Fake Wife

by Stacey Lynn

  Awesome. I’m simple and easily bought. Just what I hoped to hear.

  Yeah, this is absolutely insane.

  Next to me, Corbin appears as calm as he’s been ever since he invited me to hear his proposition. Does nothing faze this man? He has one hand draped over the steering wheel, one hand on this gearshift. His eyes are shaded by sunglasses that most likely cost more than my last share of the rent check, and he seems completely unruffled by the fact he’s asked a stranger to marry him.

  Sure it’s temporary, but he can’t honestly think we’ll be able to pull this off. According to him, he has six months to fall in love and get married, and we don’t know a single thing about each other. How in the heck will we be able to convince his friends and family we’re in love?

  I drop my forehead into my hand and rub my temples with my thumb and middle finger. All of this stress is bringing on a headache.

  “I’m thinking right about now you’re starting to realize what you’ve agreed to.”

  And he’s a mind reader. Awesome.

  “Something like that,” I mutter, still pointlessly rubbing away the pain in my head.

  “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “Right.” I laugh. “I don’t even know you and I’m supposed to trust you. Not only that, but I’m supposed to convince everyone in your social circle we’re madly in love. How does this work exactly, anyway? We just run off and elope? Find a judge and make an appointment at the courthouse?” I shove my hands through my hair, my head bouncing against the headrest. “I mean, this is just…I don’t even know what this is, Corbin. Do you really think this is going to work? And how? We don’t even know each other. You know nothing about me, and I know nothing about you except for what I’ve—”

  I clamp my mouth shut. Good grief. Was I really just going to tell him that I follow him? That I’m a stalker, a fan of his Instagram, and read about him all the time?

  Awesome. He’s just proposed to a psychotic stalker fangirl, a lowly middle-class citizen who has fantasies about him while she sleeps, has imagined his hands on me, running up my thighs, spreading my legs before doing deliciously sexy things to me, over and over again, with not only his hands but other parts of him.

  Next to me, his quiet but deep laugh hits my ears.

  “Well, I now know you ramble when you’re scared. So it’s a start.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “I know it’s not.” His hand lands on my thigh, making me jump at the sudden contact from him. Through my jeans, his hand warms me and I blow out a harsh breath. This is never going to work. I’m marrying the man who has starred in my sexual fantasies ever since shortly after moving to Portland. Not only can I never act on them, I can’t let him know.

  While at the same time, I’m going to have to pretend to be in love with him.

  How in the heck did I find myself in this scenario?

  “Trust me,” he says, squeezing my thigh before pulling his hand back. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll spend this weekend getting to know each other.”

  “Like what? Twenty questions?”

  He faces me for a moment, but I can’t see anything behind his sunglasses. No hint of amusement in his eyes, which is probably for the best. His light blue eyes make me feel all squishy in the knees. “Or,” he drawls, “we can talk. Hang out. Get to know each other like normal people. Share some meals, watch some movies, eat some food. On Monday, if you don’t think we can pull this off, you can take off and there will be no hard feelings. Deal?”

  I open my mouth to respond with the only option I have: “Deal,” but I stop as he turns off the highway and stops at a security gate. He rolls down the window, punches in a code, and the gate creaks open. He pulls his car through, and in a few moments one of the most gorgeous mansions I’ve ever seen looms in the distance.

  “Holy crap,” I whisper, my eyes widening with each passing second. “This is your grandmother’s house?”

  His jaw is clenched. His relaxed posture has evaporated and I feel like a schmuck.

  From what I know, Corbin and Eleanor were close. They were frequently photographed together at charity events and Sunday lunches, and it hits me that along with what he said about his father at lunch, he was rarely photographed with his dad or his mom, but Eleanor was always nearby.

  I reach over and cover his hand with mine and squeeze.

  “I’m really sorry about Eleanor,” I whisper. “This must be hard for you.”

