by Remy Rose
“I’m gonna do the treadmill, Cav. You going to lift, or do you want to run first?”
“I’ll run.”
He grins. “Sexually frustrated. I knew it.”
We walk over to the machines. There’s some nice scenery—a couple of college-age girls on ellipticals in sports bras and running shorts, sweat glistening on their upper chests. They sneak glances at us and then look at each other with raised eyebrows. Funny as hell. Men apparently aren’t the only ones who are less than subtle checking out the opposite sex.
Tommy and I each take a treadmill and set our workouts.
“So, Cavanaugh—where are you and Blondie meeting tomorrow? And what’s her real name again?”
“Delaney. We’re going to have lunch at Peppers. What’s up for the rest of the weekend for you?”
“Driving to Manheim for the auto auction. I’m looking to bring home a couple of sweet Jags. You want to see them before they go in the showroom?”
“Shit, that’s tempting...I’m in the market for some oceanfront property, though, so I’ll hold off on the Jag. But I’ll most likely take you up on that in the future.”
We stop talking for a while, focusing on running. I’ve cut my time this winter to a seven and a half minute mile on the treadmill, and that should improve when I start training outside. I’m planning on doing the Beach to Beacon 10K in Cape Elizabeth this summer and work up to a half-marathon by fall. It’ll be good to get outside when the weather’s a little nicer—running on this thing is getting pretty damned old and monotonous. I like variety in my exercise routine, and the same can definitely be said for how I operate in the romance department. Guess you could call me a serial monogamist. I can’t quite wrap my mind around wanting to be with the same woman—same eyes to look into over lasagna, same face to roll over and see when you wake up, same pussy to fuck.
I probably get the roaming cock syndrome from Dad. When my mother gets pissed off at me (which is often), she’ll pull out the you’re just like your father card. And I’ve got to agree with her. I’ve got his height, his build, his eyes...and if I’m being totally honest, his penchant for sometimes being a prick. But I’d like to think I’m not nearly as bad as Trent Abbott, who isn’t what you’d call a great father, or partner, or human being in general.
One thing I didn’t get, though, was his last name. He and my mother never married. The story goes, the two of them hooked up in college, after the Harvard-Yale football game. Yale won, so they were partying...inebriated, obviously, but not so inebriated my father couldn’t get it up and in a moment of weakness and stupidity, forego the condom and get my mother pregnant. And it wasn’t like those relationships where on the surface, you hate each other but underneath, there’s true love...nope. This was loathing on every level. They stayed together for a lot longer than they should have. My father was an attorney, so even though he was an ass, he was also an asset because he was smart and business-savvy, and when my uncle tried to screw my mother out of the company, Trent Abbott the lawyer sailed in as the conquering hero—his main motivation being that he was enjoying living the wealthy lifestyle and didn’t want to lose it. He and my mother may have hated each other, but he hung on, given the perks of being the partner of a multi-millionaire business owner. He had affairs, Mother looked the other way, and when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she basically paid him off to leave and leave her alone, just before I entered high school.
He and his new, much younger wife live in Boston. I never see him, and I’m not complaining.
I increase the incline on the treadmill. My legs are pumping—the hard, steady rhythm feels good and counteracts my restless vibe. I’ve got to convince Delaney I’m a decent guy, and to view this proposal as a being a win-win for the two of us. I’ll channel some Trent Abbott charm, minus the prick factor, and hope she takes me up on my offer.
I’ll have my answer tomorrow.
chapter 8 / Delaney
Driving into the Peppers parking lot, I’ve already made up my mind that I’m going to say no to whatever he asks. I came close to texting him this morning that I changed my mind about wanting to meet. It was ridiculous and totally out of character for me to just agree to see some random guy, and it obviously was the alcohol on Friday night that saturated all rational thought and good judgment. I decided to at least show up, though, because I’m someone who keeps my word. And honestly, even though I hate to admit this to myself, I’m curious as to what Damon Cavanaugh’s intriguing “idea” is all about.
