My Big Fat Fake Engagement

by Landish, Lauren

  But there’s the shoe drop.

  Press. I know how leery of the press Ross is. With our last name and how the media painted him in broad strokes as an immature, irresponsible loverboy over the years, it’s understandable. Ross looks at Vi, knowing that she’s even more nervous about the press after they nearly attacked her on her wedding day. And now, with a baby on board, she’ll want to be even more careful about publicity. Ross takes Vi’s hand.

  “Of course, we’ll have press there to showcase the new business venture between One Life Gym and Sanders Investments,” Ross says, talking to Jeffrey while reassuring his wife. “But I would ask that we keep the coverage to the business. I’m sure you understand how intrusive paparazzi can be, and we work hard to keep our families safe.”

  He looks at Missy and then back at Jeffrey. Jeffrey sits back, steepling his hands. After a moment, he looks at Violet. “Of course. I completely understand. But Violet, if you’ll allow an old business man to give you a bit of advice?” My teeth clench behind my bland smile. Violet does her version of the same, already shutting out whatever ‘advice’ Jeffrey thinks he’s going to mansplain to her. Jeffrey, of course, is oblivious and continues full-steam ahead. “You could likely benefit greatly from press coverage of your design work on this project and from my last name.”

  The question is implied . . . why not?

  Vi looks at Ross, her eyes flashing with tension and pique. Ross isn’t going to stand in his wife’s way. He’s going to support her no matter what. I know that, and Vi does too because she leans forward, matching Jeffrey’s steepled fingers over what’s left of her dessert.

  “I have worked hard and done quite well, honing my craft, creating the art that I design, and cultivating my confidential client list. Who says that One Life Gym, or even Sanders,” she says boldly, looking around, “would be my most impressive clients?”

  Whoo, that’s my girl!

  It’s brassy and brazen, and inwardly, I cheer her on like a tumbling stunt master doing flips across the stage. It’s not my style of taking someone down, but there’s a reason I love my sister-in-law. She’s a spicy-blooded fighter and won’t take shit from anyone. And God, I cannot wait to hear her tell this story to Archie. He will go ‘cut a bitch’ for Violet in an instant. For an infraction this severe, I’d best get the restraints ready before Vi spills. He’ll probably think it’s something kinky at first, but he’ll understand why we needed to hold him back when he hears. Bitch slapping a man like Jeffrey Sanders is not a bail money offense. We’d maybe never hear from Archie again.

  Jeffrey’s lips quirk, clearly amused by Violet’s big, clanging balls. “Touché. My apologies.”

  “Accepted,” Violet says with a nod of deference. “Jeffrey, I’m sure you understand, as you are in the same boat.” She looks at Missy and then back to Jeffrey, reminding him without a word of his stance on his own family. “I like keeping certain parts of my life private, a level of anonymity, if you will, when and where I can get it. And other than some behind the scenes ideas with my husband, I’ve chosen not to get involved with One Life beyond the design level, which I would be happy to reproduce in the future sites. But it’s his business with Kaede. And now you. Those are the faces of One Life. That won’t change.”

  It’s a strong, definitive statement, and I can’t be prouder of Violet.

  Jeffrey takes it with grace. “You are very right. I do understand and respect that.”

  Missy, who has about as much grace as a monster truck at a funeral, sighs loudly. “So, the event? Say, two weeks from today? We’ll work together to get it all arranged, won’t we, Kaede-y?”

  And there’s the other shoe.

  Plus, did she actually just call him Kaede-y, like he’s some ponytailed, fluffy-haired, spoiled poodle lapdog? Has she even looked at him or had an actual conversation with him? Apparently not because if so, she’d know that nickname would set him off like Mount Vesuvius.

  “I’m good, but not that good, and I do have a day job,” Kaede says, trying to laugh as he pawns it off on a hired hand. “We could probably hire an event coordinator to help you, Missy.”

  He’s trying, gotta give him credit for that. But Missy has Kaede in her sights and she’s firing shots fast and hard with precision aim.

