“Brunette? Holly? I don’t have to dye my hair do I?” Blondie whines.
Ugh. I must be stuck in some sort of ridiculous nightmare. That’s the only reasonable explanation: my mind playing tricks on me since I’ve been stressing over the big mess a small lie’s morphed into.
Holly plunges back onto the recliner, picks up the file folders, and fans herself. “Whew, you guys are exhausting, you know that?” Her gaze slides over to Ivy. “No, sweetheart. You don’t have to dye your beautiful hair.”
I stand, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Look, it’s obvious this isn’t going to work out. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Izzy—”
“Ivy,” they both spit out like a couple of dragons spewing fire.
“Whatever.” I breathe in a sigh. “As I was saying, I just met Ivy along with that vicious little dog who—”
Holly gasps, eyes gleaming. “Oh, Ivy, did you bring BB with you?”
Ivy bobs her head, unearths Killer Chihuahua from that enormous purse-like bag, then hands the pup over to Holly who showers it with kisses. “BB comes just about everywhere with her mama.”
Everywhere? “Well now, there you have it,” I say. “Another reason why this setup isn’t gonna gel. That little dog isn’t going to accompany me home for Christmas.”
Holly retreats back in her seat, sets the dog they’ve been calling BB on her lap, patting its tiny head. “Now, Chase you’re kind of in no position to be picky, dear. I had a brunette for you last week, but since you canceled that meeting…well, Ivy here is all I’ve got left. Besides, she really is perfect for the part. I promise you, she will play the most convincing bride-to-be. Money-back guaranteed.”
Four days.
That’s all I have before I’m set to fly to New York and spend one week at home. Part of me wants to just show up empty-handed, let Dad name someone else President of Hunter, Inc. Yet, at thirty-years-old, I’ve worked too hard to let that title, that responsibility, go to anyone else.
I bury my head in my hands. “Fine,” I give in, now looking at Holly. “Ivy, it is.”
Holly’s grin reminds me of the Joker. “Great! I was beginning to worry. Now, with only a few days left before your trip home—”
“Wait. A few days?” Ivy debates.
Holly nods, lips pressed in a hard line. “Mhmm. So we’ll need to act fast in order to pull this off. ” She reaches forward, hands us each a file folder. “All the details are in the folders, including your contact information. Study up because you both have some acting to do, one way or another. And try to carve out time to meet up and go over everything just so you are both on the same page.”
I take my folder from her and shove it into my briefcase, pissed off at myself for getting into this mess. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Good luck to you. I hope your trip home is a convincing one.”
Holly walks us out to the elevators with a reminder she’ll be on vacation starting tomorrow. “If there is any type of an emergency, please text me.” She struts back to the entryway of My Fake Fiancé, then whirls around suddenly to say, “Oh, and Ivy?”
“Yes?” Ivy says.
Holly lifts an eyebrow, looking like a principal scolding the school bully. “Be mindful of The Rules of Engagement.” She pivots, disappearing through the entryway just as the elevator doors slide open.
5
IVY
Of Course. The Rules of Engagement.
Item numbers 14a and 14b on the employment contract I signed when I agreed to work for MyFakeFiance.com.
Stepping onto the elevator along with my fiancé, I shudder at the thought of Holly’s words, spoken to me like a warning label.
As if I’d even think about breaking the rules with Mr. Chase—
Huh. It occurs to me I don’t even know his last name. Hopefully, it’s in the file folder of details.
“Rules of Engagement?” He flashes a quizzical glare.
“Yup. It’s in my employment contract.”
“Care to elaborate on said rules?”
I tilt my head to the side. “Basically, I’m not to fall in love with you while pretending to be your fiancée.” BB sticks her nose out of my purse and growls in his direction.
Chase rubs his chin, lets out a tiny hint of a chuckle. “Then I’ll do my best to keep you from falling in love with me,” he says in a tone that suggests a sense of humor lurks amid all that overbearing, conceited stuffiness.
“Well, sir, you’re certainly off to a rip-roaring start.”
