Best Fake Fiancé: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  “Thank you,” Daniel says, and squeezes my hand. “We’re excited.”

  “Who won the betting pool?” she asks.

  “Betting pool?” I ask.

  Silas shoots her a look, and she ignores it.

  “I think it was at like five hundred bucks or something,” June says. “There was maybe a five-dollar buy-in, and you had to name the month and year that you two would finally go public — what?”

  Silas is giving his little sister a look.

  “You’re not supposed to tell them,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “You’re just not. It’s manners.”

  “Is it also manners to have a betting pool in the first place?” June asks. “Or is it perfectly all right to wager money on people as long as you never tell them what you’re doing?”

  “It’s complicated,” Silas mutters, and June rolls her eyes.

  “Besides,” she goes on. “I knew about it and I was in another state, how did you two not know?”

  “No one told us,” I say, trying not to laugh at them.

  Even in high school, June was straightforward, fearless, and unafraid to speak her mind to whoever was listening. It got her in trouble more than once, but I always liked that about her.

  “You can’t tell them, because then they could win the pool by rigging it,” Silas points out.

  “So don’t let them enter.”

  “They could easily use a proxy,” he says, and then nods at something over my shoulder. “For example, they get Levi to enter them, tell him the day that they’re going to go public with their relationship, and then split the winnings with him.”

  “What did I win?” says Levi’s voice. “I hope it’s not another lifetime supply of Capri Sun, that was a complete — hello.”

  He stops next to me, a huge pink puff of cotton candy in front of his face, and suddenly looks lost.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Levi look lost before.

  “Silas. Daniel. Charlie. Rusty. Ma’am,” he says, forced casualness back in his voice.

  Every head in the circle turns toward Levi.

  Did he just call June ma’am?

  He’s blushing. Behind the beard, I swear he’s blushing.

  “Miss,” he corrects himself, standing stiff as a statue.

  June cocks her head and narrows her eyes.

  “You forgot my name again,” she says.

  “Of course not,” Levi says quickly, lowering the cotton candy a few inches. “June. It’s June. I know your name is June. I was being proper.”

  “Nice save,” June says, laughing.

  “It wasn’t a—”

  “He thought my name was Julie for like six months,” she explains to Daniel and me.

  We’re still holding hands. He hasn’t let go. I haven’t let go.

  It’s starting to feel… normal?

  “When Silas was in Afghanistan and they were writing each other letters all the time, Levi would ask how Julie was doing, or say he’d seen Julie in the market and said hi, stuff like that. Silas didn’t bother telling him that my name was actually June until poor Levi actually called me Julie and I corrected him,” she says. “So the moral of the story is that Silas is a jerk.”

  “Levi’s got bad handwriting,” Silas protests.

  “It’s not that bad,” Levi says. He hasn’t moved a single muscle since June accused him of not knowing her name.

  “It’s pretty bad,” Daniel says.

  “And Julie’s not that far off,” I point out.

  “Oh, it’s a really close guess,” June says, still laughing. “And, to be clear, I’m making fun of Silas for not correcting him. Because Silas definitely knows my name and just felt like being a dick.”

  “What do men need to know your name for?” Silas says, and June rolls her eyes again.

  “Ignore him, he thinks it’s the middle ages and sisters should be traded for several goats and a brood mare,” she says, stabbing more funnel cake.

  “I’d trade you for more than one brood mare,” Silas teases. “Shit, June, you’re worth a couple hogs, too. Don’t go undervaluing yourself.”

  “So,” June says, pointedly ignoring him. “You guys buy your duck for the regatta yet?”

  * * *

  “He’s got a mask and a cape so he can be sneaky and sneak past the other ducks in the water,” Rusty explains excitedly, drawing on her rubber duck with a Sharpie. “And then I’m going to give him laser eyes so that he can zap them out of the water and win.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” I say. “You know, they say the best defense is a good offense.”

  “And stripes,” she says. “Because stripes make things go faster.”