  “That’s not necessary. If two weeks isn’t enough, how about four? I don’t care . . . weeks, months . . . whatever,” Missy says, grinning. “Just means more time to work together and plan.”

  Ouch. I heard that ‘plan’, girl. You’re making plans on my man. Okay, he’s not my man for real. But he kinda is, and he damn sure is as far as you know, so back the fuck off.

  “Together, we can get so much done. I bet you have all sorts of ideas on how to make the strongman part shine, and I’m excellent with negotiating with vendors so we get the best deals. We’ll go over every item, line by line, together until it all fits just the way it should to be its absolute best. You and I will make a great team, Kaede.”

  If any bit of that was delivered in anything close to a professional voice, I might . . . maybe . . . be able to excuse it. But it wasn’t. Oh, no, it was breathy, sultry, damn near moaned out phone sex style like a commercial with ‘singles near you who just want to talk.’”

  As if.

  What she truly said was . . . Together . . . we . . . us . . . fuck me . . . we fit together . . . you and me.

  Kaede gives my hand a squeeze, nodding. “I’m sure we can pull something together in a month. It’ll be great.”

  I squeeze Kaede’s hand back, definitely harder than he did mine. His was reassuring. Mine is punishing. I’m pissed. Not at him but at the situation. And there’s this other hot bitterness flowing through my veins . . .

  Jealousy.

  I don’t want Missy spending time with Kaede. I want all of his lazy mornings, his busy days, and his sexy nights for myself.

  Well, on the positive side, Kaede and I have to keep this up for another month.

  Chapter 21

  Kaede

  Shoot me now.

  It’s my new mantra, mixed in with an occasional ‘Seriously?’

  I know it’s a ridiculous statement, but I guess it’s better than Fuck my life. But there’s so much truth to it now. It feels like I’m walking a minefield and it’s made even going to work, something I love, a chore.

  Like now. I’m in the staff conference room with Missy. I thought this would be best because my office desk is against the wall, and I want to keep something, like a table or a ten-foot pole, between us while we discuss the upcoming event.

  That and the conference room has security cameras with sound. I’m covering my ass, literally and figuratively.

  It hasn’t stopped Missy, who’s taken every opportunity possible to lean back in her chair and cross and uncross her legs pointedly while I write on the whiteboard. It might as well be a Basic Instinct moment, but at least she’s got on workout shorts that cover her crotch. That’s about all she’s wearing, though, booty shorts and a sports bra with full hair and makeup.

  I thought Ross talked to her? Actually, I know he did, and she was better for a while. Which makes me think this outfit was selected especially for this meeting. For me.

  Fuck my life.

  “So the big thing is going to be the timeline,” I tell her, looking at how we’ve got things laid out from our previous meeting and the two emails I used to try to unsuccessfully avoid today’s meeting and sex-you-up attempt from Missy. “We know we can get the media there, but to get more than a lame ass ten seconds on the morning news and a generic photo in the paper, it’s going to need to be an exciting event.”

  “Well, duh,” Missy says, stretching her arms over her head and trying to press her boobs forward again. “Everyone likes exciting.”

  It’s been like this the whole meeting. Pose, stretch, copy my words with an implied innuendo that I didn’t use.

  A few minutes ago, she even managed to make wood chopping contest sound sexual. Okay, maybe that on
e was a given, but for the love of fuck, can we focus here?

  “So to insure we have no lulls in energy, we need to keep the events staggered,” I continue, ignoring Missy’s non-contribution to look at the board. “The 5K is one of the big events, of course, but there’s a gap between the start and finish. Nobody wants to stand around for twenty minutes to a half-hour doing nothing before the first runners start coming in.”

  “Okay, let’s do a three-event strongman thing,” I declare, writing on the board. “That’ll get good optics, especially if we do a cool event like a truck pull with the One Life logo on the truck. Then the 5K starts, then a Zumba demonstration—”

  “Oh.” She holds up a bubble-gum pink nail. “What if we have the course for the 5K go around the front parking lot? Twelve laps is about three-point-one miles. Then we could have space for the Zumba people in the middle. Add in the strongman stations, the axe throwing alley, the DJ on the stage . . . that would make for a stellar picture!”

