by Lila Monroe
Damn, competence is sexy. And knowing Fitz has managed to build this amazing career—and not even claim the glory?
It makes him downright irresistible.
I look at him now, happily collapsed beside me in the bed, and my stomach does a little flip.
No. No, no, no . . .
Yes.
It’s true. I can’t deny it any more. I’m falling in love with him.
My fake husband.
Fuck.
16
Becca
What do you do when you’ve realized you’re falling for the one guy who is supposed to be off limits?
In my case, it’s order everything on the room service menu for breakfast, and then call down for seconds.
“That’s quite a spread,” Fitz remarks, wandering out of the bedroom to find me inhaling a stack of waffles. I gulp some juice and focus on the pastries—and not the sight of him, half-naked and gorgeous as a Greek god. “Plan on leaving any for me?”
“Go crazy,” I manage through a mouthful of croissant. He strolls over and helps himself to some bacon before leaning over and dropping an affectionate kiss on my forehead.
My heart does a leaping, twisty move in my chest. I gulp some scalding hot coffee and try to get my emotions under control. We’ve been going through the motions of happy coupledom, but this is all just pretend, I remind myself sternly. Totally fake.
Just your regular un-real smoking hot sex and delightful conversation and warm feelings and—
Help?!
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, trying to get my head back in whatever game we were playing before I got distracted by sexy fingerbanging and earth-shaking orgasms. “Are there any more Fitzgerald family commitments on the schedule?”
“No, thank God.” Fitz looks relieved. “I can send my parents a fruit basket and be done with them for, ooh, another five years at least. Thank you again for being my wingman last night,” he adds. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Started a few more fights and brought shame on the family name, probably,” I joke, but his smile turns sincere.
“I mean it.” Fitz takes my hand across the table and gives it a squeeze. “It made a difference, having you there.”
Damn. He’s definitely not helping with my boundaries right now.
“I was actually thinking . . .” Fitz says, pausing. “About our divorce.”
I freeze. “Uh huh?” I ask, as my heart plummets earthwards.
“Maybe we want to wait on it,” Fitz continues, giving me an unreadable look. “I mean, things are going well between us, don’t you think?”
I blink. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“Yes . . .” I answer slowly. “Umm, do you?”
Fitz grins. “I do,” he quips. “So . . . how about we just wait and see how it goes?” He pulls me closer and gives me another slow, sexy, morning-after kiss. “I mean, it would be weird to get a divorce and then still be dating each other, don’t you think?”
I have to keep from leaping out of my seat and hurling myself into his lap. I clear my throat and try to act casual. “Is that what we’re doing now? Dating?”
Fitz smolders at me. “Well, right now I’m trying to seduce you, but yes. If you want to put a word on it. Dating. Exclusively. Except for the Hemsworth brothers,” he adds, “but I’ll allow you one pass.”
“Oh really?” I laugh, my heart singing. “Who’s your freebie?”
“Emma Thompson,” Fitz answers immediately.
“An older woman, huh?” I tease. “I better watch out.”
He grins. “It’s a good thing. It means I’ll still find you irresistible when we’re old and gray.”
Now I do really have to jump him. Even though I know he’s kidding, hearing him talk about the future—our future—is the biggest relief in the world.
And the biggest turn-on.
“You better call down and order more coffee,” I tell him, already kissing over his bare chest. “Because this pot is going to get cold.”
Several hours—and orgasms—later, I head downstairs and make a beeline for the reception desk. The concierge has already helped us out with last-minute tickets to all the attractions, and I want to surprise Fitz with reservations for somewhere amazing for dinner tonight.
“Someplace romantic,” I tell him, walking on cloud nine. “With dark corners.”
I remember Fitz’s wandering hands in the cab last night and have to suppress a shiver of excitement.
God, that man knows how to make me moan.
I’m just browsing through some tourist brochures, wondering how we can spend the day—or even if we need to leave the hotel room at all, when I hear my name from behind me.
In a very familiar voice.
“Rebecca.”
I spin around, certain I’m just imagining things, but—
Nope. It’s him.
Brett.
In London?
“What are you doing here?” I gape as he strolls towards me. He’s looking even more smug than usual and has dressed for the occasion in a puke-green hunting jacket and what looks like tweed pants.
Ew.
“I came to see you,” he says, smiling that little rat-like smile. “Enjoying your romantic getaway?”
My pulse kicks, and adrenaline floods my body. “Yes . . .” I reply, my mind racing. What the fuck is he doing here?
And, more to the point, just how screwed am I?
Because I have the misfortune of knowing Brett pretty well by now, and there’s absolutely no way he would cross an ocean just to say a friendly hello.
No, he’s got something on me. Something bad.
“Have you visited the London Dungeons yet?” Brett continues, clearly enjoying this. “I always thought they were so fun. That’s how you really make someone suffer, turn the screws slowly, make them really sweat it out.”
I roll my eyes, trying to hide my absolute panic. “OK, OK, I get the metaphors. Why don’t you tell me what you’re clearly dying to announce?”
Brett’s smile drops. His eyes narrow. “I’ve got you.”
