by Virna DePaul
My mother looks at me with a raised eyebrow and then lets out an exasperated sigh.
I rush to the bathroom to clean up. When I close the door behind me I slump against it, grateful to be out of that hornet’s nest. After a few deep breaths, I stare at my ruined skirt in the mirror, $300 of the finest Neiman Marcus cashmere. Totally worth the sacrifice for a few moments’ reprieve. I wonder if there’s some way I can make it a permanent reprieve, because damn, I want to go back to our table like I want a hole in the head.
What have you done, Marissa? I stare at my reflection, the reflection of a total moron. The second I get back, Mom is going to dig for details about my imaginary boyfriend. I sigh and contemplate stuffing my body through the small window at the far end of the bathroom. By my calculations, I’m about twenty pounds too round to fit through it.
Realizing that I have no possible escape route, I take a deep, cleansing breath. Doesn’t work. But I can’t stay in here forever. Cursing my stupidity, I push open the door to the bathroom, only to bump right into a wall of solid muscle.
I yelp at the same time as a man with a delicious upper-crust English accent says, “Careful, there!”
I feel strong hands on my upper arms, and when I look up—way, way up—I gaze into the face of my fallen angel.
Chapter Two
Marissa
At first, I’m so stunned that I can’t say anything. I just stare up at him like an idiot. This close, he’s even more handsome, and I was right: his eyes are blue. Crazy, deep blue like an ocean at high tide, and now I’m about to be swept away by embarrassment.
“All right there?” my fallen angel asks, his strong British accent lacing his words. Yum. It’s like the cherry on top of an already delicious sundae, and way too much for me to handle. Even worse, he smells like a musky aftershave I can’t place, one that’s giving me the ridiculous urge to bury my face in his chest and inhale deeply. I’m so busy imagining it that when I don’t respond, he waves a hand in front of my face. “Are you okay…?”
I shake myself, jumping out of his embrace with a sudden blush flooding my cheeks. My arms feel hot where he touched me. I look down. My bare skin is blotchy and (I’m sure) incredibly attractive.
“I’m fine!” I shake my head and offer a forced smile. “Sorry, just have a lot on my mind.” At that thought, I wince. I really, really don’t want to go back to my table.
He peers down at me. He not only has a beautiful face, which strangely enough his scar seems only to emphasize, but he’s wearing a perfectly cut suit that probably cost more than my car, and my mother has never let me forget how expensive that birthday present was. As he gazes at me, I blush harder. I almost wonder if he knows I was using him as my imaginary boyfriend. But he was too far away to hear me—right?
“Well, I, uh, have to go,” I stutter and take a measured step past him.
“Tough family out there?”
I stop, and all the breath escapes from my lungs. Turning, I reply slowly, “Uh, yeah, I guess. How did you…?”
He shrugs, but his impish grin makes my heart flutter. Stupid heart. “I may have overheard. To be fair, your mum—I’m assuming she’s your mum?—has a voice that carries.”
Oh God, he heard all that? I hope my voice doesn’t carry like my mom’s because if he heard me describing him, I will melt into the floor. I want to be swept away by some giant tsunami. Please wash me away from this place, I mentally pray.
My expression must have shown him how mortified I am, because his smile turns sincere. He puts his hands into his pants pockets, and the action makes him seem boyish. It’s endearing, I must admit—boyish qualities on a man seemingly made of steel.
“All right, I have a confession,” he says, leaning close, although he doesn’t sound repentant at all. I get a whiff of that musky aftershave again and now all I’m thinking about is sin. In a country club, where my mom is not a baguette’s throw away. Control yourself, Marissa.
“What?” I breathe out, all attempts at controlling myself failing completely, because now I feel dizzy, like I might faint.
“The waitress who spilled water on your lap? She’s my sister. She may have told me about your predicament.”
Dizzy? Nope, now I just really, really, really want to die. I want to dig my own grave and engrave my own headstone. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should never have—I have to go.”
