Dirty Favor (The Dirty Suburbs Book 4)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I expect her to yell at me. To berate me for agreeing to this craziness. Instead, she leans in like I’m telling her the top-secret recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken. The corners of her lips jerk up into a mischievous smile and her eyes sparkle. “Well, that sounds like the plot of a billionaire romance that I’m just dying to read. Throw in a shifter and a couple vampires and Amazon Top 100, here we come!”

  “What?”

  “Annie, you should be all over this. This is the stuff that fantasies are made of. Prescott is hot! Have you seen him? All tall, dark and handsome. Jeez.”

  “Okay, fine. He’s hot. But pretending to be his fake girlfriend? That’s crazy!”

  She shakes her head at me like I’m stupid. “Uh, you’re doing it for a good cause. To advance your career. All you’ve talked about for the past semester is how you need an internship but you’ll never get one because it’s too competitive. Well, this is your chance to get a leg up on your competition. Hell – it’s your chance to get a leg up on Prescott, too!”

  I look at her, bewildered. “Y’know, from a distance, you look sane, Blakely Hamilton, but there’s a lot of crazy inside your head. You’re good at hiding it.”

  She laughs, flicking an empty straw wrapper at me. “C’mon. Admit it. There are worse things than showing up at some ritzy gala on Prescott Brooks’ arm.”

  Okay, I’ve got to admit that I don’t hate the idea of a night out with Prescott but still!

  Blakely sighs. “Don’t get all worked up about it, Annie. Look at it as an opportunity to escape your reality for a while and enjoy the fantasy of every sane, red-blooded woman in Reyfield and the surrounding tri-county area. Prescott is hot and he needs a favor and you’re the best woman for the job.”

  Chapter 5

  My heart strums erratically as I push through the front entrance and step up to the maître d's podium. I’m immediately struck by the restaurant’s intimate atmosphere. The Mandarin is by far the swankiest restaurant in Reyfield. Or so I’ve heard. I've never been here before. The price range is far outside of my ramen-and-hot-dogs budget, and apparently you have to make reservations weeks in advance just to get a table. I should probably be really excited about being here but my stomach is so tense that I may not even be able to eat a bite.

  I shrug out of my black, tweed coat and glance around at the stylishly dressed clientele and the dark, elegant decor as I follow the maître d’ toward the back of the restaurant. I’m so relieved that Blakely insisted on getting me all dolled up. She spent the afternoon giving me the star treatment; painting my nails, reshaping my bangs and contouring me into a goddess. She even dragged me to Evangeline's place and snatched this dress out of her huge walk-in closest. In all honesty, it didn’t take much convincing. The dress is gorgeous. It's turquoise blue with gold accents and a huge cutout in the back. But I’m not quite sure that I pull it off. Baggy jeans and t-shirts are my everyday uniform. The gold strappy sandals I’m wearing tonight only add to my awkwardness but, I wanted to show Prescott that I’m more than his little sister's tomboy best friend.

  I can be classy, too.

  Yeah, right.

  My mind races as the maître d' leads me up a set of stairs. I shouldn't have agreed to this...I can't pull this off...goddamn, I hope there aren't any tags hanging off this dress...

  My pulse gallops double time when I see Prescott sitting at a small table, scrolling through his phone.

  He’s so damn handsome.

  His hair is brushed away from his face and his caramel eyes glint in the faint light of his phone. His broad shoulders spread out his jacket and the slightest bit of stubble now dusts his chin. The maître d’ points out my table and before I approach, I stall just a moment to appreciate the fine specimen that is my best friend’s older brother.

  That’s when I notice the leggy, dark-skinned brunette.

  She struts out of the ladies’ room, hips swinging from left to right as she elegantly sweeps a lock of lustrous hair from her brow. Prescott looks up and smiles as she sinks into the chair next to his. Her hand flits across his shoulder as she speaks. They both lean in synchronously and laugh together as she adjusts her chair.

  My heart sinks to my feet.

  Now, I feel silly. For the way I’m dressed. For the fact that it took me five outfit changes before finally settling on this outfit. The urge to discreetly slip out of the restaurant and head home is intense. I’d save myself from further embarrassment.

  Just as I resolve to tuck tail and leave, Prescott looks up and his eyes fall on me. His face lights up and he grins at me. Time stops as his gaze stays locked on mine for long moments, making me feel like the only girl in the world. He bites his delicious bottom lip and his eyes hood slightly. Tingles scatter across my skin.

  Damn, he’s a good actor. He makes his faux-love for me seem completely believable.

  As I approach, he stands gallantly and pulls out a leather wing-backed chair for me. Dim orange-tinted light emanates from the chandelier above, illuminating his chiseled features.

  “Hi,” he says, wearing the brightest smile.

  “Hi.” I lick my lips nervously, clutching my small gold purse over my stomach like a shield.

  Prescott and I stand there and gaze at each other. I struggle, not knowing what to say or how to react under the intensity of his brown-eyed stare.

