Faking It (Single Dad Fake Marriage Box Set#1-5)

by J. J. Bella

  Incredulous, Brittany swept her head toward him, her lips parting. “What do you mean?” she asked, laughing. “We aren’t getting married this very hour, are we?”

  Paul gave her a coy smile. “Actually, Brittany, the parents don’t want to wait a moment more. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way. The arranged marriage way, only, we’re arranging it ourselves. We’ll be married tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” The word echoed around Brittany’s brain. She leaned back against the hallway wall, blinking her large, doe-like eyes up at him. She felt she was suddenly faced with a nightmare, unable to wake up. The heat gravitating off of Paul’s body made her skin feel electric, bright—yet the knowledge of what she was actually doing, in the light of a more sober brain, was absolutely terrifying.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Paul asked her. “Or should I go hunt for another Brooklyn girl with money problems?”

  “No, no,” Brittany whispered, swiping her blonde hair behind her ears. “I’m just tired, I guess. I might just sit for a bit. Collect my thoughts. Big day, you know?”

  “Sure. And remember, Brittany. Everything for tomorrow will be worked out, without your assistance. Most girls have to plan their weddings. But you? You have the luxury of kicking back. Enjoying the day.”

  She had no answer for him.

  Brittany felt Paul’s eyes upon her as she entered her bedroom, diving into another room that was bigger, still, than her entire apartment. A white bedspread gleamed in the brightness of the overhead light, and a large painting, probably an antique, stretched across the wall in a chorus of blues and purples and bright pinks. Tossing herself onto the bed, she tried to ease her racing heart.

  As she lay back, she heard the doorbell to the loft. Craning her ears, she listened close as Paul opened it, greeting the arrival with tense, angry words.

  “Didn’t mention you’d be stopping by.”

  “Didn’t think I’d have to, if I was bringing Lea. Besides, my mother is busy right now. I don’t have another option.”

  “Of course.” In the other room, Paul laughed, whispering something, his voice tinged with joy. “By the way, Elena. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

  The woman laughed dryly, sounding incredulous.

  “You can laugh, but listen. You’ll be hearing from a lawyer soon enough to re-examine my custody rights. Everything’s about to change around here,” Paul affirmed.

  Custody? Brittany burst up from her relaxed position, listening more actively. Was there a child involved?

  “Well, you know, Jack’s got good money and good lawyers, too. I can’t imagine anything you did could match him.”

  Creeping toward the door, Brittany found herself suddenly face-to-face with a little girl—blonde haired, blue-eyed, with curls descending down her back. She wore a bright pink dress and a coat that traced down her back, making her look as if she’d just raced down the hall to see her. Blinking brightly, the little girl kept her mouth pressed tightly closed.

  “Hello,” Brittany whispered, her heart hammering. “Can you tell me your name?”

  The little girl shook her head, biting her bottom lip. Her cheeks were bright pink, almost cartoony. Outside, Paul continued to fight with the strange woman—perhaps his ex-wife, if her hunch was correct. Brittany beckoned toward the girl, telling her: “You can come in here, if you want. While they keep fighting out there.”

  The girl finally spoke, her voice bright and whimsical, as if she were singing a song. “You’re getting married?”

  Brittany nodded, feeling like an alien on a far different planet. “I suppose so.”

  “Do you think that means I’m the flower girl?” she spoke, bringing her hands together, like a prayer. “I’ve always wanted to be a flower girl. My friend Ashley, she was…”

  In that moment, Paul appeared on the other side of the young girl, bringing a strong hand to her shoulder. Glancing up at Brittany, he gave her a wry smile, a small shrug. “I see you’ve met Lea,” he said.

  Lea scrambled back from them both, looking anxious at the sound of her name. Racing back toward the living room, she left Paul and Brittany staring at one another, Brittany looking incredulous.

  “And who on earth is Lea?” she asked, her voice catching.

  “Well, she’s my daughter, of course,” he affirmed. “Does this change anything?”

  Brittany’s mind raced with panic. Gripping her hands together, she hunted for the words to say that would make this all okay, that would ensure she could go through with this, regardless of the child and the lack of love and the fear in her belly.