  His hand tenses and I force myself to focus on the giant rock-and-brick home ahead when he relaxes. “Thank you, Teagan.”

  It’s not the first time he’s said my name, but with his rough voice, gritty and thick, it sounds beautiful rolling off his lips.

  “Are you okay?”

  He flips his hand over, squeezes mine back. “I will be. And honestly, I’m glad I’m not coming here alone. So thank you for not slapping me in the face earlier and for giving this a chance.” I turn to him as he stops the car in front of the house. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  He stares out the window and I give him the time he needs to settle whatever he’s thinking, waiting until he opens his car door. Climbing out of my side, I meet him as he rounds the hood and takes my hand, guiding me toward the door.

  “I’ll give you a tour if you’d like, and then we can bring your stuff in. There are seven bedrooms upstairs, not including mine or Eleanor’s. You can choose whichever room you’d like to stay in.”

  Right. Because this is all pretend, and regardless of the thoughts I’ve had of Corbin, the fantasies I’ve had of him, none of it is real or lasting.

  He won’t actually take me to bed. He won’t share a room with me.

  This is fake, and it’ll only work if we can pretend to be in love, but none of it, nothing in my life for the next two years will be real. I have to remember that.

  —

  The house is even more gorgeous on the inside than it is impressive on the outside. The decor is ornate and refined. The house drips of wealth and furnishings that I would expect in a museum, not someone’s home. Yet despite the rich fabrics and priceless artwork, every room is surprisingly warm. The home is inviting. It says kick off your shoes and stay awhile, completely unlike what I was expecting from the vastly wealthy Lane family. They always appear so perfect and well mannered, a bit cold and distant. Seeing a home that is filled with generations of family memories, including a photograph of the original homestead built on the property, surprises me and calms me at the same time.

  As we’ve toured the house, Corbin has shared memories of his family as well as his grandmother. I’m not sure if he’s done it to fill the silence, to make his home and life seem more normal, or if he’s jumped straight to the getting-to-know-you part of our weekend. Regardless, I’ve been swept away in his stories and his memories. Only after seeing several rooms do I realize that there’s a single piece of furniture in each that doesn’t fit the decor. Homemade tables and benches. Shelving and cupboards and sofa tables that are modern and straight lined, not carved, but still elegant in their simplicity.

  While Corbin shares, sometimes talking about certain pieces or artwork or sculptures, I soon realize he’s skipping over all the modern pieces, and while I’m curious, I don’t ask questions.

  We finish the tour and I choose a guest room to make mine, then Corbin helps me bring all my boxes and clothes inside. When I agreed to ride out to Cannon Bluffs with him, he made a phone call to have someone take my car to his condo in Portland. While Portland is safe, I still didn’t want all my belongings to be left in my car overnight. We take them to the room I’ve chosen to sleep in for the weekend. It’s directly next door to Corbin’s, although two private baths and closets between them make them seem farther than they really are. As soon as I stepped into the room I wanted it to be mine, at least temporarily.

  It’s one of the few rooms in the house that isn’t heavily decorated with rich woodwork and artwork. Instead, th
e bed frame and headboard and the rest of the furniture is finished in white shiplap. The bedding and walls are a dusky blue, and room gives off a peaceful beach vibe. But the most beautiful part is the private balcony off the sliding doors that open to the most amazing view of the Pacific. Below the window is the pool, with the pool house off to the side. Corbin assured me it’s always heated so I can swim whenever I like, but it’s the rocky bluffs that drop straight down to the ocean beyond that stole my breath as soon as I saw the view.

  With the sun lowering in the sky, the light clouds striping across the sky, the sunset is giving off vivid neon colors of pinks and oranges. While I’ve unpacked everything, Corbin giving me privacy and telling me he’d go make us dinner, it’s difficult to pull my gaze off the ocean and meet him downstairs.