  Why the hell is he staring at me like that? Do I have something on my face?

  Before I have time to overthink it, a female voice rings out above the mellow jazz instrumental animating the room. “Hi!”

  Prescott and I both startle and turn our attention toward his table. The brunette bounces up from her seat. Prescott clears his throat, slackening his tie as he speaks. “Annaleigh, this is Sanaya, my administrative assistant and professional lifesaver,” he says tossing her a wink. “Sanaya, this is Annaleigh, my fake soon-to-be wife.”

  Sanaya rolls her eyes at her boss as she reaches for my hand. “Luckily for you, your relationship with him is temporary. Unfortunately for me, I’m stuck with this guy for the foreseeable future.”

  “Hey!” he protests as I reach for Sanaya’s hand. “You love me and you know it.” She smirks at him as we shake.

  Sanaya and Prescott laugh as we all sink into our seats. I laugh too but there’s no denying the sinking disappointment in the pit of my stomach. As much as I’ve spent the day reminding myself that this date is really a ‘non-date’, I can’t help but wish that Prescott and I were here alone, sharing a bottle of wine, feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries over candlelight. All that good stuff.

  “Uh, Annaleigh. Did you hear what I just said?” My attention snaps to Prescott who is giving me a concerned stare.

  “Sorry. I was just, uh, trying to remember if I, uh, locked the car door.” I’m a horrible liar. That’s why most of the time, I don’t even bother.

  Sanaya looks at me intently. “Prescott was saying that you and I have to go gown shopping for the gala. Whenever you’re free next week.”

  I give her a deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Gown shopping?”

  “Yes. We’ll probably have to go into the city because the selection in Reyfield is pretty pathetic. But we’ll make it work. We’ll fit it into any gap in your schedule.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure,” I say nervously pushing my bangs out of my face.

  Sanaya’s talking a mile a minute, listing all the luxury dress boutiques in Chicago, and I’m struggling to keep up while battling the urge to bolt out of this place. I still can’t believe that I agreed to walk into that gala on Prescott’s arm, pretending that we’re engaged.

  “I’m excited,” Sanaya says clapping her hands together with an enthusiastic look on her face. “It’s my mission to make you the belle of the ball. Not that you aren’t gorgeous even now. But, I’m just as invested in this gala as the two of you are. If Prescott gets the promotion, I get a new desk. One without splinters that make tiny fuzz balls on the front off all my skirts.”

 
I laugh. I like this girl. “I’ll try my best not to let you down,” I say, the tension melting off of my shoulders like an ice block left out in the sun.

  She glances down at the face of her phone. “Ah crap! I’ve gotta get out of here. I have a date tonight and I’ve already rescheduled on the guy twice. He seems decent so I want to make a good impression.” She tosses me a look. “You know how scarce good men are in this town.”

  Don’t I know it. I cluck my tongue and nod, refusing to make eye contact with Prescott.

  “Don’t stay out past your curfew,” he jokes as she gathers her belongings and slips into her coat.

  “You know I will,” she laughs as she throws me a quick wave and hurries away from the table.

  And now, I’m alone with Prescott. It’s what I’ve both craved and feared all day long. My heart jackknifes in my chest, which is almost silly. I’ve known Prescott since I was six when he and Evangeline transferred to my elementary school. I’ve slept over at his family home hundreds of times over the years. I’ve been to many Brooks’ family functions. So, why does this feel so different, so intimidating? We’re just friends – no, acquaintances – with mutual interests, meeting to discuss a plan of action. It’s business. So, why does the air around us buzz with intimacy?

  We sit in a thick silence for a moment until a waiter arrives and places a plate in front of me and one in front of Prescott. "Bacon wrapped codfish in alfredo sauce," he announces before disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “I ordered for you,” Prescott says sounding almost apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s alright,” I say in a small voice. The idea of Prescott taking charge, even in such a small way, sends a flurry of excitement to the pit of my stomach.

  In fact, the food looks and smells fantastic but I’m sick with nerves and I have no appetite. “Prescott, I have a really bad feeling about this. Maybe we should just call off the whole thing. You could just be honest with Marquette, prove to him that you’re a great lawyer and hope that he’ll hire you regardless of your relationship status. Or maybe you can get someone else to be your pretend fiancée.”

  Prescott sits back in his chair, his large hands flat on the table and he observes me. I silently imagine what it would be like to have those hands on my body. “Okay. Fine,” he says shrugging on the heels of a sigh. “We’ll call it off. Then, you can follow your true calling – dancing for cats. How’s the feline entertainment industry these days?”

  I roll my eyes hard but can’t help a laugh from escaping my lips. “Not funny, Prescott.”

  He laughs, too. “Look, I get it. Faking a relationship is awkward. But there are worse things in life. Right?”

  I contemplate what he’s saying. “Right,” I mumble, not fully unconvinced.

