by Cora Kenborn
As Laken gasps and turns around, I slip the ring on the third finger of her left hand before she can object. By the time she realizes what’s happened, it’s too late. “Vince, meet my fiancée, Laken Cavanaugh.” Even though Vince is in on my charade, Laken doesn’t know that. So, in case she has any idea of blowing my cover, I add, “Laken, this is Vincent Tribiotti, project manager at Tate & Cane.” Then I stand and lean in close to her ear. “In charge of screening intern applications.”
He’s not in charge of anything of the sort. I’m such a dick.
Laken swallows hard and pastes a plastic smile on her face, extending her newly minted hand. “Pleasure to meet you Mr. Tribiotti. Niall has told me so much about you.”
Ever the arse, Vince gives her a wink and kisses the back of her hand. “Funny, Mackay’s never mentioned you.”
If looks could kill, the man would be six feet under. After Laken leaves, I plan on hitting him where it hurts. I know he has a thing for the brand-new intern in promotions, and I plan on telling her exactly what kind of gobshite he really is.
Paybacks are a bitch.
Laken, however, covers like a pro. “Yes, well, our whole relationship happened very fast.” She gives me a side-eye that makes me want to cover my dick for fear of it being separated from my body. “But any friend of Niall’s is a friend of mine.”
Vince slaps my arm and winks at her again. “Hold on to this one, Mackay. She’s one of a kind.”
You don’t have to tell me.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Vince?”
“Right,” he says, giving Laken one last full-length look. “Just wanted to tell you that I passed the black widow on the way out. Whatever you said to her sent her horns up and her bitch radar on alert. If you aren’t going to take my advice, I’d introduce her to Laken here sooner rather than later.”
“That’s the plan,” I say as I take a few steps forward and urge him out the door.
He holds my eye for a moment before reaching for Laken’s newly-ringed finger and kissing her hand again. “A pleasure, Laken. I trust you’ll save me a dance at the gala?”
Laken’s eyes glaze over as she answers automatically. “Of course.”
Pushing him out of earshot, I leave Laken in the room as I walk him out of the conference room. “Kiss her again, and I’ll cut your lips off.”
“Such violent threats over a fake fiancée, Mackay. What gives? Since this isn’t real, can I have a crack at her when you’re done? She’s hot as fuck.”
“You touch her, you die.” Giving him a harder shove than necessary, I slam the door.
The minute I turn around and face Laken, I hold up a hand to ward off her questions. “Look, I’m tired of the kid dates. The gala is tomorrow and we’ve yet to spend any time alone. This shite stops tonight. If we’re going to act like a couple, we need to be a couple. We’re having drinks at the Scribe & Scholar tonight—just you and me. Alone. You got that?”
She stares at me for a moment, and I’m fully prepared for a Laken Cavanaugh argument. Instead, she cocks her head. “Fine. I have one question, though.”
“What?”
“If things go south with this engagement, what happens?”
“What do you mean, what happens?”
“Exactly what I said. If you don’t get what you want, do I not get what I want?”
“I’m not following.”
“Say someone finds out we’re not really engaged and this whole thing is a sham. What happens to me? I didn’t ask for this, Niall. You need to remember that. Whatever happens, you need to remember that you asked me for this.”
“Don’t worry, Laken,” I say, irritated at the turn of events. “I’ll uphold my end of the bargain. You and Preston will be taken care of.”
Her face blanches. “Right. Me and Preston.”
That warning bell goes off again, but I can’t figure out why. As I walk her out of the office, a nagging feeling follows me. It follows me all day and stays with me.
There’s an old saying that goes, “When you love someone, you can’t see the fault in that person.”
Apparently, you can’t see their lies either.
