Thief of Hearts: A Rogue Billionaire Fake Fiance Romance

by Carter Blake

  “Neat. Okay.” The mystery woman grins with a little more enthusiasm.

  “How about swell?”

  “A little better.”

  She’s actually looking at me, listening.

  Do I ask her to get a drink with me again? Usually this shit comes naturally. I mean really. Pre-Audra I was the quintessential ladies man. Yeah, I know how that sounds. I don’t give a fuck. What I’m more concerned with is what the fuck is wrong with me today?

  Do I start by asking her name?

  “Do you want to go out on a date with me?”

  Holy fucking shit, did I really just say that? Real smooth, Ethan.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Huh. Maybe this shit does still come naturally.

  “Right now, I mean?”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The mystery woman sits down on her stool at last, and the sassiness in her eyes deflates just a tiny bit.

  “You’re paying, right?”

  We end up getting bottle service. I’m happy to shell out hundreds for a bottle of mediocre vodka so we can sit at a secluded table, laugh hysterically and devolve into conversational nonsense.

  We reach a kind of drunken telepathy as we both know it’s time to hit the dance floor and move in some weird, hilarious new ways.

  “This one is called the Lava Lamp,” she screams at the ceiling as her limbs flow wildly.

  “Oh, yeah? Well this is the Electric Eel!” I’m trying to move like a fucking sea creature, doing my best to keep up with the rhythm, fucking drunk off my ass by now.

  We somehow manage to communicate to each other that we need to go out on the beach. And take our clothes off.

  And make out on the sand, the white noise of waves crashing behind us.

  It seems like a really fucking good idea to me. Nothing bad could possibly come of this, right?

  Ethan

  About ten years ago, I invested in something called a zen alarm clock. It’s supposed to wake you up gradually over the course of a few minutes with soft light and sound.

  It turned out to be a real fucking waste of money. I’d wake up when the clanging bells reached a crescendo after ten minutes of tolling softly. It wasn’t pleasant, and the little light show didn’t do shit, either.

  This sound, though, the one I’m slowly waking up to now? This is pleasant. What kind of bird is that? Not a seagull, although I hear rolling ocean waves underneath the melody of a few different birds now.

  I start to open my eyes and…fuck, it’s bright in here.

  Wait, where am I?

  It dawns on me that I’m not just hearing the ocean, I’m also smelling it. When my eyes adjust to the light, I can see I’m outdoors.

  Last night, I was either sleepwalking, drunk or—most likely—both. I don’t remember a thing.

  That’s sand under me, isn’t it?

  I literally slept on fucking sand, and it feels like it got fucking everywhere. What the fuck? Actually, no, I just happen to be naked. Fucking fantastic. This is getting stranger and stranger.

  “Madeline.” I utter the word out of nowhere. Why am I saying that name?

  That name. Who the fuck is Madeline?

  Then it hits me.

  That’s her name. She finally told me after things started to get really choppy.

  I don’t even know what happened to my fucking clothes.

  I sit up and see nothing but a few feet of sand leading into the Pacific. Nope, no clothes.

  I try to recall the details of how I got into this current situation.

  Okay, yeah, that’s right―I’m in Hawaii, and I was bowled over by someone named Madeline. What does her face look like? I can almost see it in the wispy cirrus clouds above the ocean.

  I could sit here all day staring at the horizon, slowly recalling details, but I’m fucking naked, I don’t even have a fucking towel, the sand is burning my ass and I have no idea who’s about to show up…wherever I am, exactly.

  As nice as the ocean breezes feels and the sea air smells, I also have a bout of rapidly growing nausea that may become a problem real fucking soon.

  I push myself up off the sand. Easy, now.

  I’m pretty good adjusting to most situations, but naked on an island beach after an evening stolen by rum-flavored amnesia is a new one.

  Fuck, there was a lot of rum. I remember that much. Sugary cocktails, sugary lips meeting mine in hungry, absolutely famished fucking greed.

