Real Liars

by S. M. West

  “You okay?” I squeeze her knee through the sheets.

  “I will be, I just can’t stop the merry-go-round right now. Every time I think of being in the tub, I hear the noise as if I’m there. Except, now I know what it means and then I…”

  “You need to try and turn it off. Get some sleep. You must be tired.”

  “I know.” She slides down in the bed until her head hits the pillow and I bring the blankets up to her shoulders.

  “Do you want me to turn off the bathroom light?”

  “No,” she’s quick to say. “And can you leave the bedroom door open?”

  “Of course.” I pat her arm before heading to the door. “Night, Paige.”

  “Zach?” She doesn’t move, but her eyes open. “Where’s your room?”

  I smile even though I shouldn’t. “I’m the next door over. At the end of the hall. I tell you what, I’ll leave my door open, too. All you’ll have to do is call my name, if you need me.”

  “Okay. Night.”

  Standing at the door, I wait and watch for a while until her breathing slows, and once satisfied she’s asleep, I go to bed, hoping neither of us is wakened by her screaming from a nightmare.

  Thirteen

  Paige

  My eyes crack open, burning, at just past eight in the morning and I let out a low groan. My body feels like I haven’t slept in days and my head is pounding.

  I peek my head into the hall and listen, but don’t hear a thing. Zach’s bedroom door is open and the morning sun casts bright streaks through the doorway of his room into the hall. He’s up already?

  A shower is what I need to clear my head and hopefully erase the aches and pains. The bathroom is fully stocked, and I treat myself to an extra-hot, extra-long shower with water spraying from not only above but all around me.

  When I return to the room, wrapped in a towel, there’s a man dressed in what looks like a tuxedo hanging clothes in the walk-in closet.

  I grip my towel tighter to my body. “Who are you?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Hayes,” he says, exiting the closet with a beautiful sundress in his hand. “I’m JP—”

  “Morning,” Zach says, entering the room. “JP’s my butler and sorry, he should have slipped in and out without you being disturbed.” Zach’s rebuking tone stings even if I’m not the intended target.

  “It’s okay,” I rush to defend JP, a man I’ve only just met, at the same time he says, “My sincere apologies, Mr. Rothwell and Ms. Hayes. It won’t happen again.”

  He lays the dress on the bed directly above cute sandals on the floor before skirting around me on his way to the door. Pausing, he clasps his gloved hands. “Clothes and shoes are in the closet, sleepwear and undergarments in the drawers, and the dress...”—all eyes land on the lovely ocean blue dress on the bed—“is for your consideration. Today’s going to be a hot one. And should you wish to wear something else, I’d be happy to let you know where everything is. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  JP vanishes, leaving me alone with Zach. In a towel. My cheeks flame and it isn’t because I’m not dressed but because of this weird thing we have going on. We’re business partners, if we can even call it that, and nothing more. He’s pretty much fulfilled his part of the deal with my landlord no longer an issue—God, I hope he’s no longer an issue—and my part of the deal is to be his fake girlfriend. Why, exactly, I’m not sure. I still can’t figure out the logic of it all.

  Yet we’ve got chemistry.

  But our worlds and lives are very different.

  Oh, and let’s not forget, this isn’t real. I’m a temporary guest in his home and he went above and beyond what was expected of him. I feel like I’m getting the better part of this deal.

  “How’d you sleep?” He keeps his eyes above my neck.

  “Okay, thanks.” I finger the soft fabric of the dress. “Whose clothes are these?”

  “Yours.” He walks into the closet as if inspecting JP’s work. “We’ll get your clothes from your place today or tomorrow. Tamara’s working on it and in the meantime, my personal shopper got you a few things.”

  Shaking my head, I sit on the edge of my bed, ensuring my towel is secure. “I don’t even know where to start with all of that.”

  “Pardon? What didn’t you understand?”

  “Who’s Tamara? You have a personal shopper? And how does one get clothes in the middle of the night?”