  But she had nothing to say.

  Chapter Nine

  When Brittany awoke the next morning, she heard the bustle outside her room. Cracking the door, she was thrust into a spectacular world: white-clothed workers, scrambling to create a spectacular wedding for her—yes, Brittany, the very girl who’d been sorting muffins the previous day. Raisin. Craisin. Chocolate chip. Jesus. Now, she peered across the chaos to find her soon-to-be-husband, that handsome, scheming man, darting about, eating a croissant and speaking in booming tones to a horn-rimmed person who appeared to be the wedding planner.

  “The ceremony’s on the terrace. Right. And we’ll have the hor d’oeurves out here—along the counter, with the bartender—right, to the side of the terrace.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paul caught a glimpse of Brittany, peering out from behind the door. With fluid steps, he crossed the massive room toward her, through three florists who were dividing flowers, one after another on the dining room table. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek, allowing her to inhale his musk.

  She felt a sizzle of fire through her brain, a reminder that she was lucky just to be chosen to be in the same room as this handsome man, let alone his wife. Sham marriage or no.

  “How are you feeling about everything?” Paul asked her, entering her room and sitting at the edge of the bed, his face taking on a stoic expression. He was wearing another, immaculate suit, his hair swept back with just the smallest amount of gel, his face firm and professional. He looked eternally ready for the pages of a magazine, while Brittany couldn’t have looked more like she’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Fine,” Brittany murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. In the midst of all the crazy things in her life, she felt she had nowhere else to turn. He had a daughter, sure. But that wasn’t any of her concern. Not now. It wasn’t like she was going to be taking him to design class with her. They would have separate lives, with minimal contact. She could handle that, right? “I think it’ll be wonderful to know your daughter,” she whispered.

  “Not sure that’ll happen much, anyway,” Paul boomed, bringing his hands together. It was obvious he didn’t want to speak about this much—about the logistics of actually being married, what it would mean. “The makeup and hair ladies are arriving in just a few minutes, which means we’ll get you all dolled up to be around these high society assholes.”

  Brittany sniffed, trying to joke. “Isn’t that who you are?”

  “Suppose so. But I’ll tell you, this open bar. It’s going to be pretty life altering. Best bartender in the city. Even better than Clyde.” Hey paused, giving Brittany his first honest look of the day: eyes centered, eyebrows high, just as he’d looked at her in the café—just the day before, but something like a million years ago. “Hey. Just letting you know. When you mingle with my parents and everyone later… out there… I’m going to need you to pretend that we’ve been together for a while. Six months, at the least. Otherwise, they’ll think—“

  Brittany lifted her hand, stretching it out and gazing at her half-bitten, coffee-tinted fingernails. “I get it.”

  But did she?

  As the day moved ahead, it became an ominous blur: with three women racing into her bedroom, brushing through her hair, applying mounds of foundation and blush and eye shadow, peppering her with hairspray, and then spinning her toward a mirror—revealing a stunning, 20s-era mode
l, with wide-set brown eyes, pale skin, and bright red lips. Peering at herself in the mirror, Brittany felt suddenly caught off-guard, realizing she wouldn’t have a single person at the wedding to see this big, wicked moment in her life—this great, horrible sell-out.

  Sarah had sent her nearly 40 messages since Brittany had been fired, wondering where she was, what had happened. And the message she returned—telling her the address to come to, to dress in her absolute best, that she would explain later—was ominous and almost twisted. What on earth would Sarah say to her?

  She would say she was absolutely crazy. Brittany knew that for sure. She would say she should have come home, talked it out, arrived at a better conclusion.

  But what could be better than having an unlimited supply of cash at her disposal, in return for selling her soul?

  The ceremony was a blur. She marched down the aisle, clinging to no one’s arm, and sensing three dozen simmering eyes upon her, all staring from rich, moisturized faces, atop bodies that were clad in gorgeous, multi-thousand dollar suits and gowns. As she walked, Brittany caught sight of the woman she’d seen at the apartment the night before—the ex-wife, along with his daughter, Lea, who was poised at the front, near her daddy, wearing a soft, light pink gown. A man who seemed to be Paul’s twin, but about 40 years older, hovered near the side, with a younger woman latched to his arm—potentially Paul’s parents. They blinked at her ominously, judgmentally, without any aura of warmth.

