by Cora Kenborn
Laken lifts her head, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Who?”
“Preston.”
Her forlorn expression changes the instant her eyes lands on him. Her mask cracks with obvious affection. “Oh, well, yeah. He’s great. He’s been through a lot.”
She doesn’t have to tell me anymore for me to understand. I’ve raised Sophie for eight years on my own with no help since the ripe old age of twenty-two. My parents still live in Ireland, and while my Scottish grandparents have a brownstone in the city, they’re well beyond retirement and too set in their own ways to help me care for her. While I love my daughter with all my heart, sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d been able to live it as a normal twenty-something single guy—doing normal single guy things.
While other guys my age spent their nights at bars and left with a different girl every night, I spent my nights at home with the same one who screamed bloody murder every time I stopped bouncing her. Other guys had nameless women dropping to their knees and sucking their cocks followed by meaningless marathon sex. For the first year of Sophie’s life, the only thing that got sucked around my apartment was my youth.
Not that being a dad stops me from getting my rocks off. I’m a father, but I’m still a guy. A willing woman isn’t hard to find. Sane women…well, that’s a different story all together.
But this girl…
When I woke up this morning, I had two objectives: take some pictures to sell for some extra cash and try to figure out how to get the black widow off my arse—not necessarily in that order. The last thing I expected was for a solution to fall in my lap by way of my overly aggressive child.
And then Laken Cavanaugh happened.
Behind the lens of my camera, I watched her long before she saw me. I studied the way she chewed on her full lips as she read from her book, the way she twirled her long, curly blonde hair around her index finger, the little line that sank deep between her eyebrows when she concentrated extra hard, and the carefree laugh that lit up her face when she called out to her son. I wouldn’t be a man if I hadn’t also noticed the tight, little yellow t-shirt she wore and the cut-off denim shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs.
I spent a good half hour trying to figure out a way to talk to her. It’d been a week since my run-in with Gloria in the conference room, and I was running out of time to ensure Sophie didn’t get kicked out of Ravenhill, and my impetuous outburst didn’t cost me my job. Luckily, the fact that my kid has a temper finally worked for me instead of landing my arse in the headmaster’s office, trying to explain why Sophie had pushed another kid.
Sophie isn’t a bad kid. I’m not a bad father. We’ve just both been through a ton of shite and are still trying to navigate our way through it all.
But back to Laken.
I’d spent all morning wracking my brain, trying to think of women who’d be a possible candidate for my fake fiancée. My problem is that I have nothing to offer them in return except for me—and that’s one offer I’m not willing to put on the table. No, I need someone who has something else to gain from this business deal. Someone who could agree to my terms, see the value for what it is, and then when the night’s over…walk away with a handshake.
That’s why Laken Cavanaugh is perfect. She’s just the type of date I need to keep Gloria off my back and my job safe. Getting her to say yes to my outrageous offer is a different situation entirely. How exactly does one proposition a woman into a fake engagement without getting smacked?
“Hi, so, I know my daughter just beat the shite out of your son, but how about you and I pretend to be engaged for a night?”
The whole idea makes me look like an arsehole. What woman in their right mind would agree to that? I have a few dollars and an in at Tate & Cane. It’s not a lot to sweeten the pot, but as long as she’s into that sort of thing, it might work. It’s not as if being on my arm is a fate worse than death. I’d be lying if I said I don’t know I possess a certain appeal to women. American women are a sucker for a foreign accent, and being a native Irishman gets me into more pussy than I know what do with.
I never go back for seconds, though. My choices don’t just affect me, they affect Sophie. I need to be smart and keep my nocturnal activities casual and strings free. However, I need to approach this in a way that won’t make her feel as if I’m buying her.
Which is exactly what I’m doing.
The perfect solution to my problem stares back at me with the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Plus, the fact that Laken has a son makes her willingness to help me more probable. I have to appeal to her maternal instincts. Make an offer she can’t refuse. One night is all I need to back up my story and make this whole mess go away. My job will be safe, Sophie’s future will be secure, and maybe if I play my cards right, the night could even end with this girl on her knees.
Hey, a guy can hope.
There’s only one way to do this. If I don’t come right out and ask, I’ll never see her again. I may get slapped, or who knows, she may go for it. Either way, I have nothing to lose. Digging in my pocket, I hand Sophie a couple of dollar bills and tell her and Preston to go play some video games. Laken eyes me curiously, as if she doesn’t trust me.
Smart girl.
“So, how about you let me really make this whole thing with Sophie and Preston up to you.”
She motions to the melted bowl of ice cream and smirks. “What do you mean? Isn’t this your grand apology? Fattening my ass with ice cream and whipped cream?”
You have no idea what else I could do with that whipped cream, Laken Cavanaugh.
I glance down to appear genuine. “Well, it’s a start. But I’m thinking appreciation on a larger scale.”
“I’m listening.”
I look up in enough time to see Laken twirl her tongue around the straw of her soda and all the blood in my body rushes south. Clearing my throat, I swallow hard and continue. “Well, you mentioned that you work a low-paying job, and you’re putting yourself through grad school, right?”
