My Fake Fiancee

by Nancy Warren

  She made a tiny sound, kind of a sigh and an mmm joined together.

  He crept out and left her sleeping.

  There was no reason for him to go into the office. He wasn’t one of those twits who dashed in to send e-mails at three in the morning so it looked like they were good company men. He believed in working hard during regular office hours and that productivity was how you proved your worth. Not stupid suck-up tricks.

  Sure, he worked late when he needed to and if a weekend was required, he gave a weekend. Right now, though, everything was under control. But he said he was going to the office and he felt bad enough about breaking the rules and having sex with Chelsea. He didn’t want to add lying to his conscience.

  He nodded to the night watchman and signed in, then took the deserted elevator up to his floor. To his surprise, he wasn’t the only one at work. Damien Macabee was typing away at his computer, his gray head bent over his work. Probably cleaning up some things before he retired.

  David popped his head around Macabee’s door to be polite. They weren’t particularly friendly, but he had a great deal of respect for the man who’d been in the business more than forty years. “Hi, Damien.”

  Macabee blinked his eyes and, taking off his glasses, rubbed them. “Hello, David. What brings you here so late?”

  Even though he hadn’t prepared an excuse, not dreaming anyone else would be here, he said, “I’m trying to land a record-label company. Had a good meeting with them earlier, but I think their top brass are hesitant to commit to an employee benefit plan.”

  Damien Macabee nodded as though he’d been in that position scores of times, which, of course, he had.

  “The issue they’re having is fear of change. They know they’re ready, but our job is to help convince them that nothing but good can come of looking after their employees better.” He leaned over and opened a filing cabinet beside his desk, pulled out a thick file and handed it to David. “There’s a report in there that contains some excellent research on the benefits that accrue to a company with a good benefits package. Take a look at it and see if it helps.”

  “Thanks, Damien. I appreciate it.”

  David didn’t have trouble concentrating during the day, but he had to admit it was nice in the quiet office with no distractions. Nobody popping their head into his office to ask him something, no phone calls, meetings, nothing but him and his computer.

  And his thoughts. Even as he studied the research—and Damien had collated some fascinating statistics collected from studies from around the world, and pulled together facts and figures that he thought were relevant to a record label—his body felt relaxed and sated. If only his mind was as easy.

  He discovered Macabee wasn’t the only one working late when a soft knock fell on his door and a second later, Piers entered.

  “Don’t mean to interrupt, David, but since you’re here, I think you’re the very man I want. I want to talk to you about employee morale.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think we should raise it.”

  David bit back a smile. Easier said than done. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the morale here. It’s a good company, you pay well, nobody’s been laid off that I know of. People are happy to have the job.”

  “I appreciate hearing it. I believe you’re right, but you know it never hurts to throw a bit of fun into people’s lives.”

  David wondered what management book he’d been reading, or what article he’d perused at his barber’s. Piers was steady as a rock most of the time and good at looking into the future. He and his brother had made some strategic moves that had helped the company flourish during tough times. But he had his odd hiccups and this sounded like one of them.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was reading an article about those bulls you can ride. You know, like that fellow did in that movie back in the eighties I think it was.”

  “Urban Cowboy?”

  “That’s the one. I understand that riding a mechanical bull is quite popular again and is a good morale booster. I thought we might try posting such an evening. Say in a week or two on an evening after work. We could have prizes and it would be a chance for people to get to know each other outside of work. And we’d invite spouses and partners, of course. I’m sure Chelsea would enjoy it.”

  “Riding a mechanical bull? I’m sure she’d love it.” He paused. “But do you think it’s wise? What if people have back issues or neck trouble and give themselves whiplash? That would pretty much dump a bucket of water over the morale boosting.”

  “Let’s look into it anyway. I think it would be fun. I’ve always wanted to go to a dude ranch. Never got the opportunity. I like to think there’s a little cowboy in all of us.”

  And that’s when he knew that nothing he said was going to change Piers’s mind. It was already bucking a mechanical bronco.

  Maybe that’s why he loved the company so much. They combined solid business acumen with a dash of the crazies. A mechanical bull. He shook his head and packed up his desk.

  He returned home, having done some useful work that could have waited for the morning, but at least had given himself some space. A few more hours of intimacy with Chelsea and they’d have woken together in his bed. Officially, he’d have been in a Relationship. The kind that always had a capital letter to it.

  This way, they’d enjoyed each other and he’d made the separation. Maybe it was a subtle distinction, but it mattered to him. A little sex, a few laughs, they slept in their own beds and got on with their lives and this thing ended when he got the promotion. Her business would be launched and she could move out. He hadn’t said anything but he’d already decided to invest in her business, thinking it was the least he could do when she’d helped him out so much. He refused to contemplate the possibility that he was planning to bribe her not to hate him.

  The town house was quiet when he entered it. A single lamp burning in the living area. The kitchen was back to spotless, the way she usually left it, so he knew she wasn’t still sacked out in his bed.