  “Exactly,” I agree. I’m pretty sure Seth’s the one who told her that, once, when he was explaining why his mustang had a single racing stripe down the side. The real reason, of course, is that Seth thinks it looks badass, but he and Rusty both get a kick out of his tall tales.

  “Lemonade,” Daniel announces behind me, and a second later, we’ve got plastic cups with straws in front of us.

  “Thanks,” I say, as Daniel moves to sit next to me at the table.

  As he does, he puts his hand on my upper back, his fingers alighting on bare skin, cold from bringing us drinks.

  I swear the shiver courses through my whole body. My toes clench in my sandals. I sit up a little straighter, sharpie still in hand where I’m decorating my own rubber duck, and before I can stop myself, I turn my head and look at him.

  He looks back, eyes blue as the Caribbean Sea.

  There’s a moment, a single tiny moment when I think what if? and then he sits and takes his hand off my back and drinks his own lemonade and the moment’s gone, only the cool spots on my spine lingering a few more seconds.

  “What’s your strategy?” he asks me, leaning both his elbows on the folding table in front of us, the top strewn with markers, other people sitting around decorating their rubber ducks.

  “Mostly to just act normal,” I tell him, bringing my own lemonade to my lips.

  And to keep pretending that it does nothing to me when we touch, I think.

  Daniel raises one eyebrow.

  “I guess that’s a start,” he says. “How about your duck regatta strategy? Looks like Rusty’s got laser eyes, so you’re gonna need shields.”

  Right. Obviously that’s the question he’s asking, my mind is just somewhere else.

  “Well, you know,” I say. “We’re gonna go out there and give it our all, really focus up and lay it on the line. Give a hundred and ten percent. Do our best. Stick to the inside lines.”

  I take a sip of my lemonade, trying to recover some dignity as I also try to remember more of the pep talks my high school field hockey coaches liked to give out.

  “Gonna leave it all on the field,” I deadpan. “And also, shields for the lasers.”

  “Smart,” he says. “Very sportsmanlike of you.”

  He tips his lemonade toward me, and we cheers them together.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I think I’ve really got a shot at it this year.”

  “Not against lasers,” Rusty says, still coloring furiously, mostly to herself.

  “We’ll see,” I tell her.

  “Better hurry up with those,” Daniel says. “Five minutes until it starts.”

  “Plenty of time,” Rusty says, her brow furrowing.

  The duck regatta is technically a competitive event, in that only one duck will win, but it’s definitely not a sport.

  At one end of the race, everyone dumps their rubber duck into the river. When it starts, the floating barrier goes up, and all the ducks float downriver.

  The first duck to the finish line wins. Pretty much all you can do is stand on the bank and shout at your duck to go faster, so it gets pretty boisterous.

  “You didn’t get one?” I ask Daniel.

  “I figure if you win, I get half anyway,” he says, his blue eyes laughing.

  “
Who says I’m sharing?” I tease, even though my heart thumps one percent harder.

  “What’s yours is mine, right?”

  “Not yet.”

  Not ever.

  “Isn’t the prize a gift certificate to La Dolce Vita?” he says. “Who else are you gonna take on a fancy date?”

  “Someone’s being presumptuous,” I say. “I’ve got a sister. I’ve got friends. I could even take Rusty.”

  La Dolce Vita is the swanky Italian restaurant downtown. It’s candlelit. It’s got a long wine list, good tiramisu, and mood music, and I don’t hate the thought of going there with Daniel.

  Just the two of us. No Rusty. No Betsy, none of his brothers, just us trying to act couple-y across a candlelit table. The spots where he touched my back a moment ago prickle cool again, even under the warm sunlight.

  Daniel grins.

  “Yeah, but you’d take me,” he says. “You’re just talk.”

  He’s right, so I stick my tongue out at him. If Rusty weren’t here I’d flip him off.

  The loudspeaker crackles.

  “One minute until the race starts,” Hank Rogers’s voice booms out. “Please bring your ducks to the starting line.”