Chapter Seven
Laken
The Scribe & Scholar ends up being a low-key bar filled with dark furniture, dark lighting, and over twenty taps of beer. It’s the kind of place where patrons go to unwind after a long day on Wall Street, which pretty much describes most of the clientele. Men in pressed business suits crowd the round booths, slamming shots and nursing dark stout beers. They keep to themselves mostly, quietly chatting with friends, laughing over a joke here and there and loosening their ties. The place is relatively small, and definitely not designed for the overexuberant, drink till you puke crowd. I appreciate the darkness. If I run into anyone I know from NYU with this rock on my hand, I’m fucked.
Now ask me why I haven’t taken it off since he slipped it on my finger.
Go ahead. I’m waiting.
Notice I haven’t answered? The reason is because I have no fucking idea why.
The minute he slipped it on my finger, it was like the band fused with my skin. My mind knows everything is fake, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t like the way it sparkles on my hand—or that I didn’t sit and write Mrs. Niall Mackay twenty-seven times with little hearts around it like I was back in eighth grade and crushing on the cute boy in class.
Keep rolling your eyes. Do you know about the first rule of marketing? If you don’t believe in what you’re selling, the buyer will see right through you. That’s Advertising 101, and it works in all facets of life. Don’t believe me? Look it up.
Yep, eleven thousand dollars per semester to learn how to delude myself. I’m living the dream here, folks.
I sit quietly alone in a booth in the back, while Niall steps outside to call and check on Sophie. I had a moment of panic when he asked if I needed to check on Preston as well, and I stuttered, making up some shit about having just sent a text and he was fine.
Hell. I’m going to hell for that one.
As I glance around the bar, my eye catches a patron who’s nursing a highball at the bar and staring at me like I’m on the menu. Now, I’m not holier-than-thou—as you can see, I’m a prime example that those who live in glass houses cannot cast stones. However, one fake relationship per month is my limit, so deciding to use my newfound status to my advantage, I run my fingers across my face and make a huge production of flashing my ring. Diamonds are like anti-kryptonite to some men, and I’m not shocked when he turns around in a huff.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I’m just about to check my watch again when the door opens and Niall smiles as he makes his way over. Without hesitating, he slides in right beside me as opposed to across from me. Normally, I’d roll my eyes and make some comment about personal space. I mean, tell me you don’t see couples do that same-side sitting shit in restaurants and not want to slap them? Unless your table is so huge that you need FedEx to deliver a salt shaker, scoot the fuck over, and eat like normal human beings.
But for some reason, the simple gesture from him flusters me in a way I’m not used to.
A moment of silence barely passes before a waitress in tiny shorts and a white crop top swings her hips over to our table and winks at Niall. “Hi, I’m Molly. What can I get you, handsome?”
I narrow my eyes at her and lift my left hand, tracing my bottom lip with the pads of my fingers.
Yeah. Hi, bitch. I’m right here. See the ring?
Niall is oblivious to the whole thing, smiling like the village idiot at both of us.
Men.
Raising an eyebrow at me, he motions to the drink menu on the table. “Laken?”
Molly could bring us two glasses of motor oil for all I cared. I was over this the minute she walked over and opened her mouth. It’s the jealous woman in me. We all have her inside us, and if a girl tells you any different, she’s lying.
“Whatever you’re having.”
�
�We’ll have two pints of Guinness and two shots of Irish whiskey.” Niall holds up two fingers on each hand, because I suppose Molly’s too stupid to comprehend the order without visual cues.
Molly winks again and leans over much farther than necessary to place cardboard coasters on the table in front of him. Once she sufficiently shoves her overinflated tits in Niall’s face, she gives him a syrupy smile. “Be right back with that, sugar.”
Ugh. Wink at him again, and I’ll fix that eye tick for you, honey.
Wait, why the hell am I being so territorial? Niall and I aren’t a real couple. We’re together for a purpose. That’s it. There’s no “us.” So why does it make me so insane that this chick is hitting on him like there’s a neon Available sign flashing across his forehead? This is nuts. Nothing about today makes sense. My brain is twisting everything, making four and four somehow equal twenty.