  I blink as I visualize what she’s describing. “It might be a logistical nightmare, and the runners would need to be clear that it’s a lap race, not a road race, but that would be a great picture of vibrant energy, lots of people, and highlight the different types of members we cater to.” Surprised, I add that to the schedule and continue down the list. “The strongmen can do event two, something less sexy—”

  “I like sexy events,” Missy purrs. “You should do the strongman stuff. Big men showing off their muscles . . . mmm, so sexy. Like you, Kaede.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of muscles,” I comment.

  And we’re back to Airhead Missy. Damn, for a second, I thought we might be getting somewhere on this event.

  "Flash me those biceps, Kaede!” She laughs as she says it, even flexing her own long arm in encouragement. When she makes a move to get up, like she might actually touch my arm . . . again, I sigh impatiently and bend my elbow to thwart her. It’s not even a flex, and I quickly get back to the agenda, talking over her when she says, “So big!”

  “Anyway, while the rest of the 5K runners come in—we can cap that at ninety minutes, maybe—there’ll be the axe throwing, and we finish it off with a big strongman finale . . . gotta talk with AJ about what he thinks will get the biggest crowd reaction. Awards, speech by Ross, and that’ll be the day.”

  This actually feels natural. I’ve been doing this sort of stuff for years and it plays into all my strengths—organization, planning, foreseeing issues, and handling them before they become a problem. I move on to the next section of whiteboard.

  “Supply-wise, even if it’s around the parking lot, we’ll need to have the course marked in a fun way, like balloons or flags, at least two drink stations for safety, and snacks and food for the competitors and the crowd. Pamphlets and PR, a truck wrap company that can work a quick turnaround, a sound system and DJ . . . need someone who knows their shit on the mic so they don’t sound like an idiot. It’s a lot to do.”

  Missy gets up and comes over to the whiteboard. She picks up a marker of her own. It’s a different color, which irks the shit out of me.

  But she places a checkmark, looking confident. “I know a DJ, so I can handle that. He’s got his own equipment, but we’ll need to run the power cords. And I can get the sportscaster from the local NBC station to come down for coverage. If he comes in, can you smarten him up to the events?”

  “Yeah.” I take her green marker, erase the checkmark, and place an M beside DJ. Placing a K beside other items, I say, “I’ll take care of buying supplies—cups, balloons, food, and stuff.”

  “Hey, could Courtney help us get some of the AgroStar stuff since she’s got an in with them?”

  What the fuck? How does Missy even know that? Mentally, I slap my forehead. She’s researching Courtney, of course. I’m not surprised, but it still feels remarkably skeevy and intrusive.

  “Don’t think so. Can you handle the print and the media beyond the sportscaster?” Apparently, some of my control freak tendencies are showing, or maybe it’s my disdain.

  “You underestimate me.” Missy pouts, facing me fully with her arms crossed under her tits. If I had to bet, I’d say this exact look has gotten her way more times than not. Too bad. Today’s one of the ‘not’ times. “I have my job with Dad’s company for more than my name. I’m sure your fiancée understands that. I’m quite capable of this and so . . . much . . . more.”

  Shoot me now.

  I actually don’t know her or if she got her job for more than her last name because despite extensive digging, there’s just no information to be had on any of the Sanders daughters. But I have to trust Missy with something.

  Still, I make a mental note to follow up because I can’t let an unknown factor be in control of so much of the visible side of the event. It goes against my nature. Especially when it’s Missy and she obviously has an ulterior motive and a not-so-secret agenda.

  “Fine. Just email me the contact info on all the people you’re using, and CC me on any communications with them,” I say, moving on. “I’ll handle the actual events themselves, coordinate with Stacylynne, Kayla, and AJ on their parts. Ross can be the emcee and get his face on the news some.”

  “It should be yours,” Missy says, her voice soft as she gently cups my cheek. I flinch away quickly, and she smiles as though any reaction is a good one. “Hotter, sexier . . . you get out there and the women will be lining up around the block to join.”