  When I finally do, I find Corbin off the kitchen, standing at the back doors almost directly below where my room is. His view is almost the same as mine, but it’s the tightness in his shoulders, one hand bracing on the glass door in front of him, his other hand wrapped around a beer bottle, that tells me he’s not nearly as in love with the view as I was upstairs.

  And of course he’s not. For one, he’s grown up with this view and he probably doesn’t notice it anymore, and two, I can only imagine how difficult it is for him to be here, surrounded by memories of his grandmother, while trying to fulfill her dying wish.

  Chapter 6

  Corbin

  It’s entirely possible I’ve not only bitten off way more than I can chew, but I’ve made one of the biggest mistakes imaginable.

  What in the hell was I thinking earlier? I’m not the guy who essentially blackmails women into moving in with me, much less marrying me. While the idea sounded like a smashing success earlier, perhaps I was more drunk from the whiskey with Trey than I thought, or perhaps the car accident really had given me a concussion. Maybe Teagan was right.

  I should probably have my head examined.

  I thought I had it all under control. It makes perfect sense on paper, but as soon as we walked into this house and Eleanor’s memories assailed me at every single corner, the lingering scent of her floral perfume wafting through the rooms, all of it pummeled my chest with the weight of ten tons of pressure pressing down on me.

  Not to mention the immense weight of Eleanor’s disappointment.

  She wanted something from me and I’ve just spent the entire day thinking entirely of what I want, and not her wishes.

  The least I can do for the only person to ever care about me is to take her last remaining wish for me seriously.

  The smartest thing I can do right now is apologize to Teagan, set her up in a hotel for a couple of weeks until she can get her life together, and move the hell on.

  Start over. Perhaps check out the dating profiles Trey created for me earlier.

  Which sounds about as miserable as faking falling in love and making what Eleanor wants for me a big, fuming joke.

  Shit.

  I take a drink and stare out at the ocean. The sun is setting, and I’m bombarded by a thousand memories of Eleanor and me on the patio, sharing a few gin and tonics, the only alcohol Eleanor ever touched. I’ve traveled the world, studied overseas for months at a time. I’ve stayed at the best hotels, dined at the most fabulous and finest restaurants, met senators and presidents, princes and kings.

  I’ve never loved any place as much as this place.

  It’s more of a home than the one I grew up in, and I’m not losing it.

  Soft footsteps pad toward me and I shift my attention from the setting sun to the lithe and beautiful woman who’s quite possibly the worst mistake I’ve ever made.

  In her hand is a bottle of beer, the same as mine. Two others dangle from her other hand.

  “So,” Teagan says, lifting the bottles and waving them back and forth. “I think perhaps both of us had a really shitty day today, and I don’t know about you, but I’d pretty much like to forget about almost all of it. How about we get drunk and save the getting-to-know-you crap until tomorrow?”

  At least my worst idea has some good ones of her own.

  I flick the lock on the sliding glass door and push it open. “Sounds good.”

  She follows me outside but I don’t bother waiting for her. I know exactly what I want. It’s summer, and late, but as soon as the sun sets the air will cool quickly. I head toward the outdoor furniture, drag two lounge chairs close to the gas fire pit, and dig out a couple of blankets from a nearby bench.

  A quick flip of the gas switch and the fire starts. “Have a seat,” I tell Teagan while I adjust the flames. When I turn around, she’s already curled up in one of the chairs, blankets pulled up to her hips.

  I take a seat on the chair next to her and grab a blanket for myself. Taking a swig of my beer, I stare into the flames.

  Two weeks ago, Eleanor and I sat in almost this very same spot, and I had no idea she was sick.

  She did. She’d had all of her ducks in a row, lined up neatly. Hell, when she died we learned she’d even planned her own funeral.

  The only person who’s ever given a shit about me knew she was dying and didn’t bother to give me a fucking heads-up.

  The anger at figuring it out just this morning begins to boil beneath the surface of my skin, buzzing and filling my veins until I grip my bottle so tightly I fear it might break in my hand.

  Silence, heavy and tangible and awkward as hell, falls on us.