  I turn away from the ocean and see that I’m lucky enough that the beach is abandoned apart from a few aging palm trees. There’s a squat, old-looking wooden building a couple hundred feet away. I don’t have any choice but to go face the music there, even if it means an arrest for indecent exposure.

  I spot a few other, larger buildings further in the distance. I’m enjoying walking on the sand, and the feel of the warm breeziness on every inch of my skin.

  If I’ve got no choice but to continue in this state, I might as well enjoy it. I’m not looking forward to seeing another person.

  Except maybe Madeline.

  What was her deal again?

  I’m still at the resort. I recognize the main building, where I’m staying, as it draws closer. I pass the little wood structure.

  Oh, shit.

  There’s that fucking sensation. You know the one. Where you remember all the horrible shit that’s been happening a bit more clearly.

  That feeling of remembering something after waking up, something you’d prefer to forget. It could go one of two ways.

  The way I prefer is the realization that it was all some fucked-up dream, and you’re free to let it fade into nothingness. I think most people are with me on that preference.

  The other way it could go is remembering that, yes, it really did fucking happen, and now that you’re awake, your blissful ignorance is over.

  Audra’s impromptu post-wedding transformation is most definitely a nightmare, but of the shitty waking variety.

  I don’t think Madeline was a dream, either. It sort of feels like one, though.

  But not a nightmare this time. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  I think.

  Fuck.

  After the cocktails, the making out by the ocean with fucking fiery abandon, there was something else.

  Not the hot, crazy, making sweet love on the beach kind of something else. Even after a day and night of drinking, I would sure as shit remember that kind of something else.

  This was more like the letting-myself-drift-off-in-the-sand-despite-the-certainty-of-hot-crazy-fucking kind of something else.

  Fuck.

  Madeline must’ve taken my clothing as revenge for…what? Fucking passing out on her? Jesus Christ. But it’s the only fucking explanation.

  Missing out on what could have been the best possible experience this pseudo-honeymoon had to offer is bad enough, but losing a half-decent clubbing outfit is making me reconsider this whole dumb trip.

  Maybe Madeline is still around. The nausea’s still coming in waves, and I have a headache brewing, but I’m still in good enough condition for making up for lost time with Madeline—if she’s into that idea.

  If she’s still around.

  If she really fucking exists.

  I mean, someone took my fucking clothes last night. I’d rather it be her than anyone else in Hawaii.

  I’m getting pretty damn close to the hotel now. I haven’t seen another soul yet, but I know it’s a goddamn fucking inevitability that I will.

  Maybe I can grab a towel from a supply closet before anyone notices that I’m walking around with my cock dangling in the open air.

  Before I even enter the hotel, I’m going to have to leave the comfortable sand beach and step onto the sweltering pavement.

  With my bare feet, that is.

  This is going to be fucking fun. Shit, here we go...

  I make that first step onto the asphalt. Yeah, that fucking stings, but I keep walking, swagger
ing, strutting even.

  Even if I don’t see Madeline again, there’s gotta be someone else here, or a few other someones to meet here. Honeymoon’s not over yet. And one look at what I’ve got to offer and surely they’ll be lining the fuck up.

  Not that anyone can compare to Madeline. Her face, now framed by her long hair and lit by the midday sun, is like a fucking vision, exuding an almost mythic beauty…

  Oh wait. Shit, she’s right there, standing just outside the entrance to the hotel lobby. Fuck.

  I notice there are several other people around as well, mostly doing their best to ignore me.

  Not Madeline, though. She stopped short on her way to wherever she was going in her faded denim shorts and off-the-shoulder t-shirt.

  “You made it back,” she observes, incredulous.

  She looks so fucking good.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I look down at my own body for the briefest moment, sending a hint to Madeline that I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, since I absolutely fucking don’t.

  I catch her scoping me out quickly, her eyes hastily traveling down…

  Shit, I’m in public, so I’ve got to keep things under control, even if it means ignoring where Madeline is focusing her sparkling, ravishing eyes, or I will be fucking arrested.