  Before she knew it, she was saying the words.

  “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  She did. She had to.

  Before everyone, God and family and rich, resting-bitch-faced New Yorkers, Brittany and Paul shared their first kiss. A bit tipsy from pre-ceremony champagne, to gloss away the jitters, Brittany felt herself teetering in his arms, falling into him. Yet, the moment his lips touched hers, there was an emotion, a feeling between them—a wave, thrust through their chests, that made them draw back from one another and blink, as if they were looking into the light.

  “Woah,” Brittany breathed.

  But the crowd couldn’t hear her. They’d begun to clap, leading both Paul and Brittany back down the tiny aisle, toward the bar, where they were poured two shimmering glasses of champagne. Paul lifted his glass, with pomp and circumstance, and toasted the crowd, giving a slight wink to a magazine photographer who sucked up toward them, giving them a flash.

  “Thank you all for being here today to celebrate this most grand affair, especially on such short notice,” Paul boomed. Glancing toward Brittany, with something like love in his eyes, he added: “It’s true what they say about love. When you know, you know.”

  After guzzling first one glass, then three, Brittany found herself wrapped up in conversation with Paul’s mother and father, who continued to peer at her as if she were an urchin off the street. Their accents were French, labored, as if they didn’t spend much time in New York. The mother spoke first, introducing herself as Claudia.

  “My dear,” she began. “It is so nice to meet you. And to welcome you into our family—“

  “So soon after we’ve learned of you,” Max, the father stammered. “It was really quite a surprise to us. And now—“

  “When was it you met our boy Pau?” Claudia asked, bringing her eyebrows into a tight knit over her eyes.

  “Erm—around six months ago,” Brittany whispered.

  “Oh. So you’ve spent at least a bit of time with Lea, oui?” Claudia asked. Leaning toward her, whispering conspiratorially. “You know, I think Elena will try to keep full custody. But you must fight, my girl. I know Paul’s told you everything.”

  “Erm,” Brittany whispered once more, glancing across the crowd. The little girl, Lea, was spinning in circles, allowing her pink gown to fly out in all directions. Her curls sparked in the orange sunset.

  “Not the time for it, my dear,” Max boomed then, drawing his arm to Brittany’s shoulder, giving her an almost grandfatherly gaze. “We’ll discuss it soon. In depth. Without champagne.”

  Brittany’s heart hammered in her chest. Glancing around the party, she finally caught sight of a familiar face, her Sarah, tucked in the corner and speaking emphatically to a tall, handsome man, with blonde hair and gray eyes, who seemed smarmy, tight-lipped. Earlier, Brittany had seen his hand around Lea’s and felt curious—but not ready to ask questions.

  The moment Brittany approached, Sarah flung her thin arms around her neck, giving her a brief kiss and whispering: “What the hell is going on?”

  “Ah. The famous bride,” the grey-eyed man said, stuffing his hand forward and shaking Brittany’s. “I must say, it’s a pleasure.”

  “And you are?” Brittany asked, feeling aghast. In the corner, she sensed Elena’s eyes on her once more—a kind of burning penetration that made her feel small, lost.

  “I’m Jack. I’m sure Paul has told you all about me? And all good things, I know?” he boomed.

  Brittany nodded earnestly, her eyes searching his with confusion. She felt she would fall down in a mental break, feel engulfed in the horror of this wedding nightmare. But just as she did it, Sarah tugged her away, bringing her to the bathroom and demanding answers.

  “Drink this water,” Sarah said. “You don’t want to pass out on your wedding day.”

  “Ha,” Brittany whispered, guzzling it. The liquid dribbled along her scratchy tongue and entered her empty stomach, which was stretched even thinner inside a wedding dress corset. “Jesus. What have I gotten myself into?”

  “I don’t suppose you can back out now?” Sarah asked.