I’m imagining running until I reach the ends of the earth, but his touch on my arm stops me. I freeze. But did I do anything wrong? I mean, it wasn’t particularly polite, but is using a man you saw across the room as inspiration for your fake boyfriend illegal? I’m sure being as lickable and delicious as he is, this thing probably happens to him all the time.
“I’m going about this all wrong. I beg your pardon.” He extends a hand. “I’m Simon Richards, and I think I can help you. Hopefully, we can help each other.”
* * *
I stare at his hand, those long, strong fingers, the little bit of blond hair on his wrist disappearing beneath the sleeve of a crisp white shirt with gold cufflinks. For the second time today, a strange feeling settles over me, like déjà vu. But surely I would remember if I’d met this heavenly creature before. For a moment, I imagine that hand on my bare skin, molding my breast. Then I realize I’m staring at him open-mouthed. I take his hand and shake it, hoping the action will shake away the fantasy that’s blooming in my mind, but the minimal contact makes me shiver.
“Marissa Woodcrest,” I say softly, feeling his strong, rough, slightly callused but wonderfully warm and pleasant skin against mine.
To my horror, that fantasy plants itself and starts to grow roots. Now those hands are delving under my skirt. And I thought my skirt couldn’t get any wetter.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, all cordial and stiff, like British royalty, and yet he still manages to put all my thoughts right in the gutter.
“Since I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m not sure I can say the same yet. How can you help me? And why would you want to?”
He grins. “Because, love, my sister nearly lost her job before you spoke up in there.”
“Oh.” My mom can be such a bitch sometimes. Most times. Really, all the time. I wave in the general direction of the dining room. “That’s June Woodcrest for you. She’s all bark, though. Very little bite. Usually. I’m sorry.”
Okay, I’m just babbling now. But he still hasn’t gotten to the part about helping me. Though I’m sure those strong hands of his could help me, very, very well, if they were under my skirt right about now. I’d be able to forget about my mom, about Charles, hell, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t even remember my own name.
I blink and realize he’s staring at me with this amused grin on his face. I’ve seen that grin before. Déjà vu ripples through me a third time. Where do I know him from?
“Marissa!”
The gentle clinking of silverware and crystal from the dining room is shattered when the glass-paneled door swings open and my mother appears, her face still pinched with the disappointment I’d put on it. When she steps into the hallway, her eyes land on me, and then Simon, and her expression morphs in an instant.
“As I was saying,” Simon suddenly says, very loudly, “I just wanted to stop by and make sure you’re okay. I missed you terribly, love.”
“Er…” What is he…
“Hello.” My mom says in her charming voice, the one she usually uses when addressing Charles. We both turn to her. She extends her hand to him, knuckles up, like she’s waiting for him to kiss them. “June Woodcrest. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
He takes her hand gently and bows, exuding a Prince Charming grace. Freaking Benedict Cumberbatch or Colin Firth or Tom Hiddleston couldn’t have done it better. “Simon Richards,” he says. “The pleasure is indeed all mine. Marissa, dear, you never told me what a stunning mother you have.”
My mother lets out a giggle reserved for a schoolgirl. That’s one thing about
my mom. She loves—and hates—hard, based entirely on appearances. Expensive clothes? Check. Exceedingly handsome? Check. Bowing in reverence to her? Check. And BAM, just like that, she’s smitten. For the fifth time since I’ve laid eyes on this guy, my mouth is hanging open.
He turns to me. “Did you have a lovely lunch with your charming family?”
Charming? I nearly snort out loud. And lovely? Not exactly the word I would have used to describe that dogfight. “Oh. Yes,” I mumble, still trying to grasp what’s happening before my eyes. Is he…this beautiful angel of a guy….really my saving grace?
“Marissa was just telling us all about you, Simon,” my mother says with sugared sweetness. “She must have told you about her recent break up with Charles?”
