by Lila Monroe
“It’s not weird.” Fitz gives me a smile. “You’re not ready to let go just yet.”
“Any plans for today?” I ask, changing the subject from me and my sappy sentimentality.
He shrugs. “Oh, you know. There are missing nuclear codes someplace in the city, and I’m the only man up to the task.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Am I ever going to get a straight answer from you?”
“Now where would the fun be in that?” Fitz smirks. His phone buzzes, and he checks the screen. “That’s MI6 now,” he jokes. “I better go see what they need.”
He steps out into the hallway to answer, and I finish watering. I’m just locking up, when I hear Fitz’s voice, from just around the corner in the stairwell.
“I know, I’m running late, but I’ll make it up to you, babe.” He chuckles. “Oh, you’re going to punish me, are you?”
I stop dead.
“You bad girl,” he continues. “Order me a double,” he continues. “I’ll need my strength, if we’re going to be at it all day.”
Is he serious?
I stand there, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. Of course a notorious playboy doesn’t change his man-whoring ways. Just because we’re married, it doesn’t mean he’s not cheating on me.
Already.
Happy five-day anniversary to me!
12
Becca
I’m still standing there, feeling like an idiot, when Fitz hangs up and strolls back around the corner. “All done?” he asks with a casual smile, like he hasn’t just been setting up some extra-curricular “punishment” with his flavor of the week.
My heart sinks. I can’t believe I fell for his bullshit. “Yup,” I answer shortly. “Thanks. I better, you know, get to work.”
“Have a great day,” he says, leaning in to drop a kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you later.”
“And you’re busy today, right?” I can’t stop myself asking. “Hunting down those nuclear codes.”
Part of me is hoping he’ll give some innocent explanation for the conversation I just overheard. A female cousin in town, the lesbian personal trainer he’s forgotten to mention. But Fitz just gives me a wink.
“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.” He turns and exits the building.
I watch him go, feeling a weird mix of numb disappointment.
Did last night mean nothing to him?
Clearly not. But even if sex with me wasn’t enough to keep him behaving for one whole day, then our agreement should have. He promised: no fooling around, at least not while we’re keeping up this fake marriage charade. And with Brett just itching to bust me . . .
His little liaison could cost me everything.
My disappointment shifts to anger. This “bad girl” must be pretty damn special for him to risk everything like this.
What the hell is going on here?
I leap into action, dashing out the door after him and down the front steps. I can see him, just heading around the corner, so I take off after him—slowing once I get close, so I can hang back, out of sight. For someone about to go cheat on his legal wife, he’s not exactly being discreet about it, sauntering along like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Where the hell does he get off, lying to me like this?
Wherever Bad Girl and her dungeon of pain lives, clearly.
Just when I thought we were really connecting, when I actually let myself have feelings for him, he has to let his pants do the talking and ruin everything! And seriously, is he the Energizer Bunny? Because after the workout we got, I want to nap for a week, not go chasing another round in the sack.
I trail him for a couple of blocks; the sidewalks are busy, so he doesn’t even notice me, skulking along behind him, pretending to look at my phone. I’m not stalking. I’m just . . . following closely. After all, I have way too much on the line to just sit back and wait for him to come home. I need to know what I’m dealing with here.
Or maybe I have it wrong, and this is just a work thing. Whatever it is that Fitz does for a living. Which I still don’t know. He could be a drug dealer, or a cult leader.
Or a high-end pimp for a whole network of Bad Girls and their secret dungeons.
My imagination is running wild by the time Fitz reaches a doorway and ducks inside. I hurry over and peer hopefully through the window. A co-working space, perhaps? A sedate men’s-only cigar club?
Nope. It’s a romantic-looking restaurant. The place is full of couples, gazing happily at each other over brunch.
My heart sinks when I spot him, there in the back. Greeting a tall, leggy brunette with a kiss on the cheek.
And the other cheek.
And a long, lingering hug.
So much for “forsaking all others.” My fake husband is definitely real-cheating on me.
When faced with overwhelming evidence that Fitz is nothing but the reckless playboy everyone told me he was, I do what any emotionally mature, grown woman would do in my situation.
I go to work, shut the door, and stew in my own jealousy and rage for the rest of the morning.
How could he do this to me?
Sure, we’re not actually married, but I thought we had a connection. And a legally binding contract. Plus, you know, the fact I rocked him all night long.
At least, I thought I did. But clearly, I was no competition for his usual hookups.
I sink lower in my seat and bury my head in a stack of case files. I don’t understand! He was the one who said Brett might be having us followed, so what the hell is he playing at, waltzing around town with some bimbo? Unless . . .
She’s not just a bimbo.
I remember the easy way he touched her, and how his face lit up at something she said.
What if he really likes her?
Somehow, that makes me feel even worse. Why would I possibly assume Fitz was really interested in me, when he could have any hot, gorgeous woman in Manhattan—and the tri-state area, too? Last night was probably just an amusing diversion for him; meanwhile, I’m the sex-starved idiot who thought it meant he might actually like me . . .