Because there’s no possible way that it can equal twenty, right?
After Molly disappears, I try to shake the fog from my head. “Beer and liquor? Be careful. A girl might think you’re trying to get her drunk and take advantage of her.”
Niall looks up, his gaze hooded and electric. “A girl might be right.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. Not in the “ha-ha, what you said is asinine and ridiculous” way, but more in the “inappropriate giggle during a funeral” way.
I know, way to kill the moment, Laken. Just go right ahead and deflate the ego of the guy both you and Molly are lusting over. Well, cut me some slack. Nervous laughter is kind of my thing.
When I was a junior in high school, Bobby Herron and I were making out behind the gym after school. I was inexperienced and he was a popular football player. Things got hot and heavy, but the minute he put my hand on his cock, I started laughing. I didn’t mean to. I was just fucking nervous as hell. Yeah. The guy every girl wants to be with and I laugh at his dick. Try coming back from that one. Guess how many dates I got after that?
“Come on, Laken. You’re a college girl. You’re telling me you can’t handle your liquor?” Niall’s smile hasn’t faded and he places his hand on my knee and squeezes.
Screw you, Bobby Herron.
I raise my chin in response to his challenge. “I don’t drink much. When I’m not at school or studying, I’m with Preston.”
Before I say anymore, Molly sashays her ass back over to the table with our drinks. I stare holes into her skimpy outfit and wonder what the maximum sentence in New York for justifiable homicide is as she hands Niall his drink and winks, brushing her hand with his. As I open my mouth to warn her if she touches him again, she’s going to pull back a nub, she hands me some fruity pink drink in a martini glass.
I glance up at her and frown. “I didn’t order this.”
Molly swivels around and points to one of the crowded barstools at the front of the bar. “I know. He did.”
My eyes follow her pointed finger and land on the same guy from before. The one at the barstool who obviously has no regard for the sanctity of marriage.
Yes, I know. Hypocrite, party of one, your table is now available. That’s like the toilet calling the outhouse full of shit. I get it.
Glancing over his shoulder, Niall lets out an aggravated groan. “Feckin’ arsehole.” Pressing his lips in a tight line, he furrows his brows and tenses every muscle in his upper body as he pushes the drink back toward Molly. “Send it back. She doesn’t want it.”
Something in my chest expands. Pride? Independence? An acute inability to shut my mouth? “Excuse me? I think I can answer for myself,” I fire back.
“Yes, and as your future husband, so can I. This bar is down the street from Tate & Cane, Laken. How will it look if you accept drinks from other men while wearing my ring?” Placing the drink on Molly’s tray, he dismisses her and hands me my beer while raising his. “To the future Mrs. Mackay.”
He chuckles as if we didn’t just have some sort of minor standoff concerning our fake marriage and my fake rights as his fake wife. I sigh, wondering if achieving my dream this way is even worth it. “Cavanaugh-Mackay,” I mumble as I take a small sip of the thick, dark beer, immediately coughing and spitting it out.
“Are you all right?” he asks, trying and failing miserably not to laugh.
“This tastes like shit!” I blurt out. “What the hell kind of beer is this?”
It does. Ugh. It’s wet and heavy and honestly tastes like a soggy scrap of molded bread. I don’t want to be rude, but holy hell, I’d rather suck on battery acid.
Niall’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his laughter finally getting the best of him. “It’s Guinness, a nice pint of the black stuff. Official drink of Ireland.”
“It’s black, all right.” I wrinkle my nose and push the offending glass away.
Still grinning, he takes a hefty drink from his own glass and smiles. “I thought all college girls were connoisseurs of this stuff?”
“I told you, college girl, not party girl, Niall. I have to keep my head on straight. One wrong move can affect a lot of people, not to mention my future.”
He puts his glass down and gives me an inquisitive look. “Well, you can’t say shite like that and not follow it up.”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
“Why, do you have some deep, dark secrets you’re trying to hide?”