No matter what, I’m still saying no.
I’m practicing it in my head as I get out of my car.
No.
No thanks.
No, thank you.
Even though I think you’re the sexiest stud alive and the most delectable piece of eye candy I’ve ever seen, and even though last night when I took a shower, I used the massager and pretended it was your tongue, still...no.
Um, probably not going to use that last one.
It suddenly occurs to me as I pull open the oak door to the restaurant that I might see someone I know in here. God, I hope not, because people start to think things, and then the questions start, and rumors spread, and—
And-and-and-and...
Sometimes I really hate myself.
I hold the door for a sweet older couple who’s leaving. I like this place—cozy, comfortable booths, a lavender accent wall, fabulous drinks, delicious homemade cheese rolls. But since my stomach feels like it’s tied in knots, it’s doubtful I’ll be able to eat much.
I take a quick look around. No one I know.
Except Damon Cavanaugh.
He’s sitting in a corner booth—good move, because that’s more inconspicuous—and when he notices me, he waves, his face lighting up in a broad grin, like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. Only we’re not, so his reaction is a little unexpected.
As I approach, he stands up. So he has manners. And consistent style that whispers, not screams, upper-class, wearing a coral V-neck sweater, khakis and boat shoes. He seriously needs to be in a menswear catalog, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
“Hey. Thanks for coming.”
He sounds so glad and eager that I feel a little jab of guilt as I sit down, because I know he has no clue I’m not on board with whatever he’s thinking. I’m already wired just being at a table with him, which is even further indication that I need to stop this thing before it’s even started.
“You’re welcome. Listen, I know I agreed to meet you, but—”
“You look nice. I like your hair up like that.”
“Thank you.” But flattery will get you nowhere, buddy. I bring my hand up to tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear. I did spend way too long in front of the mirror before coming here—changed my outfit four times while swearing at myself, because it shouldn’t have mattered at all. I finally decided on a cream-colored blouse with a chunky coral statement necklace and distressed jeans that my ass looks best in—again, not that it mattered, and I am just now realizing that my necklace matches his sweater and I don’t think I like that, because nothing about us is supposed to be matchy.
He slides a menu across the glossy table. “This is on me, by the way, because I invited you.”
“Oh, no...that’s totally not necessary—”
“Yes, it is. And I want to.”
“But—”
“Have you been here before? I like this place.”
He’s obviously changing the subject, and I decide to give up on trying to convince him to let me pay for myself. I’ve got to use my energy toward keeping my heart rate down and my eyes off his mouth. The latter is proving incredibly challenging because he has a very, very perfect mouth.
“Yes, me too.” There’s a ceiling fan gently whirring overhead, and I hate it, because it’s moving the air and causing his lethal scent to swirl all around me. Fuck, he smells good.
The waiter comes over to take our drink orders. Damon asks for a Sam A
dams Boston Lager and seems amused when I order an iced tea, like he knows I don’t want to be the least bit compromised in my thinking.
“So what is it you do, Delaney Brewster?”
“I work for a machine shop.”
“Seriously?”
He looks like I’ve just told him I’m a carny. There are days, though… “You were expecting a totally different answer? What were you thinking I did for a living?”
“I didn’t have it narrowed down. But some of the possibilities were legal secretary, elementary school teacher, boutique owner, pharmaceutical rep.”
“Quite the range of options. Working for Precision Machine wasn’t exactly the future I mapped out for myself, but for now, it is what it is.”
“Wait a minute—your company makes machined parts?”
“We do.”
“I’m in upper management with Cavanaugh Yacht. We may do business with you.”
“You do, actually. Propeller shafts and rudder bearings. I’m mostly in sales and customer service. And what is your role in upper management, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“President. My mother owns the company.”