The thoughts rattle around my head until I can’t take it anymore. I let Mercedes know I’m taking my lunch, and then go meet-slash-ambush Poppy. She’s working in the New York Public Library for the day, buried deep in the poetry section trying to compose an ode to some client’s UPS delivery guy.
“What do I do?” I whisper-wail, sinking down beside her at a study carrel. “I can’t believe that he would do this literally hours after he was naked in bed with me!”
“The guy has stamina,” Poppy agrees, sounding impressed. She catches my expression. “Sorry. Did you guys have an agreement about what’s going on with you?”
“You mean besides the legal contract and wedding vows?” I ask gloomily. “Nope. Somehow I forgot to ask what happens if our fake relationship turns to real hot sex.”
Olivia warned me, but did I listen? Nope!
Poppy gives a sympathetic smile. “Are you sure he’s cheating? You could just ask him about it.”
“And admit I was stalking him? No way.” I shake my head. “Even if he was lying about where he was going. And jeopardizing the whole plan. And breaking his promise to stay exclusive until the will is settled.” I deflate even more.
“I’m sure it’s something innocent,” Poppy argues. “I mean, you didn’t walk in on them naked or anything.”
“You didn’t see them together,” I reply, feeling another pang of jealousy. “There was chemistry. And he was genuinely happy to see her. His whole face lit up. I can’t believe I thought he actually liked me. Of course sex doesn’t mean anything to a man like that. He probably fucks a new girl every night and throws her away, the way I use pore strips!”
“Ooh, what kind do you use?” Poppy asks. “Because I’ve been looking for a new brand, and . . . Now is not the time to talk about that,” she finishes. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Nothing,”
I sigh. “Except try to keep my dignity intact. And my distance from him.”
“You’re just going to avoid him until you can get a divorce?” Poppy asks, frowning. “That seems kind of extreme. Especially if you’re, you know, living together now.”
“I’m not avoiding him,” I lie. “I’m just going to . . . keep a professional distance.”
In my apartment. With him sleeping on the couch.
I groan. “When did my life get to be so complicated?”
“Probably around the time you said I do.” Poppy smiles. “Hey, look on the bright side.”
“There is one?”
“Sure,” she grins. “You could have married that other guy the Agency set you up with. Scott?”
I manage a hollow laugh. “Scott is looking real good right about now. Just think, I could be gliding down Fifth Avenue on an electric scooter made for two.”
Instead of feeling rejected, and jealous, and more than a little crushed.
“Well, while you’re here, maybe you can help,” Poppy says, pushing some books over. “I need to find something that rhymes with ‘mailbox.’ My client has been mooning over her delivery guy for months. Apparently, he leaves her mail in plastic pouches, so it won’t get wet in the rain.”
“Love,” I sigh. “Ain’t it grand?”
I leave Poppy to her poetry, and head back to the office. But her questions linger in my mind.
Maybe there is an innocent explanation for all this.
Like what? Everyone does it in Europe?
A part of me knows I should just forget about Fitz. After all, we said the arrangement was purely professional, and Lord knows I’m not stupid enough to give my heart to an irresponsible, lying, cheating, sexy, smoldering . . .
Wait, where was I?
Oh yes, reminding myself of Fitz’s many, many flaws. Except . . .
The more I get to know him, the less he seems like the lying, cheating type. In fact, he’s always flaunted his bad behavior like a badge of pride, not hidden it away. Would the man who whisked me on a romantic helicopter tour of the city—and then blew my mind five different ways in bed—really be sneaking around like a lowlife scum?
Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt.
Or at least do my research before I write him off completely.
I switch trains and take the subway over to his apartment building instead. The doorman recognizes me and swipes me straight up to the penthouse floor. “There you go, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he says with a wink.
I ride the elevator up, my stomach twisting in knots. What am I expecting to find? I’m not quite sure. Fitz is probably still off with his Bad Girl; I just know I need some answers, and this is the only place I can think to look.
Operation: Who Did I Marry? Is about to commence.
But when the elevator doors open, there’s music playing somewhere in the apartment. And Fitz’s jacket slung over the couch. And his shoes kicked off messily in the middle of the floor.
The way he kicked them off last night, in the throes of passion.
My heart drops. I knew it! He’s probably got her in there right now, for whatever “punishment” she was promising. Well, I have a few things to say about that . . . !
I storm down the hallway, ready to confront them both—just as his office door opens and Fitz emerges. He stops dead when he sees me. “Becca? What are you doing here?”
“Hi, hubby,” I glare. He looks guilty. Seriously guilty. “What’s up? I thought I’d drop by and surprise you.”
“I’m surprised.” Fitz shoots a panicked look behind him, and then tries to close the office door. “But you have perfect timing. How about we go grab some lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.” I fold my arms. “Whatcha doing in there?”
“Oh, you know, just . . . work.” Fitz gulps.
I don’t think I’ve even seen him so uncomfortable . . . which means that whatever he’s hiding, it can’t be good.