  “Have you seen what I’ve already been through?” Brittany asked. “Talking to his parents. Being ogled by some of the richest assholes in New York. I’m going to have to move in here, I guess? I have my own room—“

  “What about his expectations?” Sarah asked then, her eyebrows high. “As his wife, I mean. In the bedroom.”

  Brittany hesitated. Her brain had been spinning with these thoughts as well, simmering with fear about the night ahead. Would he expect her to make love to him? To “seal” their marriage, so to speak? She’d imagined it, sure: deep in the dark caverns of her mind, she’d imagined him above her, holding onto her tight, crying out with pleasure as they romped on his king-sized mattress all night—a bed she’d only seen in passing from one room to the next.

  But when all the guests disappeared for the night: when Sarah gave her a kiss goodbye, when Max and Claudia shook her slim hand and after Elena gave her a snide glance before grabbing Lea’s hand and guiding her out the door—it was just Brittany and Paul left over.

  Paul collapsed atop the sofa, kicking his shoes toward the fireplace and sipping at a whiskey, no ice. His eyes searched her face, as if she were trying to remember who she was. She pressed her hands together tightly, preparing to grill him for answers—to demand a rulebook on how this was supposed to go.

  But he just turned to gaze into the empty fireplace, looking lackluster, his face void of color. “You can head to bed, if you want. Make yourself at home. I had a few maids pick out some clothes for you. Bed things. They should be in the dresser drawer.”

  Brittany nodded. Her lips parted during a horrible silence, one she wasn’t entirely certain Paul noticed. “How is this—how will this work, Paul?” she whispered then.

  Paul’s eyes flickered toward her, showing how lost in thought he was. “We’re roommates, babe,” he said, knocking the rest of his whiskey down his throat. “You can help yourself to the credit card. The cash. Whatever you want, you can have. Just sleep in your room, and I’ll sleep in mine. That sound clear to you?”

  “Crystal,” Brittany murmured.

  Whipping around toward her bedroom, she found herself at the edge of the king-sized spread, her head in her hands, with dark makeup swirling down her cheeks like rivers. In return for school and money, she’d given up on any future chance at love. This was her path—the one she had chosen. And already, she wished she cou
ld turn back.

  Chapter Ten

  Over the next few days, Brittany felt stretched thin, exhausted from the tumultuous changes in her life. When she awoke, she found that, often, Paul had already left for work, giving her free reign of the apartment—along with the credit card, splayed out on the dining room table, with a note: “Have at it.” Brittany’s years of being destitute, constantly broke, fell away, as she called a private car and rushed around town, buying new clothes, choosing expensive, six-dollar lattes and feeling generally on top of the world—for a moment, at least. But the feeling didn’t last. Nothing ever did.

  On the third day of married life, after calling to ensure the money had gone through to her account, she was told that her classes would resume in a few weeks’ time—giving her a “summer break” of sorts. As it was late May, she found herself stretched out on the terrace, soaking up the sun, with a book on her lap. Disgustingly, her ring glinted on her finger, a constant reminder of how far she’d conned herself from the truth.

  Without warning, the door burst open to the apartment, leaving Brittany to leap up, wearing only a bikini, and glare at Elena, who’d marched through the door like she owned the place. Chewing at a piece of bright pink gum, she clacked to Brittany, saying “Oh. Good. I assumed you’d be here. Not like you have to live in the real world any longer, right?”

  Bursting toward her, the woman dragged Lea by her thin arm, joining Brittany on the terrace. Lea wore a pair of jean overalls, with a pink ribbon in her hair, making her look prim and perfect, like a doll.

  “The lawyer suggested I bring her over here, you know. To make it seem like I’m ‘trying’ to work with Paul, the bastard. You know, he cheated on me? He’ll cheat on you, too. Just wait.”

  Brittany remained standing, incredulous.

  Elena spoke once more, as if she didn’t notice that Brittany hadn’t uttered a word. “But anyway, I don’t have much of a choice right now. Have to run. Have to leave her with you. The evil step-mother.” She cackled, tossing her head back. “Good luck, chump. Now you’ll know how hard this gig really is.”