  Now his only worry was that she’d misunderstood the situation and had moved all her stuff into his room. He crept upstairs to take a look, but when he stuck his head into his own bedroom he found that the bed was neatly made and all trace of Chelsea gone. There was no sign she’d even been there.

  Strangely enough, no sooner did he have confirmation that she hadn’t misunderstood the situation, that she was gone, than he found himself wanting her in his bed, wanting her warm, willing body.

  He shook his head. Dragged off his clothes and flopped into bed. And found her scent clinging to the pillow. He turned his back resolutely and went to sleep. But when he woke in the middle of the night, half dreaming that she was back in his bed and in his arms, he realized he’d shifted to “her” side of the bed, and his nose was pressed into the pillow that held her scent.

  18

  CHELSEA WAITED UNTIL she knew David had left for work before venturing out of bed.

  The rat bastard.

  She’d felt so good. So good. Against her better instincts she’d let herself go, let him seduce her.

  Frustration at her own stupidity rose like a scream. She’d known since she was fourteen years old that David Wolfe was bad news for her. At fourteen there’d been some excuse for her naiveté. At nearly thirty? No excuse.

  And now what was she supposed to do?

  She showered and dressed and quickly considered and discarded such ideas as packing up and moving out before he got home from work. She’d made a bargain, devil’s bargain though it had turned out to be, and she wasn’t the kind of woman to renege. Besides, part of the deal was this amazing kitchen and she had no interest in giving it up, not before she had another lined up. Not before she’d proven herself.

  Speaking of which, she had a wedding to cater, and moaning and bitching wasn’t going to get it catered.

  And on top of today’s work, she needed to make dinner.
/>   She stopped, realizing that she did not have to make dinner. That the cozy evenings she’d been creating were part of her problem.

  The truth struck her with the cruelty of a whiplash.

  She’d been playing house.

  She’d fashioned her own personal dream house complete with picture-perfect food, clothes she loved to wear and the final prop to any girl’s dream home—an idealized male she could bend and pose around the house. Maybe there’d been some exclusively adult activity that wouldn’t have been part of her child’s playworld, but other than that, she’d been indulging fantasy.

  And it had to stop. She needed to get real.

  David had managed to survive for thirty-two years without her to fuss over him and cook for him. He could do it again.

  Having that decision out of the way, she started working. She had a meeting with the wedding planner this afternoon and needed to get going. Beating the eggs into the flour-and-water paste for the choux pastry was remarkably satisfying. It was physically strenuous, since she preferred beating by hand with a wooden spoon to whizzing the confection in a machine. She liked to “feel” the dough so she knew by instinct when it was ready. After piping tiny puffs onto a cookie sheet and placing them in the oven, she filled tart shells with a selection of exotic mushrooms and goat cheese, then grilled prawns to go with her signature dip and prepared asparagus foam to squirt on top of the vol-au-vents. She added a couple of seviche in miniature martini glasses. It wasn’t the complete line of appetizers she planned to serve at the wedding, but she thought she’d included a good selection.

  She’d already pulled together lists of wedding menus she’d created for different budgets, times of the day and themes. She placed the sheaf of pages into one of the folders she’d had printed, complete with her new logo. She had to admit David was responsible for spurring her on to get her marketing materials together before she had much of a track record.

  However, she had a great product she believed in. That had to count for something.

  So, she readied a pretty tray of goodies, dressed in one of her favorite outfits, a simple black dress with a short red-and-black jacket, stepped into black heels and grabbed her folder. She supposed she ought to have a briefcase, but she didn’t.

  As she was leaving, a flash caught her eye. Her engagement ring. She’d fallen into the habit of wearing it. One more prop in her adolescent dream life. She slipped it off and placed it in the dish David used for his keys by the front door.

  Even though she already had the job catering for the Sloane/Franco wedding, she wanted the wedding planner, popular in the area, to like her and hopefully hire her again.

  So it was with some trepidation that she entered the renovated brick warehouse where If You Can Dream It was located. She walked in and immediately felt bridal. The reception area featured a photo gallery of happy couples at their weddings. Everything from Chinese dragon-inspired ceremonies to eco-conscious weddings were represented.

  A young blonde woman was seated at the reception desk. “May I help you?” she asked in a British accent.

  “Yes. I have an appointment with Karen.”

  “I’ll let her know you’re here. Would you like to set down your tray?”

  “Thanks,” she said gratefully, placing the tray carefully down on a handy tabletop displaying bridal magazines. She’d had no idea there were so many magazines devoted to weddings.

  In a very short amount of time a short, curvy woman in a floral-print dress came out of a back office with her hand held out and a professional smile painted on her lips like lipstick. “You must be Chelsea. Thanks for coming in. I always like to meet the caterers to make sure we’re on the same page. You do understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll talk in my office. I’ve got the Sloane/Franco binder in there.”

  Chelsea picked up her tray and followed. Since Karen was leading the way, she didn’t see the tray until Chelsea had placed it in the middle of her desk.

  To Chelsea’s horror, a cry of distress slipped out of the woman’s mouth when she eyed the tray, and she threw her hands up.