  His chuckle is deep and sexy. “Tamara is my lawyer and she’s taking care of Hummel. He’s in jail and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure it stays that way. And as for the clothes, don’t worry about it—just enjoy them.”

  “Zach, this is too much. I have my own clothes.” Something heavy and uncomfortable sinks into the pit of my stomach at the thought of where all my belongings are. “I already owe you for last night.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He leans against the door, relaxed. “Well, other than your part of the deal.”

  He tosses me one of his sexy winks and my core clenches. It should be illegal or come with a warning—just a wink and your panties will incinerate—but lucky for me, I’m not wearing any.

  “And Paige.” Our gazes lock and dare I say his eyes are smoldering. “Wear the dress.”

  With that he’s gone. Before putting on the dress I want to wear, I check out the room. Drawer after drawer is laden with expensive clothes, as is the closet. All of it stunning, way out of my budget, and some too fancy for what I usually wear.

  Why would he buy me all this? I’m only here for the night and I have my own clothes. I won’t keep any of this and while awesome—no one has ever done something like this for me—it’s overboard.

  Breakfast is bountiful and while I gorge on a stack of pancakes, the creamiest yogurt I’ve ever tasted, and the freshest fruit, I wonder if JP fixes a feast like this every day.

  Zach sits across from me at the large breakfast table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Yes, a newspaper where your hands get all black and grimy. How old is he?

  “You don’t want breakfast?” I pop the last raspberry in my mouth.

  “I already ate a while ago when I got home.”

  “You were already out this morning?”

  He folds the paper. “Yes, I play tennis Sunday mornings and have breakfast at the club.”

  “The club?”

  “The Rock Club. Walker, whom you met last night, and I rock climb on Saturdays and play tennis on Sundays.”

  I snap my gaping mouth shut. Of course he’s a member of the Rock Club, an elite members-only recreation and social club in the city. I don’t know why I’m surprised. He runs in those circles and has access to the best of anything and everything the world has to offer.

  “Oh, I see.”

  Seeing I’m finished with my meal, Zach leads me onto the terrace before I can help JP clean up, and my eyes bulge at the expansive outdoor living space. I’m on the penthouse balcony of one of the most prestigious residences in Toronto, backing onto a large, lush ravine.

  “This is gorgeous.”

  “Yes, it’s nice to have a little green space in the city.”

  I clamp my mouth shut to stifle the snort wanting to escape. “Little” green space. Please. I wonder if last night hadn’t happened if I’d ever have seen this magnificent place. Then I remember Zach contacted me.

  “You called me last night. Why?”

  “Nan wanted to invite you to lunch. You made quite the impression on many of the board members, including those on her foundation board. She wanted to talk some more about that.”

  A warm breeze blows my hair around and he tucks a stray strand behind my ear. His long fingers skate along my hairline down to my neck. His lingering touch causes my breath to hitch and I almost lose focus on our conversation.

  “She did mention all that the other night. I’d like to see her again. When?”

  “Today, if you’re available. She said you mentioned weekends were easier for you.
But I’ll tell her to find another time.” He runs his hand down his face and I wonder if all of this—last night and having me in his home—is too much of an inconvenience.

  “No, don’t cancel. I’d like to go.”

  He needs his space and while I won’t say it out loud, I could use the distraction of spending time with Nan.

  “I’ll have to get my clothes at some point today and get settled into my parents’ place. And I’ll have to make arrangements for everything else.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Zach.” I tear my gaze from the horizon. “I appreciate all you’re doing but I can take care of it. We have a deal and you’ve fulfilled your part. You don’t have to keep doing things for me. I promise, I’ll keep my end of the deal, and let me start by having lunch with your grandmother.”

  His steely blue eyes study me while his thumb trails along his bottom lip. It’s an innocuous gesture that grants me all kinds of crazy and unexpected feels. My body heats, stomach flutters, and knees weaken.

