I click ‘ignore’ and roll over, shoving a pillow over my head.
I’m not sure if it’s my headache and the stale taste of beer in my mouth, or if it’s the memory of Naomi’s gentle rejection last night, but the thought of doing anything except lying in bed seems particularly unappealing this morning.
My phone rings again—Mom’s ringtone, again.
Ugh.
It only takes a second to put my phone on silent. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, spreading my arms out wide in my king-size bed.
The sheets smell fresh and the pillows are soft and downy, but my bed feels cold. Naomi felt perfect in my arms last night. Even just hugging her outside the bar was intimate. I wonder what she would feel like naked in bed beside me?
I could bury my nose in her hair and inhale the sweet scent of roses that clings to her. I could wrap my arms around her, sinking my fingers into her flesh and memorizing every curve of her body. She could press her chest against mine and brush those soft, pink lips across my skin.
Shivering, I put my hand to my forehead.
I will not give in to the temptation. I won’t touch myself.
The last thing I want is to be going to my next physio appointment with a hard-on, remembering how I jerked off to the thought of my physical therapist. I struggled enough on Monday, I don’t want to associate Naomi with pleasuring myself.
I won’t do that to myself. Being near her is torture enough.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I steady myself before standing up. My head feels like it’s full of lead, and I didn’t even drink that much. I must be getting old.
Maybe rejection worsens hangovers?
I stand on two shaky legs, ready to wince as the pain of a knee stiffened by sleep shoots through my leg. As I straighten, my jaw drops open slightly. There’s no pain. I take a tentative step toward the bathroom, shocked at how easy my movements are.
My knee’s progress with Naomi has eclipsed all the other physical therapy I’ve done before. I was an idiot to try to come on to her. She was right to turn me down. Maybe I should be like her and care more about my knee. I should care more about my knee than I do about my dick.
Still, I’m not used to it—rejection. I’m used to women falling all over me. I’m used to having them follow me around wherever I am, batting their eyelashes and running their hands over my arms.
What I’m not used to is diving into conversations about marriage being an institution designed to keep women in their place. I’m not used to having a bright, beautiful woman battle with desire and propriety and have propriety win out.
I avoid looking at myself in the mirror when I get up to take a piss. I keep the lights off and shuffle back to bed. I flop down on my back and check my phone.
Twelve missed calls, all from my mother.
I groan.
I don’t want to call her back. I’m clearly hungover, and I’m not in the mood for the inevitable questions about my love life.
Still, something could be wrong.
Sighing, I tap my screen until my mother’s name pops up, and let my finger hover over the ‘call’ button. With a deep breath, I press down and bring the phone to my ear.
She answers halfway through the first ring.
“Max! Finally!”
“Hey, Mom.”
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you forever!”
“It’s not even eight AM, Mom, what’s going on?”
“Well,” she huffed. I could picture her smoothing her hair down and patting her cheeks in that perfect, rehearsed movement of hers. “Your father and I saw the papers this morning.”
“Okay…”. Am I supposed to know what that means?
“And we saw you in them,” she continues.
“Uh-huh.”
“We got the shock of our lives, didn’t we, Rudy?” I imagine my father nodding in agreement.
Her little breadcrumb trail of hints is starting to frustrate me. I close my eyes and bring my hand to the bridge of my nose, willing myself to keep my voice patient.
“I haven’t seen the papers, Mom,” I answer. “What did they say?”
“Well!” She exclaims and I swallow back another wave of frustration. Just spit it out! “When were you going to tell us you had a girlfriend! You let us find out like the rest of the world. I’ve been getting phone calls from all the girls at the club all morning!”
‘The girls at the club’ is code for the gaggle of women who pretend to be friends from the Country Club. They have nothing better to do than gossip about me, apparently. And they’d been calling her all morning? About my girlfriend?
I try to process what my mother is saying, but nothing makes sense.
“Mom, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Max, first you keep us in the dark, and then you lie to me! I’ve seen the photos!”
“What photos?”
“In the paper!”
The exasperation bubbles up inside me and threatens to boil over. I sit up in bed, taking a long, calming breath.
“Mom, I’m not lying. What paper did you see these photos in?” I start walking toward my laptop.
“The Post.”
“Oh my god, Mom,” I sigh. “That’s hardly where you get your news, is it?”
“Stop stalling, Max. When do we get to meet her?”
I fire up my laptop, tapping on the keyboard until I pull up the New York Post’s website. I only have to scroll to the second news story to see my face.
My stomach drops.
It’s my face… and Naomi’s.
“So…???” My mom huffs on the other end of the line. “Your father and I are going to come to the city to meet her.”
“Mom, no, I—”
“I need to go now, I’m getting another call. We’ll be there shortly. I’ll bring your grandmother’s ring.”
“Mom!”
The phone clicks and the line goes dead. I stare at my phone’s screen, and then back at the computer. There are half a dozen photos of Naomi in my arms. Even if we’re not kissing or embracing in any of them, we look… intimate. For once, I agree with my mom. If I’d seen these photos, I would think we were a couple.