  “I prefer not to be.”

  Missy’s eyes go sharp, her tongue even sharper. “So, just gonna hitch your wagon to the Andrews name and then what, be the good little boy?”

  I glare at her, shocked and pissed. “Excuse me?”

  Missy gives me a sweet shrug of understanding. “Well, you’ve worked with Ross for years, followed him into this.” She looks around the room, her pointed finger encompassing all of One Life. “All the while, dating and marrying his sister. It’s quite a niche you’ve worked out for yourself here. I’m not degrading it or you in any way. Rather clever, if I say so myself.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing, and you know it,” I growl, keeping my tone as civil as possible. “Ross and I have worked together since we were teenagers, and Courtney and I fell in love by spending time together. All very organic and not sly or a scheme in any way.”

  I tell myself to shut up, not to give her any ammunition, but Missy’s worked her way in now. “Don’t be the lady who doth protesteth too mucheth,” Missy misquotes, her smirk turning acid. “Besides, I meant it as a compliment, that you’re smart and strategic. I see that in you, that you know where to move on this chessboard of life to insure you’re the last man standing. Not everyone does, but I appreciate that.”

  The acid’s still there, but she’s also let some of the flirtiness back into her voice. It’s a rough, dangerous lesson that maybe there are more brains behind her vacant eyes than I’ve been giving her credit for. My mistake, and one I won’t make again.

  “With the right guidance, you’d be a business superstar. Movie star good looks to go along with brains. Momoa meets Buffett.” It’s clear she thinks her father is that guidance and that she’s my way in. She thinks she’s offering me the Holy Grail, but she’s a red Solo cup with a Sharpie name that’s been marked out and written over dozens of times.

  “I’m happy with being me,” I return. Before Missy can say something else double-edged, the door opens and Courtney comes in, looking like a million bucks in just her plain, normal gym wear. “Hey, honey!” I nearly shout, so thankful for her presence. I don’t need a rescue, but . . . okay, fine, maybe I do.

  “Oh, have we been doing it for that long?” Missy says, intentionally picking her terms to irritate Court. “But we’ve gotten so much done and gotten to know each other so well. I guess I lost track of time. You know what I mean, don’t you, Courtney?”

  “I’m sure,” Courtney says dryly. Looking over the board, she adds sweetly, “It does look like you’ve covered a lot of
territory. You have truck pull and two question marks. What’s that about?”

  Missy gives her a saccharine smile. “Well, there’s a truck, and the guys pull it. Hence, truck pull. Do you want me to explain smoothie station too? It’s quite ground-breaking. See, they have these fruits and they mix them into smoothies and you drink them.” She smiles that psycho bunny smile and looks Courtney up and down pointedly. “Well, you drink them. I certainly don’t.”

  “Do you have a truck yet?” Courtney asks, ignoring the snarky answer. “Because Sanders owns a couple of car dealerships. You should see if Jeffrey would arrange for a truck to be used as a promo for that. Maybe even do a giveaway raffle for the truck too?” She taps her chin. “If the dealership donated the truck for the raffle and the raffle proceeds went to the charity, I think the truck donation would be a write-off for the dealership, too.”

  And in one statement, Courtney shows once again why I’m having trouble separating fake from real. Diagnose the issue, use her supercomputer of a mind to find a solution, and deliver it in a way that makes Missy look stupid while being unable to turn it down.

  Her brain is so fucking sexy.

  If this were The Karate Kid, someone would be singing You’re the best around.

  “I’ll check into it,” Missy says, obviously not pleased but unable to say no. “It’s getting late. I really should go hit the machines. This body doesn’t get this way by accident.”

  She runs her hands down her body like an amateur stripper and turns, grabbing her bag. Courtney, unable to avoid getting one last dagger in, nods. “I’m sure it takes a lot of . . . work.”

  Oh, hell . . . now I’m having to hold back laughter as Missy’s smirk vanishes and her sexy sashay turns into a stalk as she pushes past Courtney with a shoulder bump and goes out the door.