  “Is that why you think I’m doing this? Because of the deal?”

  I realize my error but I’m too late. The look on his face conveys just how displeased he is with my assumption. “Yes. Maybe?”

  I’m beginning to think our deal—once agreed upon—was then shoved into unspoken territory and somehow I was supposed to know this, and stupidly I’ve wandered past the boundaries I wasn’t even aware existed.

  “You’re wrong. My end of the deal, whether finished or not, has nothing to do with you staying here, getting your clothes, or anything else that I choose to do for you.”

  “Okay.” Unable to hold his intense stare, I glance over the verdant treetops to the bridge with the cars whipping across the ravine.

  “I realize we barely know each other.” He steps into my line of sight and I’m forced to look at him or not, and that would be deliberately rude. “I like you and consider you a friend.”

  “Okay. We’re friends.” He relaxes a little at my agreement.

  His features soften and shoulders drop, and I can’t say I’m against the notion of being his friend. I could do worse than Zachary Rothwell for a friend.

  “Go to lunch with Nan and let me handle things.”

  I nod, at a loss for words.

  His kindness offsets the events of last night as a warmth moves through me. With a couple hours to spare before lunch, he retreats to his office, a spacious, window-walled room overlooking the same view as the terrace, and I call my mom and then Drew.

  By the time they are both assured I’m fine and neither should come home, I’m drained and ready for a change of scenery. Lunch with Nan Rothwell is just what I need to take my mind off things.

  Fourteen

  Paige

  “Paige, darling, how are you?” Nan rises from the table to greet me, taking my hand in hers. “When Zachary told me what happened last night—even though all is well and good—I was worried sick for you.”

  The restaurant is one I’ve only ever read about but never had the money or the inclination to eat at.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” The waiter pulls out my chair. “This place is lovely and I’m so glad you invited me.”

  “Me, too, and I’m happy to hear you’re living with Zachary.” She signals the waiter and he fills our glasses with a pretty pink drink garnished with pineapple. The table is covered with an assortment of dishes.

  “It’s only temporary.” Fake relationship or not, living together is a big deal. I don’t want her to get the wrong impression.

  “Don’t be silly. My grandson wants you there.” Staring, she must see my skepticism. “He told me so himself.”

  “I’m sure he did.” I fail at hiding my sarcasm—living together is a great way to fast-track our façade. Nan’s sing-song voice breezes through my mind with what she might say to friends and colleagues: “They’re so in love that they’re already living together.”

  Lunch is decadent in both the food and conversation. Nan is one smart and fascinating woman, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. During our meal, people drop by our table to chat with the matriarch of the Rothwell empire. And without exception, she introduces me to everyone like a daughter, as if dating Zach makes me part of the family. It’s both endearing and sickening.

  I really do like her and believe the feeling is mutual, and it makes me nauseous to think I’m lying to her and so is Zach. He has such a wonderful relationship with his grandmother that it’s hard to understand why he’d want to be underhanded.

  “Mrs. Rothwell,” says a familiar voice from behind me. At the same time, a hand rests on the top of my chair, fingers grazing my shoulder.

  “Donovan, how are you?” She smiles and he leans across the table to kiss her cheek. “And how is Cecilia?”

  “I’m great and so is she. It’s nice to see you.” His sharp, gray eyes latch onto me like a knife scoring its mark.

  To think we almost dated. Now all I can see is a slippery snake. But I have to hand it to him, he puts on a good show, polished and polite, taking my hand in his.

  “This is Paige—” Nan says and is interrupted by him.

  “We’ve already met.” His gaze is calculating. “Paige, good to see you.”

  “Donovan.”

  “Oh, yes, you would have met at the dinner. So, Paige, you know this is Cormac’s youngest son?” Nan asks and this news surprises me.