Then, her final words finally sink in. I’ll bring your grandmother’s ring.
She thinks I’m going to marry Naomi!
My stomach tumbles and I try to dial my mom’s phone again, but it’s her turn to ignore my call. I find my dad’s number and call him.
“Dad—” I say, breathless, as he answers.
“Max,” he replies. “You spoke to your mother?”
“Yeah, about that. The girl in the photo, she’s—”
“Max, listen to me.” His voice is hard and I pause. My heart starts thumping. I only hear that tone in his voice when things were very, very wrong. “Your mother and I have been very patient with you. We saw you ruin not one, but two good relationships.”
“Farrah wasn’t—”
“Two good relationships,” he continues. “And we’re at the end of our rope. After the accident, I gave you a position at the company.”
“Dad, I don’t see what this—”
“It was with the understanding that you would make the family proud, and you would carry on the family name. Your mother and I are tired of reading about you gallivanting all over New York City. We’re tired of the gossip, tired of the stories, tired of it all. It’s not good for you and it’s not good for the company.”
Yeah, and you care more about the company than you do about me.
He pauses for dramatic effect, and it works. “So you have two choices right now.”
I hold my breath.
“You can either marry that woman, or you can give up your position at the company and all the benefits that go with that. You’ll no longer be part of this family. Not now, not in my will, nothing.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’re sick of this. If this woman is suitable, then she’s the one.”
“S
he’s the ‘one’?! If she’s ‘suitable’? What the fuck?”
“Your bachelor lifestyle has gone on long enough. This has to end.”
My eyes widen and I almost drop my phone. I just barely hear him hang up. I’m glad I’m sitting at my desk, because my legs feel too weak to stand on.
I replay the two conversations I’ve just had with my parents over and over in my mind until I finally understand what’s going on: I can either marry Naomi, or lose my job, my inheritance, and my family.
8
Naomi
Sunday dinners at my mom’s house are a tradition. I walk out my door just after noon, still feeling slightly groggy from last night. I drank more than I usually do, but mostly all I can think about is Max. I keep replaying our conversation over and over in my head. I still don’t know if turning him down was the right decision.
Professionally? Absolutely.
Personally? I’m not so sure.
My mom lives halfway to Ithaca, in a little sleepy village on her own. She grows her own vegetables, and spends her days making art. So basically, she has the opposite life to mine. How I ended up at one of the busiest physical therapy practices in New York City is beyond me.
Maybe the sleepy little village was a little too sleepy for me.
It takes a couple hours to get there, so maybe the drive will clear my head. Maybe by the time I get there, I’ll have forgotten about last night. About Max.
Ariana calls me as I’m heading out the door.
“How’d your night end up?”
“It was fine,” I answer, pinning my phone between my shoulder and my ear as I lock my front door. “Got home about midnight.”
“Party animal,” she says sarcastically.
“That’s me,” I laugh.
“You still happy you turned down Mr. Westbrook?”
“Define ‘happy’.”
Ariana laughs.
“What about you?” I continue, heading down the steps toward the front door of my building. My car is parked on the street.
“Oh, I was home about three. I actually had a lot of fun! You wanna go out for a late lunch today?”
“Can’t, heading to my mom’s.”
“Oh, right, Sunday. Will she be disappointed in you that you were celebrating someone’s wedding?”
“She’s not that bad,” I laugh. “She just doesn’t want me to get married.”
“Too bad for Max.”
“Stop it,” I laugh. “Gotta go, just got to my car.”
“Call me tonight, maybe we can meet up when you get back.”
As soon as I say goodbye and hang up the phone, it rings again. I frown when I see the screen blinking with an unlisted number. Usually, I wouldn’t answer phone calls from people I don’t know, but something makes me move my thumb over the green circle.
“Hello?”
“Naomi! Hi. Hey. I, uh… it’s Max.”
“Max?” I frown. Max Westbrook? “How did you get my phone number?”
“You gave me your business card.”
“Oh. Right.” I lean against my car, frowning as I press the phone into my ear. Why is Max calling me? Butterflies explode all over my stomach.
“Sorry to call you on a Sunday.”
“That’s all right, is everything okay with you knee?” I ask the question, hoping that he’s not calling me about his knee. A part of me wants him to be calling me for me.
But that would be ridiculous… right?
“I’m not calling about my knee.”
The butterflies go nuts. I open my car door and slip inside, closing myself in against the noise and the cold of the street.
“Oh.”
“I was calling…” He trails off and I hear him sigh. “I’m calling…”
“Is everything okay?”
“Are you free right now? You want to meet for a coffee?”
“I…”
“I won’t ask you to come back to my place, I promise.”
I laugh despite myself. “Damn, I was hoping for a second chance.” I blush as soon as the words come out of my mouth, and quickly cover it up by continuing: “I’m supposed to meet my mom, but I can probably spare an hour.”
“Great, is there a coffee shop near you? Where is convenient for you?”