“Great,” I lie, pushing past him. “I’ve been wondering what it is you do all day—”
I stop dead.
He doesn’t have a girl in there. Not even close.
“What the . . . ?” I step inside, looking around in confusion. Unlike the rest of the apartment, Fitz’s office is, well, a total mess. There are books and papers stacked on every surface, the walls are covered in colored Post-it notes, and there’s an elaborate map pinned to a bulletin board, marked with different colored pins and photos. It’s halfway between a travel agent’s office and a serial killer’s den.
“You really are working . . .” I say slowly, wandering around the room.
Fitz stands in the doorway, still looking weirdly nervous. “Yup.”
“You’re working on . . .”
My eyes land on the bookcase. He has a complete set of those Alex Chase books in hardcover. And paperback. And French, and Italian, and . . .
Holy shit.
My jaw drops. I whirl around.
“You’re Alex Chase?!”
13
Fitz
Busted.
Seven years, five books, and three million copies later, my secret is finally out.
And I feel . . . relieved?
I’m used to lying to everyone else, but it’s been tough keeping this from Becca—especially after she’s shared so much of her life with me. And herself. In bed.
I watch now as she tears around the room in delight. “Holy shit!” she cries. “I thought you were hiding a woman back here. Not THIS!”
“You thought what?” I ask, but she’s already examining my bulletin board of press clippings and inspiration, and the Post-its where I’m breaking down my latest plot.
At least, I’m trying to. But for some reason, this new book is proving a major hassle. After all, once you’ve tracked down a lost Shakespeare manuscript, hunted Nazi gold in the Amazon, and deciphered an ancient treasure map leading to the lost Aztec city, where do you go from there?
To space, maybe?
“I can’t believe it!” Becca beams. “I love those books. I didn’t even know you were a writer! Why didn’t you say something?”
I shrug, feeling bashful. “Nobody knows.”
“Seriously?” She gapes at me. “But you’re famous!”
“You mean, Alex Chase is,” I correct her.
“Exactly! I don’t understand,” she says again. “This is major! You’re a bestselling author! People would freak out if they knew it was you.”
“Which is why you won’t tell anyone,” I warn her. “I mean it, Becca. The only people who know are my agent, my accountant, and my editor, Trish. And now you.”
My wife.
When will that get any less weird? After a few more naked, sweaty nights together, I hope . . . I know now isn’t exactly the time to be replaying our XXX-rated adventures last night, but what can I say? I’m good at multi-tasking.
And Becca is wearing the hell out of those jeans.
“Your editor . . .” Becca turns. “Is that who you were meeting today?”
I stop. “You know about that?”
“No!” she yelps. “I mean, yes. I may have accidentally seen you meet a woman for brunch . . .”
I grin, putting two and two together. “Is that what you’re doing here? You thought I was having a torrid affair?”
Becca blushes. “Maybe. We had a deal,” she adds quickly. “To be exclusive. Because of the contract.”
“Which is why you came storming over,” I laugh. “To catch me in the act.”
“Because of Brett,” Becca insists again, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. “I had to be sure you were keeping to our arrangement. You know. In case we got caught.”
“Of course,” I agree, still smiling.
She was jealous.
Interesting. I rather like the thought of her getting her panties in a twist over me. Almost as much as I like not having to keep my secret career hidden from her anymore. No more sneaking around, trying to keep her out of my
office.
And no more cracks about me being a lazy trust-fund guy either. Everything I have I earned the hard way. With blood, sweat, and early carpal tunnel syndrome.
“When did this happen?” Becca demands, trailing me out of the office and down the hall. “I mean, how? And why are you keeping it a secret when you could be the most famous author on the planet!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I reply, amused. I grab a water from the fridge and take a drink. “I’m not exactly Dan Brown, or that Fifty Shades woman.”
“But you could be!” Becca insists. “Didn’t I read somewhere that Hollywood wants to make a big trilogy from the books?”
“There have been some offers,” I admit. “But I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“Fitz!” Becca cries. “How are you so calm about this?”
I chuckle, amused by how excited she is. “Because I’m used to it? I’ve been writing for years. It’s just a job to me.”
“It’s not just a job,” Becca insists. “You’re a really good writer!”
I cough, feeling weirdly self-conscious. Being named the city’s most eligible bachelor is one thing, but that’s about my image, the playboy act I perform so well. Getting praise for my writing . . . ?
I don’t know how to handle that. So I don’t. I slip my hands around Becca’s waist, and draw her closer.
“How about we talk about that jealous streak of yours instead?” I suggest, leaning in to kiss her. “Because hot, angry sex is the best kind of—”
“Fitz!” Becca bats my hands away, laughing. “We are not changing the subject now.”
My phone buzzes across the room. “Saved by the bell,” I say, and go answer.
It’s my agent, Josh. “You want to tell me why I’ve had five different reporters calling this morning?” he demands, and my stomach drops.
“Shit, do they know?”
“About the international playboy’s quickie marriage? I’m afraid so.”
I exhale, relieved. “Oh, that.”