  Rusty takes her duck in both hands and blows on it, a look of total concentration on her face.

  “You ready?” Daniel asks her. Rusty nods very seriously and stands, her folding chair scraping across the asphalt below it. He points at the uncapped Sharpie still on the table, and she sighs dramatically, but puts the cap back on.

  We head to the starting line. Before we toss our ducks in, we turn them upside down and check the number.

  “Fifty-seven,” Rusty says.

  “I’m fifty-eight,” I tell her. “Can you remember that for me?”

  “Yes,” she says, as serious as can be, and we both toss our ducks into the river behind the floating barricade.

  The racecourse is maybe two city blocks long, and the finish line is another floating barricade, right before some rapids begin. Every year a few ducks escape and get away, and every year the day after Riverfest, at Daniel’s house for Sunday Dinner, I have to hear about it from Levi.

  “Come on!” Rusty calls, darting ahead.

  “Stay where I can see you!” Daniel calls, taking my hand again. There’s a paved bike path along the river here, a wooden fence separating it from the water. Right by the finish line there’s a spot with a few benches and a low stone wall, and Rusty’s making a beeline for it, Daniel and I following behind.

  Any time she disappears for a split second, his grip on my hand gets tighter, then relaxes when she reappears. Even though she’s not fifteen feet away. Even though we know pretty much everyone here.

  “No one’s going to steal her,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “They all know what a pain in the ass she is.”

  That gets a laugh out of him, another hand squeeze, and I think he relaxes. Then she’s up ahead, again, heading into the area with the stone wall by the finish line.

  The wall’s only about three feet high, and she goes up to it, standing on her tiptoes, leaning over as far as she can to see the ducks. We’re ten feet behind her, the ducks coming on quickly.

  “Rusty, be careful,” Daniel calls out as she leans a little further over.

  “Stop it, she’s fine,” I tell him.

  “I don’t want her to fall in,” he protests.

  “She’s barely taller than the wall, she’s not going to,” I point out.

  “I just—”

  “Besides, Hank is right in front of her, and the water’s barely to his knees,” I say, pointing at Hank Rogers, who’s in the river, wearing waders and a hat with a rubber duck glued on top. His outdoors supply store, Bear Hollow Sporting Goods, sponsors the duck regatta every year.

  Daniel just sighs.

  “Relax,” I tell him, and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

  We stand there, together, keeping one eye on the oncoming ducks and the other on Rusty, who shows no sign of falling into the river. After a moment, I lean my face against his shoulder, my cheekbone against soft cotton and thick muscle.

  He shifts his hand, laces his fingers through mine.

  What if? I think again.

  “I think the lasers might be broken,” Daniel murmurs to me, a smile in his voice.

  “They probably got wet,” I say.

  “We should’ve warned her to use the waterproof lasers.”

  “Too late now,” I say. “Remember it for next year’s duck regatta.”

  Now the ducks are coming on fast, little yellow dots bobbing furiously up and down on the river. Up against the stone wall, Rusty’s bouncing with glee, her ash-blond curls sproinging in the sunlight.

  Daniel’s gonna have a hell of a time untangling that later, I think.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to listen to Levi go on about the environmental impact of escaping ducks tomorrow?” Daniel asks, his voice low and slow, even over the rising hubbub.

  “He’s not wrong, you know,” I point out.

  “Hank always goes on a duck cleanup mission the next day,” Daniel says. “He’s very conscientious. Levi just doesn’t like him.”

  “I think it depends on whether Silas brings June,” I say, and Daniel snorts.

  “Levi has seen a woman before, right?” he asks, rhetorically.

  “He went to college,” I say. “He has a master’s degree. There must have been some women somewhere.”

  “He’s been in the woods too long,” Daniel says. “Too much communing with birds and bears and squirrels and poof, you’re calling your friend’s little sister ma’am.”

  “I should go get drinks with her,” I say. “I didn’t know she was back in town.”