  I can’t bring myself to cut through it and make conversation, so I don’t. And next to me, Teagan seems entirely lost in her own thoughts.

  After I finish my beer, I go into the house and come back with a bottle of Magellan scotch and two glasses in case she wants to join me. Screw the beer. I need more than that.

  I’m on my second glass when Teagan laughs.

  I turn to her, unable to erase the anger in my expression, and she covers her mouth, but her laughter bursts through.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, laughing harder, still covering her mouth. It’s a pretty sound, sweet and cute, and I’m learning it’s just like everything else about Teagan. She’s not refined and polished, nor has she spent years projecting the perfect image. “I’m so sorry for laughing, but the silence and the awkwardness and the fact that you’re a stranger is totally freaking me out. Plus, there’s the fact that just this morning I woke up in one man’s bed. Now I’m practically moved in with another.” She swings her arm out, laughing harder. My anger cracks. “And it’s you of all people, Corbin freaking Lane, who asked me to marry him earlier today. And I’m sorry for laughing when I know your day has been crap, too, but all of this is a little too much for me.”

  “Tell me about you,” I say, setting my glass down. Several times today she’s mentioned a guy like me, a girl like her. Screw waiting for tomorrow. We’re here and alone and nothing is going to happen except more alcohol going down my throat. “Your life, your job, your ex.”

  Her laughter dims and she turns back to the fire. “I worked at the downtown library. I’m from Tennessee, and when I was twenty, I fell in love with a boy who just earlier today decided he’d rather screw some blonde than the woman who still loves him.”

  Shit. Her chin quivers and I fear another emotional breakdown. Not that she doesn’t deserve to have one, but I have too much alcohol in my veins to be the comforting guy she needs.

  She fills her glass and takes a large drink, choking and coughing as it goes down.

  “Sorry.” She turns to me and frowns. “I’m also really sorry for running into you today. I didn’t know where to go and I was trying to clear my head, figure out what to do. Probably shouldn’t have been driving in the first place.”

  “I don’t know.” I wink and reach for my glass. “Seems like you could have done worse, too.”

  I’m teasing her only to lighten the mood and it works. She laughs again, shaking her head and then dropping it back against the chair. “There’s no way this is going to work, you know. No one will believe two stran
gers can really be in love.”

  Details. Who needs ’em? “We’ll figure it out. There’s no clause that says our love has to be proved. No way it could be done anyway. We’ll work out the details and timing tomorrow, but you should be prepared. If you haven’t gotten phone calls already, you will. I’m betting photos of us from the street and the restaurant earlier are already online.”

  She jerks in her chair, throwing her feet to the patio. “Really?”

  A spark hits her eyes, and she smiles as she jumps up. “I haven’t had my phone on. It was almost dead earlier, but this I’ve gotta see.”

  She disappears into the house and comes back with her phone in one hand, charger chord in the other a few minutes later. “Do you have an outlet here? It’s definitely dead.”

  “Don’t know anyone who’d be excited about making gossip sites.” I stand and take her phone. Unable to resist, I playfully tug on a chunk of her hair.

  She turns her face toward the fire, and it’s obvious the blush hitting her cheeks has nothing to do with the fires flames, but from me.

  “Thank you,” she says as I turn and crouch, plugging the charging chord into the outlet by the back door behind my chair. “And for gossip sites, it’s not every day a girl gets photographed.”

  “Or is seen with me,” I say, guessing, but based on the way her cheeks burn brighter I’m right.

  And the words she’s said earlier tumble over me. She’s paid attention to me. Being known in Portland, or recognized, isn’t uncommon for me, and yet somehow, with this girl, it bothers me.

  She knows the entire pretty photographed story of my life, but she doesn’t know the shadows that linger long after the pictures are snapped and interviews are given. Hell, all over this house are family portraits, the picture-perfect adoring husband holding his wife tight to his side while his hand lovingly lands on my head.