“Got me what?” I keep playing dumb, even as my heart races double time in my chest. “Running late? Mildly irritated? Sure, all of the above.”
“I’ve got you committing marriage fraud to steal my fucking inheritance,” Brett announces, stabbing an angry finger towards my chest. “Game over.”
Shit.
I fight to stay calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say airily. “Fitz and I are very happy together.”
“Really?” Brett sneers. “So you didn’t pay Olivia Danvers and her shady agency to find you a fake husband and screw me out of what’s rightfully mine?”
My heart plummets.
He knows about the Agency? Olivia swore they kept their shit locked down. Total confidentiality.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I try to keep it together. “You’re talking nonsense,” I bluster. “You don’t have any proof.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Brett whips out his phone and plays the recording feature. Fitz’s voice comes, clear as day.
“. . . Thanks for following up. Just send a copy of the contract to us whenever you want.”
Then a woman’s voice plays.
“And how is the arrangement working out? I know it can be strange, pretending to be in a relationship with someone.”
“Oh, Becca and I are muddying through,” Fitz replies, sounding amused. “Being fake-married has its challenges, but we’re both hands-on people. It’s easy to keep up the charade.”
My jaw drops. Brett pauses the audio, gleeful.
“Who the hell is he talking to?” I demand, my mind racing. “And how do you have the tape?”
Brett grins. “Your ‘husband’ isn’t so smart. All I had to do was have a girl call and imply she worked for that Agency, and he spilled everything. Do you want to hear more? Let’s. My favorite part is just coming up.”
He
hits the button again, and I listen to my hopes and dreams smash into tiny pieces on the fancy hotel floor.
“Does Rebecca know how long it will be until the inheritance is finalized?” the woman asks. “I’m betting you’re counting the days until you’re a single man again.”
Fitz chuckles in agreement. “You bet. Let me check with Becca,” he continues. “This whole ‘fake marriage’ ruse was her idea, so I’m guessing she has a plan for when the lawyers take the bait and clear the way for her to inherit.”
“And then it’s Arthur Fitzgerald, free man again?” the woman asks, and I swear, there’s a flirty note in her voice.
“We’ll see about that,” Fitz replies. “I certainly have some plans.”
“I look forward to reading about them in the gossip pages,” the woman laughs. “Or maybe you should give me a call . . .”
Brett shuts off the recorder. “So, what do you think? Enough for a judge to give me the building—or should we get you up on fraud charges, too?”
I can’t find the words to reply. It’s no use, anyway. Fitz spelled out the whole plan right for anyone—and Brett’s audio recorder—to hear.
And just like that, it’s over. My last desperate hope to save Waverly.
Done. Finished.
But worse than any of it was what Fitz said. That he’s practically counting the days to being free from me and this relationship.
Was everything he told me a lie?
Tears sting in the back of my throat, and it feels like the floor just gave way beneath my feet.
“Aww, look at you. Don’t tell me you’re going to cry,” Brett crows. “But hey, I’d cry too if I’d just let ten million bucks slip through my fingers. Do you want to tell the rest of your pathetic band of misfit neighbors you fucked them over, or should I?”
My neighbors. It hits me for the first time how badly I’ve let them down. Stanley and Howard, Lionel, and Olga . . .
Brett is taking all of their homes.
And Fitz helped him.
“You’re a bastard,” I manage to tell him, trying not to let the tears fall.
He laughs. “A rich bastard, now. Marigold never did pay attention to detail. You know she told me I’d never have that building, that you were the only one who deserved it? I wish she was still around to watch me gut the place and put in those luxury condos.”
I have to clench my fists to keep from swinging. Never mind “fight or flight,” I want to punch him in the face and then run far, far away.
He leans in, clearly enjoying my pain. “You should have known nobody would buy this whole plan. I mean, seriously? You expect me to believe Arthur Fitzgerald fell head over heels in love with you?” he snorts. “A guy like him would never marry you.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling six inches tall. What was I thinking, believing people would buy us as a couple? Or that Fitz would ever really want to be with me? Those women at the gala last night had it right, after all. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
Or in this case, a bull-headed bullshitter like Brett.
For a moment, I remember how it felt when my last ex, Christian, broke the news that he was leaving. He went off to have an innocent lunch with Mary Jane—“for old time’s sake”—and then I came back from work to find him packing his things. “She’s the love of my life,” he proclaimed, right there in the middle of a pile of odd socks and button-downs. “We’re destined to be together.”
Christian, the man who made pro/con lists over dinner reservations and kept a drawer full of extra floss, just in case, had been struck dumb by love. Epic, soul-shattering, earth-shaking love.
Just not with me. His fiancée.
I’d felt so small in that moment. So profoundly un-special. I wasn’t the one who got chosen, swept off her feet with declarations of love and fidelity. I was the one who had to watch someone else ride off into the sunset of their epic happy ending—and then spend a day calling around our utility companies, taking his name off all the shared bills.
I should have learned my lesson then. I’m not the one who gets the grand romantic gesture, not for real, anyway.
This was all just an illusion. And now the magic trick is over, and the lights have come up, and I’m the one left looking foolish, sawed in two.