  “For some reason, that’s been relegated to the second-hottest gossip this week,” he says, and he flicks the engagement ring with one finger. “I don’t think she minds too much.”

  The ducks sweep past the observation area, Rusty hopping up and down, surrounded by other kids who are also hopping up and down.

  “Yeah, she probably owes us for that,” I say.

  There’s a furor at the finish line, mostly of kids. Hank holds a duck up, and he’s shouting something, but it’s too loud to make out what it is, and besides, I’m making sure I keep track of Rusty.

  Suddenly, she comes tearing out of the knot of kids, hair wild, face lit up like a lantern, breathless.

  “CHARLIE,” she practically screams. “YOUR DUCK WON!!!!”

  Chapter Ten

  Daniel

  You’d think that Charlie had won an Olympic medal.

  Rusty can’t stop shouting. Hank Rogers pulls Charlie up to a podium — an honest-to-god winner’s podium — and presents her with a golden duck statue. There’s a medal. The mayor shakes her hand. Hank shakes her hand. She has to hold up the winning duck for a photo from the newspaper. The owner of La Dolce Vita gives a quick speech relating duck races to Italian food, and then he presents her with a $200 gift certificate to his restaurant.

  Naturally, during all this, my brothers appear.

  “She should use her platform to call for the end of the duck regatta,” Levi says as they walk up.

  “Congrats on your fiancée,” Seth tells me, ignoring Levi. “She need a date to the restaurant?”

  I shoot him a glare. He grins, because he’s an asshole sometimes.

  “Instead of complaining about the ducks, you could go on the duck hunt tomorrow morning,” Caleb says to Levi.

  The duck hunt is for stray rubber ducks, not actual ducks, but Levi harrumphs anyway.

  “I’m going,” cajoles Caleb. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Come on, Levi,” says Eli, who of course is also there, just because. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

  “Money’s filthy,” Levi says.

  “It’s just an expression,” says Caleb.

  “He knows that, he’s just being difficult,” says Eli.

  “You’re one to talk,” mutter
s Levi.

  “I heard June is going,” I say.

  I didn’t hear that. I just want to see what Levi does, because I’m enjoying not having all the attention on me.

  Levi arranges his face. I swear I can see his features moving one by one, until they’re all in the most neutral possible position, like he’s studied it.

  “Oh?” he says, staring off into the middle distance.

  “Who’s June?” asks Caleb.

  “Silas’s little sister,” I say. “She was in my class in high school.”

  “I remember her,” volunteers Seth. “She was cute. She single?”

  Levi acts as if he’s turned to stone. Thank God for Rusty, who comes charging back, still breathless with excitement over Charlie’s win.

  “DAD,” she shouts. “THEY WANT A PICTURE WITH YOU.”

  “You don’t need to scream,” I tell her, but she’s already grabbed my hand and is dragging me toward the podium.

  “I got him!” she shouts, depositing me next to Charlie

  “Thank you,” says the photographer. “Very helpful.”

  She’s middle-aged, a streak of gray in her pulled-back brown hair, and amused at Rusty’s antics in a no-nonsense sort of way. I should probably know her name, but I can’t think of it. My mom probably knows. Seth probably knows. They’re both good at stuff like that.

  “All right, smile and hold up the duck, please,” she says, lifting the camera to her face again. “Turn? Chin up. Duck lower. Get closer.”

  I’ve never liked having my picture taken — it makes me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, in danger of getting burned — but I smile and turn my face and hold my arm around Charlie’s waist anyway as she holds up her winning duck.

  That part, at least, is pretty nice.

  After the first set, Rusty gets in the picture. Charlie lets her hold the duck. Rusty’s inability to stand still makes this set take twice as long, but finally, the photographer lowers her camera.

  “All right,” she says. “If you don’t mind, can I also get a few for the engagement announcement?”

  “There’s an engagement announcement?” Charlie asks, her back muscles tightening under my arm.

  “Of course,” the photographer says. “You’re engaged, aren’t you?”