  “No.” She shook her head and took a step back. “No, no, no.”

  Chelsea had no idea what to do. She’d worked so hard and she thought she’d done such a good job. “You haven’t even tasted anything.”

  Stricken blue eyes met hers. “I can’t. I’m on a strict diet. Twelve hundred calories a day. It’s killing me.”

  But she gazed at that tray like a gambling addict at a slot machine.

  “And I’m so hungry, I’m hungry all the time. I’m thirty-five years old, wouldn’t you think by now I’d have learned willpower?” She took a step forward and then sharply back. “Oh, get those things out of here.”

  A diet. Of course. Her confidence rushed back. “I can, of course, but that seviche is only thirty calories. I wish you’d try it. It’s only fish marinated in lime juice and spices, no fat at all, and it’s high in protein and potassium.”

  Karen’s bright blue eyes grew round. “Seriously? Something that looks that delicious is only thirty calories?”

  “Yes. In fact, if you can afford two hundred calories, I can also suggest these four canapés.”

  Karen almost snatched the seviche from the tray and, using the tiny cocktail fork, tasted the delicate concoction. “Mmm,” she moaned. “Delicious.”

  Licking her lips, she motioned Chelsea to a seat.

  “Really? I can eat four of them for only two hundred calories?”

  Chelsea smiled, holding up her right hand. “I swear.”

  It was a pleasure watching a stranger devour her food with such obvious enjoyment. The woman didn’t simply chow down, though, Chelsea could tell that she was tasting the food with a critical palate, closing her eyes as she ate each selection, then nodding approval.

  When she’d finished the canapés, she pushed a button on her phone. “Dee, honey, come in here.”

  When Dee appeared Karen motioned to the tray. “Take these away and eat them before I succumb. Then report back on what you thought of them.”

  “Certainly.” The young woman carried off the tray and Karen watched the way a dog watches a steak being eaten by its master.

  “Pastry,” she whispered. “I love pastry, and cheese. And ice cream. And chocolate.” Then she shook her head. “I hate diets, but no one wants to hire a fat wedding planner.” She sighed. “Now that you’ve proven you can cook, let’s see your menu for the wedding.”

  Chelsea withdrew the menu sheet from her folder and placed it on Karen’s desk. “The appetizers on that tray will be part of the predinner selection, and then for dinner, here’s the menu. Wherever possible, I’ve sourced local produce.”

  The wedding planner scrutinized the menu. “Vegetarian options?”

  She nodded. “And kosher. I can also work around pretty much any food allergy.”

  “This looks great. I approve.” She started to rise, clearly getting ready to move on to the next thing on her agenda.

  Chelsea knew she had to start selling herself if she was to make a success of her business, so she said, “I’ve also brought you some other sample menus and services I’ll be offering, in case we get a chance to work together again.”

  She offered the folder and Karen opened it, scanned several of the menus and then, pushing the open folder away from her, stared at Chelsea for an uncomfortable moment. “Why haven’t I heard of you?” she finally asked.

  “I’ve been in Paris, training at Le Cordon Bleu. I only returned six weeks ago.”

  The woman tapped her manicured nails against the table top. “So you haven’t catered any weddings here in Philadelphia?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing for a kitchen?”

  “I’m working from home right now. The kitchen’s been inspected and approved, of course, but I’m looking for a commercial space.”

  The woman nodded again. “I might be able to help you there.”

 
; “Really?”

  “Tell you what. Let’s see how you do with this wedding. Then we’ll meet and maybe we can help each other out.” She shuffled the menus back into the folder. “In the meantime? I don’t want you talking to any other wedding planners.”

  She was about to agree. She had no time to meet with anyone anyway, but maybe she’d been listening to David too much. She copied Karen’s professional smile. “I have a business to run.”

  The woman nodded, seeming not at all put out by her blunt speaking. “Okay. Cards on the table. Here’s what I’m thinking. If I like your work at this wedding, and I don’t only mean turning out more of that heavenly, delicious food like you brought in today, but also being able to run a kitchen and an event without losing your cool, and if the client is happy, then I’d be interested in using you as my exclusive caterer. It would mean you couldn’t cater for any other wedding planners.” She leaned forward and said, “And I’ve got more business than anybody in town. You want to take the deal. Ask around.”

  Chelsea was so excited she wanted to jump up and kiss Karen right on her calorie-hungry mouth. But she held on to her cool composure with both hands. “I could probably live with that. What about the commercial kitchen you mentioned?”

  “There’s a café near here that went bankrupt a couple of months ago. It’s got a fantastic kitchen. I have a cake-maker who does the most amazing wedding cakes. I suggested it to her, but she can’t afford the space on her own. I was thinking maybe if you two could work around each other that you might be able to share the space.”

  Her heart began to thump. She’d have the same problem until her business got off the ground, but if she could split the rent, it could work.

  “You say it’s got a storefront?”

  “Yes. The location’s not great, which is why it went bust and why the rent’s reasonable, but you might want to open to the public. Sell ready-made dinners and nibbles for people planning their own parties. Could be a nice side business.”