The doors to the elevator slide open and I march out, one hand in my purse, feeling for my phone to access the Uber app for a ride home.
Behind me, I can hear Chase on his phone, the sound of his footsteps pitter-pattering as we walk outside. “Henry, whenever you’re ready, I’m waiting outside. The meeting ended sooner than expected.”
Henry?
O.M.G.
Why didn’t I see this from the start?
That’s why he needs a fake fiancée. The man is obviously playing for the other team.
“Do you have a ride home?” Chase eyes me as I try to locate my cell phone which is proving to be difficult at the moment since BB keeps moving around inside my purse.
Poor thing probably has to go potty.
“I plan to catch an Uber.” I take BB out of my purse and set her down on the grass so she can empty her bladder.
Chase peers down at BB, then seems to contemplate for a good ten seconds. “We can give you a lift home. I mean, as long as you don’t live too far out of my way.”
A black town car crawls to a stop alongside the curb, and I shrug a single shoulder. “Um, okay. That would be great, thank you.” I bend down, grab hold of BB, then quickly place her back inside my purse.
He holds open the door and I slide in, fully expecting to see another man—namely Henry—in the backseat. But there’s no one else, but the driver.
Chase climbs in and closes the door before he puts on his seat belt. “Henry, this is Ivy. We’ll be taking her home this evening.”
My mouth drops. Feeling like an idiot, I practically whisper, “He’s the Henry I heard you on the phone with?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “Why?”
I only shake my head and fasten my seat belt. Never, ever make assumptions.
“Where to, Miss?” Henry watches me through the rearview mirror.
“Beverly Hills.”
Chase lifts both brows in surprise. “You live in Beverly Hills?”
“Beverly Hills Adjacent,” I quickly amend, then mutter my address. “6501 Orange Street, please.” Once upon a time, I was all too embarrassed by my address. Yet, I’ve grown to love living in Beverly Hills Adjacent, also known as the “almost” Beverly Hills. I may not have that famous 90210 zip code, but I sure as heck appreciate my less-than-deep-pockets rental rate.
Henry speeds onto bustling Sunset Blvd, the street lights shimmering above. It’s dark outside now, and since it’s Monday at 5 p.m., traffic is its usual horrific state.
“So, where do you live?” I ask, convinced Chase probably lives in some posh estate tucked away in the Hollywood Hills.
“Me? Oh, I live in Malibu.”
Okay, fine. A posh estate tucked away in Malibu. Either way, it pales in comparison to anywhere I’ve ever lived. Sure, I grew up in an NYC Brownstone, Dad the chief of surgery, Mom a lead oncology nurse. Even so, I’ve dreamed of living in something elegant and grand like the kind where Hollywood actors and actresses reside.
“So, why does a seemingly successful man like yourself, need a fake fiancée?”
He breathes in a sigh, rakes his fingers through that full mop of hair. My mind drifts off to me running my own fingers through his hair, almost missing his reply. “It’s a long, long story. Are you hungry? Would you like to stop for dinner? We can chat, get to learn more about one another.”
BB pops her head out of my purse and barks in protest. “Oh, um, I should get BB home so she can eat her own dinner.”
&nbs
p; He adjusts his tie. “Okay. How about we drop her off then go have dinner? I know of a place not too far from where you live.”
After my stomach rumbles and growls, reminding me I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch with Gabriella, I consent to dinner with Mr. Chase—whatever his last name is.
Thankfully, Henry finds a shorter route that gets us to my place twenty minutes later. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes while I get her settled with a bowl of food,” I say before I hop out of the car and scramble to the entrance of Beverly Glen Apartments.
Sadie, one of the few neighbors I tolerate, greets me as she’s checking her mailbox. “Ooo, Ivy. That’s a mighty fancy-looking car parked out there. Anyone I know?”
“Nope. Just someone I’ll be working with.” I make a mad dash toward the staircase. “Have a great evening, Sadie.”
“You too, hon. Give BB a kiss for me,” she calls out as I scurry on up to the third floor.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’d set BB up with her own organic kibble meal, freshened up, slipped out of my pencil skirt suit and pumps and into a black, one-piece jumpsuit with strappy heels, I make my way downstairs to the town car.