“Yes, there are coffee shops near me,” I laugh. “This is New York City.”
“Right.” I can hear the grin in his voice.
“I’ll send you the name of one nearby. Meet you there in fifteen?”
My heart thumps as I drive toward the coffee shop. Why does Max want to meet? What could he possibly want to talk about?
Does he want to apologize for last night? Does he want to ask me out again?
Somehow, it seems more serious than that. His voice was strained. He seemed tense. He wasn’t his usual confident self.
I consider calling Meg or Ariana, but I decide to hold off. I want to see what he says first. They’d probably just tease me and make me more nervous than I already am.
Parking the car, I check the time. I have about an hour before I need to leave for my mom’s. That should be enough to hear him out… right?
I order a couple coffees and wait at a table by the window. It doesn’t take long for Max to arrive. I see him pull up in a sleek black sports car, walking out as if he were a movie star.
I mean, he might as well be. His family is ultra-rich, and he’s basically New York City’s golden boy. Or New York City’s favorite bad boy, whichever way you want to look at it. He closes the car door and I watch his biceps bulge with the movement. His clean white t-shirt stretches over his chiseled body, and I wonder for the thousandth time what he looks like unclothed.
He sees me right away and a smile breaks over his face. My heart flutters.
“I got you a regular black coffee, I don’t know what your drink order is.”
“Venti soy latte half foam half sweet extra hot, with whip” he rattles off as he slides into the chair.
“Oh, I…” really? That’s his order?
“I’m joking,” he laughs. “Black coffee is my drink order.” His eyes sparkle as he grins, and my heart melts.
I laugh, shaking my head. “I was worried for a second.”
“Why, can’t handle a man with a complicated coffee order?”
“I don’t think I can, no.”
“That says a lot about you, I’m afraid.”
“Call me old fashioned, but coffee is where I draw the line.”
Max laughs, and his perfect smile sends spears of warmth through my body. I squeeze my legs together, swallowing a sip of coffee to cover my blush.
“So, what’s up?” I ask when I’ve regained my composure.
Max’s smile melts off his face and he stares out the window. His fingers play with the edge of his coffee cup, and his chest heaves as he takes a deep breath.
“First of all, I’m sorry about last night. I thought… I shouldn’t have…”
“It’s okay, Max. Under any other circumstances I would have been all over you.”
His eyes swing back to mine and I see the desire darken them. I lick my lips, wondering if I should have said that. What is our next physical therapy appointment going to be like? Can I still be a professional after this? Even meeting him here is probably inappropriate.
His appointment is tomorrow. I’ll be massaging his glutes, thinking about what he looks like naked.
Great.
Max leans his elbows on the table, staring at the space between us. Before I can stop myself, I reach over and put my hands over his. His skin is warm and smooth, and I can feel the strength of his broad hands underneath mine. He twists his fingers into mine and looks up at my face.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Okay…” I reply. My heart is thumping from the contact of our hands. I’m not sure I can handle much more of his intense gaze without wetting my pants with desire.
Right now, I’d do anything he asks.
“There were phot
os of us in the papers.”
“What?” I stiffen.
“In the Post. They saw us outside. I’m sorry.”
“I… what kind of photos?”
“Nothing bad. They caught us hugging.” He pulls his hand away and I yearn for the contact again. He reaches down and pulls out his phone, spinning it around to show me. My jaw drops as I take it from him.
“This says we’re dating. I could be fired! ‘Max Westbrook canoodles with mystery girl’?” I look at him. “Canoodles?!”
“I know.” He takes a deep breath. “I need—I would love—” He sighs. “It would help me out a lot if you pretended like we were engaged.”
You could hear a pin drop. My jaw falls open, and my eyes widen.
“What?”
“I know it’s crazy. I know. I’m not a psycho, I promise. It’s just…” His eyes go up toward the ceiling and then he closes them, taking a deep breath.
“My parents saw the photos. They told me that they were coming to meet you, and if this turned out to be another girl that didn’t matter, they would fire me from the company.”
“What?!”
“I’ll lose my job, my inheritance—everything. You don’t have to pretend forever! I just need to buy a little time until I can figure something out, until I can talk some sense into them.”
I stare at him, mouth agape.
“I’ll pay you for your time. I’ll talk to your boss. We can keep it quiet. I just…” His face crumples as his eyebrows draw together, and I already know I’m not going to be able to say no if I stay here much longer. “Please, Naomi. I’m desperate.”
“Let me think about it.”
He catches my hand before I can stand up, and drills his eyes into mine. “Naomi, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. If I lose my job… I’ll lose everything. My family will cut me off and shut me out of their entire network. I’ll have nothing. Those people—they’re ruthless.”
I can hear the desperation in his voice. I swallow, and squeeze his hand.
“I just need you to pretend to be my fiancée for a month, maybe two. That will give me enough time to figure out my next move. I’ll give you a quarter million per month.”
I freeze.
Mr. Right: The Complete Fake Engagement Series Page 4