“Becca?”
I turn. Fitz is approaching now, looking from me to Brett and back again. He’s every inch the handsome playboy in a crisp white button-down and dress pants, but just the sight of him is like rubbing salt into the wound.
Anyone else, and I might have pulled this whole scheme off.
Anyone else, and my heart wouldn’t be breaking in my chest right now.
“What’s going on?” he asks, concerned.
“He knows.” I choke out the words. “You told them everything.”
Fitz looks shocked. “No, I didn’t. I would never—”
Brett holds up his phone. “Let me check with Becca.” He plays the tape again. “This whole ‘fake marriage’ ruse was her idea.”
There’s silence, and I can almost see the cogs turning in Fitz’s brain. He’s probably thinking of ways to wriggle out of this one, but with that tape, there’s no excuse.
He turns to me. “Becca, I didn’t . . . It was that call yesterday, she said she was at the Agency. I would never tell anyone—”
“It doesn’t matter!” I cut him off, feeling like I’ve been pulled in five different directions. “It’s over now. He’s won!”
“But I do have to thank you, Arthur,” Brett smarms. “I had my suspicions, but I would never have been able to prove anything without you just spilling the beans like that. So, good job. I’ll buy you a drink back in New York. Hell, with the payday I’ve got coming, I’ll buy you the whole fucking bar.”
Fitz scowls and lunges for Brett, but he dances back. “Security!” Brett yells. “Security!”
The aging guard ambles over—and looks straight to Fitz. “Problems, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“There will be, if this scum doesn’t get the hell out of my face,” Fitz growls.
Brett backs up even more. “I was leaving anyway. Just wanted to let you know the good news in person. I’ll be expecting your official withdrawal from the lawsuit first thing tomorrow morning,” he tells me, victorious. “And if you promise to play nice, maybe I won’t shop Fitz to immigration, either. They don’t look too kindly on green-card marriages.”
“We didn’t—” I protest, but he’s already sauntering away.
The door swings shut behind him. Fitz and I are left alone in the corner of the lobby.
I look down and realize I’m still clutching that set of tourist brochures. Could it only have been five minutes since I was planning our romantic day together? It feels like a lifetime ago.
And there’s no going back.
“Fuck.” Fitz says out loud what I’ve been screaming in my head for the past five minutes. “Becca, I’m so sorry. But we can fix this, right? I’ll find a lawyer, someone who’ll send Brett and his friends running, and we’ll file objections. Get witnesses who can tell the judge Marigold wanted you to have the building—”
“It’s too late!” I interrupt, finally exploding. “Don’t you see? Now that he has that tape, there’s nothing I can do anymore. It’s right there, you told them everything!”
“I didn’t mean to!” Fitz argues. “It was a trap!”
“And you didn’t check the caller ID?” I whirl on him, furious now. “Or wonder why Olivia suddenly had a new secretary? How could you have been so stupid?”
Fitz steps back. “Why would I stop to check? You’re the one who arranged this whole thing.”
“And you just couldn’t wait to be done with it.” I swallow back my tears. “Brett played me the rest of the conversation, by the way. The part where you joke about being done with the plan and getting a divorce as soon as possible.”
Fitz’s face hardens. “I didn’t say that.”
I can’t believe he’s denying it. “You agreed
and laughed along with her! How keen you were to get back out there, life as a single man again.”
“Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it!” Fitz’s voice rises. “It was a two-minute call. I wasn’t going to tell some stranger what was really going on with us.”
“No, you just revealed our whole plan, instead.” I give a bitter laugh. “Gee, way to be discreet.”
Fitz exhales, clearly frustrated. “I’m sorry. Becca, fuck. I told you, we can fight this, together—”
“There is no together!” I cry. “Not anymore. You heard Brett, it’s over!”
He pauses, an unreadable expression passing over his face. “And what about us? Are we over now, too?”
I can’t believe he has the nerve to even ask me that. “There is no ‘us’! You just said it yourself. I heard the tapes!”
“Becca—”
“I should have listened to Olivia,” I say, turning away for a moment. It hurts too much to look at him. “She told me to keep my guard up, that it would get complicated . . . But I didn’t think. If I had, I never would have . . .”
“Never would have what?” Fitz asks, his voice turning cooler.
Kissed him. Trusted him. Fallen in love with him.
The answers linger, unspoken between us. Fitz must see it in my face, because he flinches. “Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here. I stepped in to help you out when you needed it. And as for everything else . . . I didn’t seduce you. You wanted this.”
“And look where it’s left me,” I shoot back, feeling hollow inside. “Brett has everything now. People were counting on me, and I let them all down. But you wouldn’t know anything about that,” I add bitterly. “This meant everything to me, but it was all just a game to you.”
“Right, because I’m the reckless wastrel.” Fitz hardens. “Where have I heard that before?”
“Maybe there’s a reason everyone thinks the worst about you!” I cry, frustrated. “You go through life pretending you don’t care about anything, acting like you’re just a reckless playboy! But did you ever think that maybe you’re taking the easy way out? Making damn sure nobody has any expectations of you, because God forbid you have to try and live up to them?”