  “Of course you’d say that,” Madeline quips, her eyes wandering leisurely back up my frame. As crucial as it is for me to stay, uh, unenthused right now, she’s making it quite hard. Yeah. I know. Fucking puns.

  “Am I that predictable? Did you predict this show I’m giving you right now?”

  Madeline looks skyward in mock consideration.

  “Sort of. I figured there’d be some kind of drama.”

  “There is for me—I’m still running around one of the biggest resorts on Maui in my fucking Christmas suit.”

  “Christmas suit?” Madeline tries to stifle a laugh as she asks.

  “My birthday’s on Christmas.”

  Not true, and my game’s been way fucking better, but...damn, Madeline looks good. She even puts the natural Hawaiian scenery to shame.

  Of fucking course I’m not nervous, though. If I’m not nervous about standing by the entrance of a popular resort while completely exposed, I can handle talking to a hot woman.

  “I see. Maybe when December comes around, I’ll think about returning some of your clothes.”

  “So you did take them?”

  “Who else?” Madeline asks calmly.

  A woman with a red pixie haircut and a light chartreuse cardigan appears out of nowhere and takes a spot standing right next to Madeline.

  The pair stands, looking casually at what I have on display, as if it’s some mildly interesting sight that they’ll move on from in a few seconds.

  “This is Laura.” Madeline seems to be finished with the conversation. Laura’s still looking at me—or something in my general direction.

  “Laura, it’s great to meet you. Maybe someday I’ll meet you with clothes on.”

  “Maybe.” That one cryptic word is all Laura’s ready to say.

  “Do I really need to wait until December?” I plead with Madeline jokingly, hoping for a fresh start.

  “Maybe longer.”

  “Is there a way I could expedite the process? Maybe a way that would be fun for both of us?”

  Madeline sighs lightly. “We could start with a drink, I suppose.”

  Those sound like the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard, even more so than I do.

  Oh shit, is that going to be an issue? We did have the ceremony, after all. But it’s not like we signed a marriage license or anything.

  Besides, I don’t owe Audra fucking anything. It’s like our marriage, or attempt at marriage, never even happened.

  “Drinks it is,” I say to Madeline.

  Ethan

  After this morning’s initial flood-back of imperfect reality, my life as I know it continues to slowly seep back in. Seeing my honeymoon suite again really helps in bringing the ridiculous, confusing bullshit back home, but taking a nap that extends from the mid-morning through the late afternoon obliterates the extra hangover-ness of it all.

  Unlike the amnesiac-like reawakening of this morning, opening my eyes to the shafts of early Hawaiian sunset seeping through the blinds feels like a lucid continuation of...whatever the hell of I’m doing here.

  There’s fucking sand in my bed. I have to remember to flip that Do Not Disturb sign around so housekeeping comes―they should be fucking used to cleaning sand, but I plan to leave a big tip, anyway.

  So. Date. That’s coming up.

  How do I feel about that? Neutral, I guess, like it’s a working-vacation business meeting. An obligation I’m not thinking much about.

  “Madeline.” I have a habit of saying that out loud, post-sleep, while still lying on my back.

  That’s her name. I keep forgetting but keep remembering.

  I know I don’t really feel neutral about it, but I still don’t know what the fuck I feel.

  I get ready to meet Madeline like it’s a well-worn morning routine: half-conscious shower, semiconscious tooth-brushing and flossing, near-unconscious selection of a halfway acceptable outfit.

  Wait, no. What the fuck, Ethan? Way more casual than that. What would I be wearing a fucking tie for?

  Dark button-down, sleeves rolled up, tucked into dress slacks. Brown belt matching my shoes.

  I comb my hair in the full-length bedroom mirror. I need a fucking trim.

  I put on my wristwatch and look at it. No time to shave...what time are we supposed to meet again?

  I’ve taken part in ribbing coworkers for growing a vacation beard on their honeymoon. A honeymoon is no fucking place for that—at least I don’t think. Some beards look okay, some look like fucking shit...