Henry is waiting, hands clasped together as I approach. He gives me a curt nod and says, “Ms. Ivy,” as he draws the car door open for me.
Chase greets me with a slightly dropped jaw. “I see you’ve changed your clothes.”
“Yes. I thought I’d wear something more appropriately suited for dinner.”
Henry gets back into the car and asks, “Where to, sir?”
Chase eyes me, a smirk adorning his lips, amusement swirling in his eyes. “Micky D’s.”
Micky D’s?
As in, McDonald's?
That’s where he’s taking me for dinner? I fold my arms across my chest and scoff internally. What was I expecting, anyway? An elegant dinner at the Ritz? This is a business meal, not a business date.
A warm sensation crawls up to my cheeks and I swallow the lump of embarrassment clawing at my throat. “Micky D’s. Fantastic. I love their salads.”
We ride in silence while Henry works his way through traffic, the sound of frustrated drivers, honking their horns in the background. Squeezing my eyes shut, I reflect on all the choices I’ve made in life that have put me where I am at this very moment. Maybe, just maybe, I should’ve had aspirations of following in Ma and Dad’s footsteps, become a doctor or a nurse. Yet, no. Instead, I caved into a classic rebel-laced case of I need to pursue my own damn dream. And look where said dream pursuance has dropped me. In the back seat of a town car with a fine-ass man who’s whisking his pretend fiancée off to McDonald's.
Perhaps it’s time I accept Ma’s offer to set me up. I mean, she only has my best interest in mind, right? It’s not like she’d set me up with some serial killer.
I shake away my thoughts just as the town car is steered up to a curb. A valet approaches and opens my door. “Welcome, Miss,” he says with a motion for me to step out and onto the walkway.
And when I do, I nearly pass out. Glimmering tea lights illuminate the building’s facade, the restaurant’s name, Micky and Delilah’s, shimmering in the dark.
Micky D’s.
Chase steps out of the town car, cups my elbow, leaning in with a sultry curved-up-lip smile. “What? Did you think I was gonna bring you to McDonald's?”
6
CHASE
Okay, I’ll admit…
Wanna-be Elle Woods is growing on me.
Plus, she smells likes fresh berries over a bed of hotcakes on Sunday morning.
The waiter seats us at a quaint table beside a window where the view of the city is spectacular. He hands us our menus and assures he’ll return in a few moments to jot down our order.
Ivy’s eyes gleam, wandering and scanning over the ritzy décor of Micky and Delilah’s. It’s been my go-to restaurant in Century City, serving up anything from International Cuisine to something as simple as Gourmet Fried Chicken.
“Am I safe to assume this is your first time here?”
Ivy’s heady gaze meets mine. “Mhmm. Admittedly, not at all what I expected. When you said Micky D’s, naturally my brain conjured up a bright yellow picture of the golden arches.” She laughs, gifting me my first glimpse of her smile. Enchanting. Like newly discovered treasure.
“I’ve been calling this place Micky D’s for as long as I can remember. If you need a menu recommendation, I’m your guy. I come here at least once a week.”
“Tell me your favorite item.” She blinks up at me over her open menu, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear.
“Honestly, I’m a sucker for their Chicken and Waffles.”
“Chicken and Waffles?”
“Yep. See, they fry up a boneless chicken thigh and serve it atop this fluffy, freshly prepared waffle, doused with their signature, super-addictive, cinnamon brown-sugar butter.”
She licks her lips, practically salivating at the thought. “Um yeah, there is no possible way I can say no to that. Sign me up, please.”
The tall waiter, outfitted in a pair of blue jeans, silk tee, and tuxedo tailcoat, delivers us glasses of water. He takes our orders of Chicken and Waffles, along with my glass of white wine and her cup of coffee. “Excellent choice, Chicken and Waffles is one of our most popular dishes,” he says, before waltzing off to serve others.