  I met Cormac at the board dinner and he was a pure gentleman. And while I can see a vague resemblance in their light eyes and dirty-blond hair, there’s no further comparison now that I’m learning more and more about his son.

  “Your father is a wonderful person.”

  “Yes, he is.” He flashes an inscrutable smile and I shiver.

  “I was just about to tell Paige how Cormac mentioned her idea to expand our giving campaign. And—”

  “And he loves it,” he cuts her off, gaze still burning into me. “You made quite an impression on my father at the dinner the other night. So much so, I wish you’d shared your thoughts with me.”

  Nan laughs, and I shudder to think she’s buying his bogus charm. “Your idea is brilliant.”

  “It was just a suggestion.” I shrug, finally forcing myself to look at her across the table.

  The praise and attention are unwanted and unnerving. My idea to choose a focus for their foundation rather than many donations to many charities was a no-brainer. I’m surprised no one else has suggested it.

  “And you knocked the socks off his other sons, too,” she says proudly.

  “She certainly did. I don’t know what you said to my brothers, but both Clive and Douglas were tripping over themselves to throw money at the foundation.” His delivery implies something crude between his siblings and me instead of the altruistic act.

  Nan clucks, lightly tapping at his arm. “They were both very generous and their contributions will do a lot of good.”

  “I’m sure they will, but I wonder if their charity was sparked by something or someone.”

  “Well, Donovan, it was nice to see you and please do give my love to your wife.” Nan isn’t impressed with his innuendo and I’m glad she’s curt with her dismissal.

  “Very well.” He smirks at me, winking. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Ms. Hayes. And Mrs. Rothwell.”

  She waits until he’s out of earshot to lean into the table, grabbing my attention. “Pay him no mind. That boy has no decorum.” Lips twisting and nose crinkling, she shakes her head. “You really did a lot of good at the dinner. We’ve been trying to get Clive and Douglas to support the foundation for a while now, and not even their father could persuade them. They are philanthropic, but both claimed their interests were elsewhere.”

  “I only talked to them about what I’d learned about the foundation.”

  “Well, you have the touch, my dear. And that’s one of so many reasons why I wanted us to have lunch. I need your help.”

  “My help?” The notion is ludicrou
s, and I nibble on my bottom lip to prevent my laughter from springing free. It really is that funny.

  “Our annual fundraising gala—Nuit Étoilée—is coming up in less than two months and I want you to plan it.”

  I tilt my head to one side, not quite understanding. “Nuit Étoilée? Doesn’t that mean Starry Night?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s a magical evening meant to inspire our donors to open their pocketbooks for a good cause.”

  “I’m not an event planner. I don’t know the first thing about planning something like that.”

  “There’s so much more involved than just event planning and you have what it takes. The date, venue, and menu are already set. What we need is direction. There’s no theme and we might even want to look at a new cause.” She signals for the bill, and I stare at the woman like she’s lost her mind.

  “Every year, Bettina insists on running it and it’s always the same old thing. Nuit Étoilée was successful the first two years, partly because it was new, but now it’s stale. Attendance and donations have dwindled in the past two years.”

  “Bettina?” I think back to the other night and the matronly older woman I met. Tall, white hair—the perfect blow out—and flawless makeup and clothes. She may have looked every day of her sixty-plus years, but she wore time with confidence and class. “I can’t just step in and push her aside.”

  At first, Bettina seemed stern and intimidating, not even a smile when we were introduced, but we started talking and she warmed to me. She’s a lovely woman.

  “She’s on board with you managing the gala. I suggested it and she was so taken with you that by the end of our conversation, she thought it was her idea to ask you.”

  Her sly smile is so like her grandson’s I don’t stand a chance at holding back my giggle. The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. She joins me and winks. Oh, these Rothwells.

  Sobering, I say, “But it’s only eight weeks away.”

  “Save the date invitations have gone out without any specifics. We would have to send a proper invitation soon, and I have the utmost confidence in you to come up with something to get those RSVPs in.”