You have no idea.
I shrug and try to feign innocence. “What do you want to know?”
He studies me before speaking again. “Two truths, one lie.”
Oh shit. I can feel my face fall, positive that I’m busted. “What?”
He motions to the whiskey. “Two truths, one lie. It’s a drinking game my friends and I used to play all the time back in Dublin. I’ll give you three statements, and you tell me which one is the lie. If you guess correctly, I have to down a shot.”
Okay, seems harmless enough. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
He holds up a finger and smirks. “But if you’re wrong, you have to slam one.” Leaning in close, he brushes a stray hair off my cheek. “And just so you know, I play to win, Laken. You should know this about me.”
“Is that a threat?”
He winks and pushes my shot forward. “It’s a warning. Now, see, I’m gentleman, so I’ll go first.” Sitting back against the cushion of the booth, he pretends to think hard, the lines in his forehead deepening. “This is the first real date I’ve had in eight years, I love my job, and I absolutely fuck on the first date.”
“Gentleman, huh? Is that why I’m the one with a drink in my hand instead you?”
Niall wags a finger at me and takes another sip of his beer. “You’re stalling.”
“Well, while that’s probably the most ballsy last statement I’ve ever heard, you’re a guy, so it’s probably true. That leaves me with the other two.” I run my nail along the rim of the shot glass and squint an eye at him. “Let’s see, you’re good looking, outgoing, funny, and American women swoon over accents, plus you work for one of the most prestigious marketing firms in New York. I’m going with door number one. You’ve had lots of dates.”
Like taking candy from a baby.
Never taking his eyes off me, he pushes my shot of whiskey in front of me. “Drink.”
“What? I got it wrong? No way.”
“Do you always take shite at face value, Laken? Somehow you don’t strike me as that gullible.”
No way am I answering that. Grabbing the shot off the table, I take a slow sip. “So, which one did I get wrong?”
“Are you going to shoot that, or do I need to get you a nipple for it?”
Nipple? Holy hell.
My head snaps up and with one glance, my breathing becomes erratic and my thoughts go haywire. His penetrating stare is almost more than I can take, so I slam the shot, burn be damned and consequences be damned.
And apparently, the lining of my throat be damned, because fuck me, Irish whiskey is no joke. What the hell is in that shit? Liquid fire?
“Well, that’s straight and to the point.”
“You’re not a fan of sex?” A vague smile plays at one corner of his mouth.
“Oh, I’m a fan,” I admit, holding his stare. “I just think if you flirt with born-again virgin territory enough, there’s a point where you start moving more toward fair-weather fan than die-hard.”
“Now that’s a shame,” he says, raking a stare down the front of my dress. “Because one night with me, and I think your position would change.” Raising his eyes, the gold flecks in his eyes glitter. “Repeatedly.”
Shit, did someone turn up the heat in this place? Suddenly I can’t breathe. Focus, Laken! Hell, focus on anything except the thought of him bending you over the—
“Tell me about your family,” I blurt out. Oh, well, that’ll do it. Nothing limps a dick quicker than making a guy think about his mom.
But Niall just smiles. “They’re still in Ireland. My father owns his own pub. I grew up in that musty old place, but it was home. My mother is a photographer too. She’d take me out on her adventures, she called them, to experience life. She always argued that I’d learn more in one afternoon observing people through a lens with her than a week in school. She was right.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She’s the reason for my love of photography as well as my distrust of corporate America. Don’t get me wrong, the Tates and the Canes are good people at heart. I really like Noah and Olivia. I’m a pretty good judge of character, I think, but when you add in lawyers, middle management, accountants, shareholders, and board members, then politics and greed tend to overshadow everything. People lie to get ahead.”
People lie to get ahead.
People lie to get ahead.
People lie to get ahead.
The phrase repeats in my head like a broken record. A shudder tears through me and I fight a wave of guilt. “Maybe they do it for reasons they wish they could explain.”