Tapping my fingers against my water glass, I study Ivy for a moment, feeling like crap for being so rude earlier. Sure, her dog attacked me, but in all seriousness, the incident was pretty comical. “I’m sorry we had a rough start. I didn’t mean to come off like some sort of a prude-ass.”
She lifts her glass to sip water, her lips giving a subtle notion she may break into a smile. “It’s all right. I mean, BB really should’ve minded her manners. The dog’s never pretended to be Cujo before.” Finally, another smile emerges, albeit through her almond-shaped eyes.
I raise my glass, tilting it in her direction. “May we look back at that one day and laugh our asses off.”
Ivy chuckles, lifting her glass, tapping it against mine. “Cheers to that.”
“So, tell me a bit about yourself, Ivy Bloom.”
Her cheeks turn a shade slightly darker than the pink color painted on her fingernails. “There really isn’t much to share. I’m new to California, here from New York City where I studied at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I took the job at My Fake Fiancé because I was behind on rent. Besides that, this assignment will help me sharpen my skills until I find something else. ”
“I’m from New York, too. That’s where we’ll be going for Christmas. Just outside of Brooklyn, to be exact.”
She nods, appearing to have slipped deep in thought.
“How many times have you played fake fiancée?” I ask, reeling her back in.
She scratches her head, her full lips briefly flattening into a hard line. “Um, yeah. Well, you’re my first.”
There is no getting around my slackened jaw. Her first? Jeez, what have I gotten myself into? I draw in a deep breath. “I see. This should get interesting.”
Ivy sits tall, dishing a side-eye. “I’m a great actress—graduated top of my class, in fact. So please, don’t draw any conclusions about me, and I won’t draw any more about you.”
“Any more? What do you mean by that?”
The waiter drops off my glass of wine and her cup of coffee and babbles on about our meal being out soon, before he disappears again.
I focus on Ivy, my cross-examination glare in full-force, waiting for her response.
As if she hasn’t a care in the world, she takes her sweet time preparing her coffee. Sugar, cream, then she slowly lifts the rim of the cup to her mouth, and blows. “I heard you on the phone with Henry and assumed he was your…”
“Wait.” I snicker. “You thought I was gay?”
“Pretty much. And it all made sense at that point. Why you need a fiancée for hire, I mean. Until I realized Henry’s your driver, not yo
ur better half.” She takes a sip of coffee, sets the cup down, then pins her elbows on the table. “Which still makes me wonder why you need a decoy.”
Pensively, I slide my gaze to the window’s view of the city. “I sort of lied to my parents over Thanksgiving dinner and told them I was engaged. Then to top it off, I said I’d bring my sweet bride-to-be home for Christmas.” I lower my head, then slowly raise it, meeting her wide-eyed blues head-on.
“What made you lie?”
“Other than a case of temporary stupidity? My parents seem to believe I’m not settled down enough to take over the family business.”
Her curiosity is displayed through a head tilt as she sips her coffee.
“Hunter, Inc.,” I elaborate.
Coffee sprays out of her mouth and onto the linen tablecloth. “Hunter? Chase Hunter?”
Her reaction is typical since the Hunter name carries a lot of weight. Of course, it didn’t help matters when Forbes named me one of the most Eligible Billionaires last year.
“Yes, Chase Hunter—”
“The millionaire? Wait. You can’t find a real fiancée?” She sits back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, one cynical eyebrow lifted.
“Billionaire. And it’s not as easy as one would think. Unfortunately, I seem to attract all the wrong women.”
She scans the room in search of something. “I’m looking for the symphony of empathetic violinists to play softly in the background.”
Man, she’s a feisty piece of work—a quality I already have a love-hate relationship with.
7
IVY
A billionaire.
It figures. The only way I’d ever come close to marrying one is via a fictitious relationship.
Chase Hunter? Of all the people in the world.
His name alone has quite a reputation: handsome, arrogant, womanizing.
When E.L. came out with the Fifty Shades series, tabloid-embellished rumors had it Christian Grey’s character was loosely based on Chase Hunter. Of course, the rumor was quickly squashed by none other than Chase Hunter, Sr, citing that fake rumor was detrimental to the family name.
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 107