I hope.” Stanley looks eagerly to Becca. “It’s been too long since Rebecca’s had any friends over.”
“Stanley—” She glares, and he laughs.
“What? I’m just saying. Enjoy your plans . . .”
I barely have time to say a goodbye before Becca drags me inside. “What did you tell them?” she demands the minute the door closes behind us.
“You mean I wasn’t supposed to invite them to our belated wedding reception?”
Becca gasps. “You didn’t!”
I grin. Her cheeks get all pink when she’s panicking. “No, I didn’t. I assumed you’d like to keep our nuptials under wraps?”
“Yes. Please.” She exhales in a whoosh. “They all get way too invested in my romantic life. One time, I had a date back, and we were interrupted three different times by someone knocking to borrow a cup of sugar. It was probably a good thing,” she adds. “As soon as we had a moment’s peace, he asked if I wanted to know the truth about 9/11.”
“Ouch.” I wince. “I dallied with a conspiracy theory girl once. She seemed perfectly sweet, until I mentioned the globe, and then she insisted the earth was actually flat. Flat!”
Becca laughs. “Well, at least you won’t be stuck on a bad date for the next month. Right?” She gives me a razor-sharp look, and I grin.
“Is that your way of asking me to go steady?”
She rolls her eyes and heads for the stairs. “Come on, we have a ton of work to do if we’re going to be ready for dinner with Brett tonight.”
I follow her upstairs, looking around for the first time. It’s a charming building, with plenty of light and character details. “How many units are there?” I ask, my brain whirring.
“Two on each floor, plus the basement apartment. Marigold lived there and took care of the garden.”
Seven apartments, in this neighborhood, in this market . . . ?
“You do realize what this place is worth?” I ask.
Becca shakes her head. “I already told you, it’s not about the money. You can’t put a price on home.”
“You can if that price is ten million dollars,” I reply.
Becca freezes. “What?!”
“In this neighborhood? Minimum. A friend of mine just bought a town house a few streets over,” I tell her. “Renovated from top to bottom, sure, but you don’t even want to know what he paid.”
“Oh.” Becca blinks at me a moment, then shrugs, and starts climbing again. “Either way, it doesn’t make a difference. I’m not planning to sell. Marigold trusted me to keep things exactly the same.”
I’m not sure if she’s loyal or just plain crazy, but either way, I have to admire her determination. Not many people would stand firm in the face of riches like that.
In fact, I can’t think of anyone. Especially not if their sneakers were practically falling
apart like Becca’s.
She stops at an apartment on the second floor and pushes the door open. “This is me.”
I follow her inside, looking curiously around. It’s spacious and homey, with a mismatched collection of vintage furniture and bookcases piled high with paperbacks and tchotchkes. I definitely get Becca’s vibe here: colorful, and with glimpses of crazy straining at the edges. I drift closer to the bookcase. There’s a row of souvenirs on the shelf, little tokens from around the world. A tiny Eiffel tower, the pyramids, a model of Big Ben . . .
Becca turns, and sees me browsing the bookshelves. “What are you doing?”
“I always think you can tell a lot about a person from their living space,” I say.
Plus, I’m just plain curious.
“Really?” Becca looks amused. “So, what does luxury penthouse living say about you?”
“That I’m a man of refined taste and elegance.” I smirk.
She snorts. “Or you’re lazy and unoriginal. I’m all about living life to its fullest,” she quotes, mocking. “Why tie myself down just yet?”
I recognize the interview and hide a wince. I hadn’t been expecting a probing interview about world politics, but it turned out the journalist only wanted fluff—and my phone number. Still, I’m not about to burst Becca’s bubble.
“Someone’s been doing their research,” I tease. “Did you like the photoshoot? They insisted I go shirtless. Apparently, it was their best-selling cover ever.”
Becca shakes her head, but she can’t hide her smile. “Come on, we have a ton of work to do. Brett is going to be on the lookout for any weakness in our story. We need to know everything about each other!”
“Exactly. Like where these souvenirs are from,” I say. “Mementos of your trips?”
Becca laughs. “Umm, nope. I haven’t ever left the country—unless you count a girls’ road trip to Montreal. My friends bring them back for me,” she says. “One day, maybe . . .”
I note the wistful look in her gaze. “Ten million dollars would buy you an awful lot of air miles,” I point out.