“Go on…”
“Well, it just so happens that I have this problem.”
She smacks the table with her palm and points a finger at me. “A catch. I knew it. There’s always a catch. Is this where you whip out your camera and ask me to pose for a few pictures that’ll never ever be posted on the internet?”
Cocking my head at her, I sigh heavily. “Are you going to listen or continue to insult me?”
“Fine. Continue.” Picking up her discarded spoon, she drags it through the melted mess in her bowl and takes a lick.
“Before I go on, you aren’t involved with anyone or have some abnormally large fiancé you aren’t telling me about, right?”
“I don’t like where this is heading, Niall…”
“Just answer the question.”
“No.” She draws out the word slowly while pursing her lips
Exactly the answer I want to hear.
“Good. Do you want one?”
Laken blinks at me, the spoon dropping from her hand and clinking on the Formica table. “Excuse me?”
Giving her a wicked grin, I relay the story concerning Gloria and her indecent proposal, leaving out important details such as names just in case she tells me to go to hell.
An incredulous laugh breaks from her lips. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be your fiancée and attend a company party with you just to lie to your boss so she’ll leave your dick alone? Have I pretty much covered it?”
“No, smart-arse.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“She’s not my boss, but she could make my life hell. I just need her off my back.”
Laken gives me an accusing stare, as if I have some grand scheme in choosing her. “Why me?”
Feckin’ hell. Okay, I have a grand scheme, but that’s beside the point.
“Why not?”
“That’s not an answer,” she argues, shaking her head. “What�
��s in it for me?”
“Look, you said you need an internship, right? I have connections where I work, and I can get you in front of people who make those decisions for my company.” Frustrated this isn’t going as easily as I’d hoped, I throw my hands up and slump into my chair. “Hell, I could ask a lot of other women and they’d do it just for the opportunity to walk into a Tate & Cane party.”
Laken suddenly stills, her face paling. “I’m sorry, did you say Tate & Cane?”
“Yeah, I’m one of their photographers, and for some reason, I also want to help you. I think you deserve a break.” I let out a harsh breath and pack up to leave. “But if you aren’t interested, then—”
“Yes!” she screams, causing more than a couple patrons to glance our way.
“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it?”
“It’s just one night, right? It shouldn’t be that hard. A few hours of pretending to like each other won’t kill me.”
I scowl at her. “You’re amazing for a guy’s ego, you know that?”
“So how do we do this?” she says, ignoring my jab. “Do we just meet there and make out on the dance floor?”
This going to be a hell of a lot more work than I anticipated. “While you make it sound quite enticing, it’s a little more involved than that.”
“How so?”
I study her for a moment. What we’re doing is risky and walking into the lion’s den unprepared is stupid. “Give me your number. I think we should get to know each other a little. We need to be able to rattle off personal details about each other.”
Laken sucks in a deep breath as if I just asked her to swim naked in a tank of starved piranhas. “You want to go out on a date?”
“Okay, we really need to work on you not making that face every time you think about spending time alone with me. It’s kind of a dead giveaway.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose, in frustration. “Damn, Laken, have you never played poker in your life?”
“I’m a business major, Niall. Not a gambler.”
“Ante up, Miss Cavanaugh. The stakes are about to be raised.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and punch in her name. “Now give me your number.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she finally gives it to me, and I type that in as well. Once I hit enter, I follow it up with the call button and her phone rings. Raising an eyebrow, she digs it out of her backpack and answers.
“Hello?”
“This is Niall Mackay. Now you have my phone number. Program this shite in as My Darling Big Dick Fiancé.”
Laken wrinkles up her nose and makes a face. “You’re disgusting.”
“Aye, the loving way you talk to me is why I fell in love with you, my future fake wife.”
***
Only a real man can handle pastel painted nails.
Don’t question it. It’s true. If you see a man with Pure Baby Bliss #6 on one hand and Blue Mermaid Shimmer #9 on the other, do not question his masculinity. It takes a huge set of balls to carry that shite off.
And that’s exactly what I keep telling myself later that night as I sit in front of the coffee table in our small Chinatown apartment as Sophie sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and concentrates hard at turning my hands into feckin’ cotton candy. I wanted to watch a movie; Sophie wanted to play dress-up.
Two guesses who won, and the first one doesn’t count.
“There,” Sophie announces, blowing on my newly pink glittered thumbnail. “Don’t move or you’ll mess it up.”
Right. Especially since that’s the first damn thing I plan to do when she goes to bed.
The whole situation with Laken seems too good to be true. While I’m not thrilled with the idea of introducing a woman I barely know to my bosses as someone I’m vowing to love and cherish till death do us part, this shite with Gloria leaves me no choice.
“Hey, Soph?” I ask, watching carefully as she closes the nail polish bottle. “What did you think of Laken?”
She tilts her head and pulls her eyebrows together. “Who?”
“Preston’s mom. The lady from the ice cream shop.”
She shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess. Why? Are you going to marry her?”
“What?” Startled, I take in her wide brown eyes, a complete mirror image of my own. “No…why would you say that?”
“You like her,” she says matter-of-factly as she gathers her nail polish in a sparkly pink cosmetic bag. “When people like each other, they get married.”
“Says who?”
“Oprah.”
“Oprah, huh?” I rest my chin in my palm, making sure to keep my still wet thumbnail away from my face. “What happened to taking advice from more age appropriate women like Cinderella and that chick with fins. What was her name, Ariel?”
Sophie stands and pops her hands on her hips. “Daddy, honestly? Are Disney princesses really the role models you want for me?”
“Oh?” I ask, secretly enjoying her individualism. “We’re revolting against princesses now?”
She rolls her eyes as if I should talk in grunts and walk around with my knuckles dragging the ground. “Ariel gave up her voice to run around on the beach after some dumb boy she barely knew, and he decided he loved her even though she couldn’t even talk. Really? This is the happily ever after you want for me?”
“Go to bed,” I tell her, pointing down the hallway. “No more television for you.”
A half hour later, I sit staring at my phone mulling over either texting her tonight or waiting until tomorrow. I try to convince myself that my rush isn’t about wanting to see or talk to her again, but more about wanting to get the logistics nailed down so when we arrive at the gala, there’s no question as to how committed we are to each other. It has nothing to do with me wanting to hear her voice again. That would make me a spineless douchebag.
It also has absolutely nothing to do with the way she looked at me while licking the ice cream off that spoon, her clear blue eyes focused on me with inquisitive interest as I spoke. Outwardly, she looks like the typical girl next door—all-American good looks, but Laken Cavanaugh has a sarcastic streak a mile wide that entices me just as much as her incredibly tight body. And that’s saying something.
She’s as American as apple pie. As the Fourth of July. As baseball and the Star-Spangled Banner. The perfect American to be the Irishman’s fake fiancée. At least for one night.
I’m getting ahead of myself. My focus needs to stay on the prize. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had no idea Laken Cavanaugh existed. This is a business arrangement that benefits both of us. That’s it. End of story. The minute the gala is over, we’ll part ways. If I can uphold my end of the bargain, I’ll possibly see her around the office and that will be that.
It’s taken me eight years to get over the hell of Sophie’s mother leaving both of us for money and the promise of a better life. The last thing I need is to think about someone else with the same ideals. Besides, I need to remind myself that the only extra thing I want off her is a good time and an empty bed in the morning.
So why the hell can’t I get her off my mind?
Chapter Five
Laken
At this point, all I can safely say about how I handled the situation is that I have some sort of deep-rooted death wish. The ability to stop myself from landing my ass in a whole lot of trouble rerouted from my brain to my mouth. It’s the only way to explain walking away from Niall Mackay and not correcting him about Preston.
Being dick glamoured by way of a sexy Irish accent is no excuse for lying. That’s exactly what you’re thinking, and you’re right, it’s not, even if we’re concocting one big lie together in the first place. But more on that in a minute.
After dropping Preston off on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I make my way back home to Bed-Stuy after spending a good half hour arguing with Lady Hammerle over the ice cream stains on Preston’s shirt. The only time the woman gives a flying shit about her son is when it benef
its her to use him as a prop in public. She may have given birth to him, but she’s no mother.
I can feel judgment here, and if eye rolling burned calories, you’d all be a size double zero. I know you’re all thinking,
“If it’s so bad, then quit. No one is forcing you to work for a bitch.”
Watch Preston and his mother together for five minutes, and you’ll know why I do it.
After realizing she’d be no help in getting my foot into Tate & Cane, I was immediately fed up and ready to quit within the first couple of months. It was like trying to work a miracle with Rachel Cane all over again at NYU, except at least Rachel had been pleasant.
I’d even typed up my resignation letter and carried it around with me every time I showed up at the estate to pick up Preston. But the way that little boy clung to me—even going so far on his sixth birthday as to tell me his wish was for me to take him home and be his mom—how do you walk away from that?
I’ll tell you how—you don’t. Preston needs me, so I stay and just avoid the bitch to the best of my ability. In a year and a half of working for the woman, I’ve had exactly four run-ins with her. Two of which, now, have happened in the same day.
Throwing my shit on the couch, I plop down and run a hand over my face. Why does the universe hate me? There’s no good reason for doing what I did. Why in the hell did I let him think Preston was mine? Correcting him would’ve been so easy.
“While I will agree to lie to the very people I’m trying to work for, Preston isn’t my kid. I’m a twenty-four-year-old grad student, presently involved in the destruction of my own life.”
What made me shut my mouth and pretend to be a struggling single mom while accepting the most asinine proposal of a lifetime? Who the hell does that?
Me, that’s who. He’d said the magic words that caught my attention and stomped my conscience into a pile of dust.
“Hell, I could ask a lot of other women and they’d do it just for the opportunity to walk into a Tate & Cane party.”