“Oh, indeed, she did.” He plants a hand on my mother’s shoulder, and the oddest thing is, she lets him. She’s usually weird about strangers messing up her silk dresses with their greasy hands. “That a man would treat your gorgeous daughter in that way is shameful. I believe women should be respected. Appreciated. Adored. Worshipped.”
Okay, that’s going a little too far. But wait… Is that a bit of drool in the corner of my mom’s mouth? She’s totally falling for it—hook, line and sinker. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out except a dreamy sigh.
I’m getting wet again, so I guess I’m falling for it, too. Simon wraps an arm around me. He pulls me close so that I feel the hard length of his body pressed against mine, and that aftershave…oh, Lord. I wouldn’t mind being worshipped by him, even for just one night.
But really, he must have women lining up to be on the receiving end of his adoration, if he’s this good an actor.
Wait.
Actor.
I flinch and look up at him. Holy shitballs. Larissa always makes fun of me because I love trashy television shows. And it suddenly dawns on me that Simon Richards looks a lot like the male lead in Alien Love. The heroine, Candace Porter, played by the gorgeous Ava Brice, is just a normal waitress who meets an alien from the planet BORG-18 who has been abandoned, à la ET, and her whole job is to get him home while government officials chase after them. But while she’s helping him, they fall in love. It’s steamy and sexy, and hot…also cheesy as hell, but whatever.
No, this Simon’s skin isn’t tinted green, he has a scar uncovered by makeup, he’s speaking in an English accent rather than an alien one, and he’s wearing way more clothing than he usually does, but it’s him. He’s Borg, the hot alien with the rippling biceps from the planet BORG-18.
No wonder he’s so good at this. He’s a fucking actor.
Only I’ve seen the end credits rolling down the screen, and the name of the actor who plays Borg is Simon Dale not Simon Richards.
He probably just uses a stage name. A lot of actors do.
It’s hard to be sure, though, because the only pictures I’ve seen of Simon Dale have been blurry photos in tabloid magazines, or photos where he’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. He’s either exceptionally good at avoiding the paparazzi or the world just doesn’t share my fascination with him. Hell, I’ve fantasized about having my own close encounters with Borg for quite some time now.
Despite managing to avoid being photographed a lot, I vaguely remember hearing that Simon Dale has dated (and dumped) every single one of his leading ladies—of which Ava Brice is the only one with any amount of name recognition.
Could this high-brow British hunk actually be the same man?
I peer closer at him and I’m convinced I’m right.
Holy Mother of all that is Mercy.
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Richards. Our Marissa is the apple of our eye and deserves a good man,” my mom finally says.
I almost roll my eyes, because the last time I looked, my mom thought I deserved to be raked over hot coals. But I’m too busy freaking out—I’m standing next to Simon Fucking Dale! Apparently my gift for attracting—and being attracted to—bad boys, even when I’m trying not to be, is still extremely powerful.
“What is it you do for a living?” Mom asks.
Oh, no. Oh no no no.
Most people might be excited to meet an actor, but not my mom. My dad has several business connections with Hollywood players, but my mom’s been disdainful of even that. Maybe if she met Leonardo diCaprio, it would be a different story. But not the hunky alien actor of some B-rated show who is known more for his rippling ab muscles and serial dating than Oscar potential. I stare at him, trying to transmit this telepathically, but he doesn’t even look at me.
“I’m in business for myself. Rather dry, honestly.”
My heart has stopped beating, as if it’s waiting for this house of cards he’s constructing to come tumbling down. But it doesn’t. He turns to me and lays those eyes on me. How can sea blue eyes be smoldering? “Don’t deny me again, love. I want you with me tonight.”
My entire body ripples with sensation. I want you. Even if he is a B-Actor, he’s convincing as hell because my nipples are tingling and my whole body is buzzing for him.
My mother lets out another dreamy sigh. It’s written all over her face: Charles Who? She puts an arm around both of us and nudges us closer together. “Well, we’re all done here. Why don’t you take Marissa off our hands right now?”
I love how somehow I sound like a pet schnauzer in this scenario. “Wait. What?”