Oh. Well, that certainly explains the wealthy vibe, and the cockiness. I nod, and Damon’s sudden grin makes my insides feel like they’ve gone to goo.
“You’re not surprised to hear what I do?”
“No. It...fits you.”
“Does it?” His eyes are flickering with humor and playfulness.
The waiter brings over our drinks and sets them down on coasters, and now I’m wishing I had asked for something alcoholic to take the edge off. I order soup and salad, Damon the smoked salmon, and then he fixes his gaze on me as his expression turns more serious.
“So about why I asked you here. This is probably going to sound really strange, but just hear me out. I need someone to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
Okay, so I don’t know what I was expecting him to talk to me about, but that definitely wasn’t it. Pretend girlfriend? Like with his extraordinary good looks and charm, he couldn’t get a real one?
“This is the story in a nutshell. My mother wants me to marry the heiress to a boat company from England. Portia—the heiress—is going to be in the U.S. for a few months. I have absolutely no interest in settling down with anyone, let alone someone who’s undoubtedly a rich bitch used to getting everything she wants. So I need to find someone who’ll agree to be my pseudo-girlfriend to convince my mother, and Portia, I’m unavailable.” He pauses, his lips curving up on one side in a boyishly-shy, so will you go to the prom with me smile. “And I’m asking you if you would be that someone.”
I process this, slowly, as I take a drink of my iced tea and try to swallow without making a choking sound. I realize in the way back of my mind where my sanity is clearly napping that I am not immediately saying no like I’d planned.
“I’ll compensate you, of course. Very well. You’d basically be living your same life but showing up at some events with me where my mother and Portia could witness our, uh, mutual feelings for each other. We’d maybe go out to clubs a few times a month—things like that, so people would see us as a legitimate couple.”
Cheese rolls are served while we’re waiting for our meals, and I manage to smile at the waiter and move my mouth to thank him as though it is not at all out of the ordinary for the president of Cavanaugh Yacht to be asking an employee of Precision Machine to be his fake girlfriend.
Damon takes one of the rolls out of the basket and pulls it apart. There is a little curl of steam rising up from the roll, vanishing in the air between us. He looks at me with bright and hopeful eyes, waiting for me to say something.
“You have to realize,” I say carefully, “that most people don’t do things like this—ask someone to be their fake girlfriend to try and fool their mother.”
“No. They don’t. But I’m not most people.”
He has a point. Just look at him, for Christ’s sake.
“And this is a unique situation.”
I watch as he butters his roll, study his face while he’s looking down, and an image of me tracing his dark blond eyebrows with my fingertips flashes across my brain. I curl my hands into fists under the table.
“Also, you don’t know my mother.” He pops the piece of roll into his mouth, chews, washes it down with a few sips of beer. “Look...I know this sounds pretty crazy. And I’m sorry I don’t have the luxury of time to wine and dine you, because I’d think you’d see that I’m a pretty decent guy. But I need someone, fast. I’ll make it very worth your while. We’re talking an opportunity for you to earn some serious money here.”
And just like that, I can practically smell coffee brewing.
I know exactly what I would use that money for—the café. But the price tag would be way out of the ballpark. Wouldn’t it?
It’s almost like he can read my mind. “I’m prepared to pay a lot. A lot, especially since I’m asking for four months.”
Wait a minute...four months for this faux commitment, so I’d have to basically put my life on hold?
And then just as quickly as that thought occurs to me, two more shove their way to the front of my mind, like greedy shoppers on Black Friday.
Thought #1: You actually have to have a life to put it on hold.
Thought #2: Four months would probably be worth some major coin.
I hesitate. How do I ask what he’s thinking of paying me without sounding crass?
Again, Damon flaunts his mad skills in the ESP arena. “By a lot, I mean two hundred and fifty thousand.”
Wait...WHAT? Oh my fucking fuck. Did he really just say that?
“You’d pay me...a quarter million dollars to pose as your girlfriend for four months?”