  He wrinkles his forehead, wearing a look of mock offence. “Can you please try to look a little more excited?”

  I laugh a little. “You’re really making me work hard for that recommendation letter.”

  Prescott moves his chair close, invading my personal space with the musky, minty heat of his body. “I’m an awesome guy. Playing my fake fiancée?” His mouth comes close to my ear. “I wouldn’t exactly call that hard work.”

  My blood roars as sex hormones fire through me. I purse my lips to keep from mewling. I clench my hands to keep from running my fingers through his thick, dark hair.

  I’m gonna need a fresh pair of underwear after this.

  But maybe Prescott’s right. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe we can convince Marquette that our relationship is genuine.

  I watch as his focus shifts and something just past my shoulder catches his attention. “Shit!” he mutters under his breath.

  “What?” I ask as I steal a not-so-discreet glance behind me.

  “Shit!”

  “What?!”

  “Marquette’s here. With his wife. They’re being seated two tables away.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Shit!”

  I lean forward and whisper in a low voice. “We should hide.”

  Prescott wrinkles his forehead at me as if I’m a crazy person. “No, we can’t hide. I’ve gotta go over there. We’ve gotta go over there.”

  Now my heart is racing for an entirely different reason. “No. Are you crazy?” I whisper in a panicked voice. “I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to meet Marquette.”

  Before I can talk sense into him, he’s on his feet, buttoning his suit jacket and helping me out of my chair.

  “I’m not ready yet,” I mutter between gritted teeth as his hand settles on the small of my back. He guides me straight to the businessman’s table.

  “Mr. Marquette!” Prescott greets him jovially.

  The short, stout man drops his menu and stands immediately, clasping Prescott’s hand in his. His bald spot gleams under the dim lights. “Ah! Prescott Brooks! One of Reyfield’s sharpest, young legal minds!” He slides his hand along the back of his wife’s chair. “This is my wife, Gemma.”

  The extremely attractive woman with long legs and a blonde pixie-cut reaches a hand out to Prescott. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she grins. “My husband has been talking about you non-stop for the past few weeks.”

  Prescott absolutely beams when she says that. My heart swells with pride. I’m glad to know that he’s appreciated in his field. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mrs. Marquette.”

  Then, all eyes at turn to me. I steal a sharp breath out of the air. Everything seems to move in slow motion now. Prescott reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. My pulse accelerates and my knees feel less than stable. The moment of truth has arrived much sooner than anticipated.

  Prescott squeezes my hand as he says, “This is my fiancée, Annaleigh.” I hold my breath waiting for the Marquettes to react.

  A long moment passes.

  Then, Mr. Marquette’s eyes fill with cheer as he turns to me. “Well, what a lovely fiancée you have, Prescott.”

  I release a long, tense exhale as Mr. Marquette shakes my hand.

  He believed us. He actually believed that Prescott and I are a couple. “It’s great to meet you,” I say timidly, breathing an invisible sigh of relief.

  But I barely get a second to revel in my small victory. Gemma gives me a 1000-watt smile and says, “Can I see your ring?”

  Uh…

  I turn to Prescott with wide eyes. Our little lie is about to blow up in our faces!

  He smiles coolly before his hand slides possessively around my waist and he pulls me in to his body. "Unfortunately, the ring is with the jeweler being resized. My Rosebud is just the tiniest thing." He kisses my earlobe and my fallopian tubes swoon in unison.

  “Oh,” Gemma says, her face dropping in disappointment. “Well, that’s too bad.”

  Prescott grabs the opportunity to change the subject. “So, what brings you to Reyfield tonight, Mr. Marquette?” he asks.

  “The little lady was craving the duck cacciatore,” the man says as he reaches for his wife’s hand. “So we jumped on my jet and now here we are. The Mandarin’s got the best dish this side of the Atlantic.”

  Prescott nods. “The duck here is delicious.” Then he glances around and leans in conspiratorially. “But, I’ll tell you what, my Cinnamon Stick makes the best cacciatore this side of the Atlantic.”

  Marquette looks at me with an arched brow. “Is that so, young lady?”

  I just stand there frozen with a plastic smile on my face. Uh, what? Prescott taps me discreetly on the small of my back, jerking me back to life. “Yes, sir. My Aunt Elaine’s secret recipe.”

  I don’t have an Aunt Elaine.

  “Well, we’re going to have to come over and taste that thing,” Gemma says with a blindly-white smile.

  “Yes,” Marquette agrees. “How about dinner at your home next Thursday?”

  My brain screams out in distress. Abort! Abort! Abort! Stop this crazy train right this minute!

  “You’ll come al
l the way from Denver just for dinner?” Prescott’s smile is stiff and tight.

  The man lets out a hearty chuckle. “A good cacciatore is worth it!”

  I swallow hard. I don’t like where this is going. “Well, it’s a date then!” Prescott says. I can hear the reservation in his voice but his confident posture gives nothing away.

  “It’s a date.” The men shake hands.