“Excellent. I’ll drive you home,” he says.
“You will?” I blurt out at the exact same time my mom says, “That would be lovely.”
As if sensing my tension, he takes my arm and murmurs in my ear, “It’s just a ride.”
Right. A ride with the hot alien Borg. Could this day get any more bizarre?
Simon nods at my mother. “I’ll just have the valet bring around my Porsche.”
He jogs off, and my mother’s just grinning after him like a fool. She squeezes my side, and suddenly I’m her favorite daughter again. Kenny and Larissa come into the hallway. “Who was that?” Larissa asks.
“Marissa’s new beau,” my mother says, her voice still dreamy as she stares off to where he’s speaking with the valet. She looks at me. “Do bring him by to meet your father this week, okay, dear?”
Great. Now she has a British accent, too. I wonder what she’ll think if she ever sees him speaking Alien, his rippling abs on full display.
Not going to happen. It can’t.
Shit. I need to get a real boyfriend to replace my fake boyfriend who replaced my real boyfriend, stat.
Mom, Larissa, and Kenny return to the dining room, and for some reason, instead of hightailing it out of there, I’m still standing there when Simon jogs back to me. He takes my hand and then before I realize it, we’re outside, waiting for his car.
I let go of his hand and cross my arms, my heart pounding, anxiety filling me. What was I thinking, going along with this? I’m completely insane! I don’t do things like this, take risks like this, not anymore. I keep looking up at Simon, then back to the ground, and I’m fidgeting so badly he probably thinks I have to pee or something.
A fire-engine red Porsche 911 Turbo pulls up, and he opens the door before the valet can get around to it. I can’t help it. A thrill runs up my spine and I vaguely recognize the sensation as excitement. I’m excited by the risk of the little charade Simon and I have started. By the fact I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Easy, Marissa. Don’t let this get away from you.
“I know who you are,” I murmur as I slide into the buttery leather seat.
“Congratulations,” he says without much interest. He jogs around to the driver’s side, tips the valet, removes his jacket, and throws it behind the seat as he slides in next to me. I know he’s not looking at my legs, but I pull my skirt down lower, trying to get it closer to my knees. He fixes a pair of Top Gun sunglasses over his eyes. “And who am I?”
“Simon Dale. Or rather, Borg. From Alien Love. Right?”
He grins, upshifts, then balances the steering wheel with his elbow
as he snaps off one cufflink, then the other. “Now, that’s surprising.” Though he doesn’t seem very surprised; he’s the calm one while my heart is beating so hard it’s in danger of pumping its way right out of my chest. “I didn’t peg you for a trashy soap opera type.”
I search the ends of my brain for something to say. Who would’ve thought this would be my life right now—sitting in a sports car with Borg, who just freaking knocked the socks off my mom with a performance for the ages? “What did you peg me as? The hoity-toity country club type?”
Now he’s rolling up the sleeves of that crisp white shirt. He’s obviously not the type of guy who lives in suits, not like my father, who can go from morning to night buttoned up to the nines without even his tie askew. Simon lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Not in the least. Of anyone who didn’t belong in that room, I could tell right away it was you.”
I blink. That’s funny. From his appearance, with his three-piece gray suit and slicked back hair, he looked like he fit in there perfectly. But I guess that’s what actors are…chameleons. “What does that mean?”
He grins. “I knew you had—what do you Americans say—spunk. You’re not like them. Not obsessed with wealth and privilege and status and all that nonsense. Which, quite frankly, bore me to tears.”
I have to laugh. “I could tell. This car is so very understated.”
He chuckles and presses hard on the gas, and we rush forth onto the freeway, picking up speed. “Marissa, I’m in a bit of a bind.”
Ah, right. This is the part where I pay him back for his assistance just now. “Which you? Simon Richards or Simon Dale?”
“We’re one and the same. Dale was my mother’s maiden name.”
“And you think I can help you out of your bind?”
“I know you can help. You see, circumstances are such that I’ve been caught in a white lie.”