“Delaney.” Damon leans forward. “I am choosing you because not only do I think you’d be perfect for this role, but I like surrounding myself with attractive things, and you’re definitely that. But the real beauty is that even though I find you hotter than hell, I’m not interested in a relationship with you beyond that. It’s perfect, really. I can have you for a while, and then I’ll let you go.”
Suddenly my gravy train that had been chugging merrily along comes to a screeching halt—complete with a shower of fiery sparks. It occurs to me that this acting job might be a hell of a lot more difficult than I’d envisioned. A man just told me he is happy about knowing our relationship will end.
Arrogant son of a bitch. More attractive than if you put Chris Hemsworth and Charlie Hunnam in a blender and poured out a new person. But still, an arrogant son of a bitch.
“Can I see some ID?” Good. My voice sounds clipped and almost bitchy, and I’ve surprised him.
Eyebrows arched, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a brown leather wallet and shows me his driver’s license. It’s him. Even his goddamned license photo looks amazing.
“Satisfied?”
“Just checking to see that I’m sitting here with the real Damon Cavanaugh and not Malibu Ken.”
“Malibu Ken?”
“Yes. That was my first nickname for you.”
“First? Does that mean there are others?”
“No comment.”
A grin drags across his face, and this, combined with whatever the fuck he’s wearing for cologne, diminishes his asshole factor. Our waiter suddenly comes over with our meals, and Damon digs in like people ask other people what he just asked me and then are able to eat with no problem. I’m not hungry. My stomach is twisting with stress. Two. Hundred. Fifty. Thousand. Dollars. But it means faking that I’m crazy about Damon Cavanaugh.
Can I do that?
Damon spears a chunk of salmon, chews, dabs his perfect mouth with a napkin and looks at me as if he’s just remembered something. “Also—I’ll need you to sign a contract. An informal one, and I’m not involving my attorney since I can’t risk word getting out to my mother, but it’s probably wise to have at least something in writing.” His toffee-colored eyes are dancing. �
�Unless, of course, you were a Girl Scout? Then maybe I’d accept Scout’s honor.”
“I was a Brownie. But just for a year. I only went because of the refreshments.”
“I’ll bet you looked cute in your little uniform.”
“Oh, I did.” I lean back against the booth cushion and fold my arms across my chest. If he thinks his charming ways are going to work on me and make me like him, he’s dead wrong. I’m looking at this as a potential business deal between someone who happens to be unbelievably gorgeous and someone who isn’t buying his bullshit.
“So to recap,” I say slowly, “you’d basically be using me and paying me for it.”
“Basically, yes. Although using is a strong term. I prefer borrowing. And you don’t need to fulfill any of the usual girlfriend-y kind of requirements.”
“Requirements?” I decide I’ll try and shock him. “You mean, like blow jobs and fucking?”
It doesn’t seem to shock him. He regards me steadily, evenly. “Right. I don’t expect you to do any of that. I get that you may need to...not sure how to put this, but for lack of a better term, satisfy your libido with someone else...but we’d have to discuss it beforehand—make sure the scenario would be extremely discreet, because I don’t want to take the chance of people questioning your commitment. That same rule applies to me.”
“You don’t need to be concerned about my libido.” That comes out a little harsher than I intend. “And when the four months are up, we go our separate ways?”
“Exactly. What do you think?”
“Honestly? I think this is the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard. The only reason I would ever—EVER—consider it is because now that I know you a little better, I’m confident that I have absolutely no romantic interest in you whatsoever. In fact, I have one foot in disgust, teetering on the edge of loathing.”
“But what about your other foot?” He sets down his fork, looking like he’s enjoying himself enormously.
God damn that he’s one-upped me, because I can’t think of a clever comeback. I don’t want him to see that he’s gotten the best of me. I make myself eat, we discuss generic things like work and the weather and I do my best to keep my eyes off parts of him that are attractive, which is all of his parts.