  To be on the safe side, I take one more visit to the bathroom for a quick shave with my straight razor, and I break out the good aftershave lotion.

  Who the fuck are you trying to impress? I can hear Audra asking me that―she was there, right at my side, close enough to touch me ever so slightly, when I picked it up at the boutique. I see her tantalizing, off-center smile for a fleeting instant before it disappears, leaving behind a moment of light physical pain, like a soft kick to my gut.

  Fuck this shit, it’s time for my date.

  Sunset is still in progress when I get to the asphalt path leading back to the beach. The range of scarlet hues are giving way to the bluish tint of dusk, but the colors are still brilliant, near-overwhelming over the western horizon.

  Good thing there’s a narrow strip of pavement leading all the way to the beach bar. Last think I need is more sand all over the goddamn place.

  This bar isn’t much more than a canopied little counter in the middle of an uncrowded beach.

  There’s a scattering of cliché vacationers with shorts, sandals and daypacks surrounding the front and sides of the bar. Nobody’s swimming or surfing or sitting on the beach and watching the sunset.

  And there’s no Madeline.

  My first thought: there’s no date with Madeline. I’m remembering some drunken dream and fucking following it into reality.

  My second thought: the remaining rays of the sunset are sparkling perfectly off her features, which are just as dazzling when laid bare by her pulled-back hairdo.

  Fuck, here she is again, appearing out of the thin salty beach air.

  “I hope I’m not still dreaming,” is my less than smooth greeting. Why the fuck does this girl make me unable to function normally?

  I watch for Madeline’s reaction, her face now just a few inches from mine.

  I feel Madeline’s fingers grabbing a fleshy section of my forearm and squeezing. She maintains her gaze into my eyes as her pinch becomes painfully tight.

  The emerald of Madeline’s eyes makes her pinch feel like pure magic. I’m not sure if I want her to let go, but she finally does.

  “Any doubts left?” Madeline’s eyes reflect he
r laughter, but she doesn’t even start to smile.

  She looks so fucking hot.

  “Plenty.”

  I smile, but Madeline just stays cool. It drives me fucking crazy.

  How do I feel like this about someone I barely know, whose name I’ve only just learned?

  My go-to theory is that I’m dealing with fallout from my marriage in ways that I may never understand.

  But it doesn’t feel like that. Not at fucking all. It feels so, well…real.

  “Pinch me again,” I request, fighting a grin.

  Seriousness reenters Madeline’s eyes as she grazes her thumb and forefinger against my arm for the briefest moment. Then the sparkle comes back into her stare.

  I have to try not to laugh, not to smile. I can’t tell you the last time I was in that position. Maybe never.

  “I need a drink,” Madeline exclaims, just a bit awkwardly. It’s charming as shit.

  “Good news: there’s a bar not twenty feet from where we’re standing.”

  Shit, I can do better than that.

  But right now, I fucking can’t. I’m almost fucking stuttering.

  This is more than just fallout. I really hope it is.

  Either ignoring what I said or taking action on it, Madeline is already walking to the bar.

  She’s walking across the sand, her stylishly lopsided, tropical-print skirt swaying with her determined steps.

  I follow directly behind. The sand is crunching under my shoes, but I’ve never cared less about it.

  The bartender, an older guy who looks like he founded and built this entire resort himself, immediately gives Madeline his full attention when she squares up to the bar.

  I’m still behind her, and with her back to me, Madeline looks unapproachable somehow.

  I feel fucking sheepish, which is new territory―like everything else these past few days. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore.

  “Lava Lava,” Madeline dictates to the bartender. He turns around and gets to work.

  “Another drink I’ve never heard of. Is that like kava kava? I guess it does relax you.”

  That’s my speech while I slink onto the seat next to Madeline’s. I immediately start going through everything that’s wrong with it in my head. Madeline just kind of nods as the bartender starts running the blender.