Accidental Fiancé

by R. R. Banks

  “Definitely.”

  “And hey, don't get too down, Amanda,” she says. “Things will pick up again soon. I know they will.”

  “I hope so,” I reply. “Have fun tonight. Be safe.”

  “Love ya.”

  “Love you too.”

  I disconnect the call and stand there, trying to figure out what to do. Drinking myself blind is out – I just don't have the money for it. So, I decide to drown my sorrows in a big piece of chocolate cake. Molino's is a bakery near my apartment and has the best sweet treats in all of Texas. Maybe even in the entire world. So, I turn around and head back the way I came. The entire day has sucked, so I might as well eat my weight in chocolate cake and watch some trashy TV.

  Since I'm going to be out on the street in a couple of days, I might as well enjoy my place with the time I have left.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wake up on the living room floor the next morning looking like I'd gone on a bender the night before. I suppose I did. Except that my bender included a giant piece of double chocolate-chocolate chip cake and a custard filled eclair. The TV was still on with an infomercial for some hair replacement therapy playing at an obscene volume.

  Grabbing the remote, I turn the TV off and get to my feet. My hair is sticking out in a thousand different directions, my breath smells like raw sewage, I'm sure, and I feel like I need to take a scalding hot shower to melt the crud off of me. I'm afraid to look in the mirror though – I have the overwhelming fear that I'm going to find chocolate smeared all over my face.

  “At least I'm not hungover,” I mutter to myself.

  I grab my phone out of my bag and see that I have half a dozen missed calls – all from the number Brady Keating had called me from.

  “Doesn't this guy ever take a goddamn hint?” I mutter.

  I turn off my phone and jump when there is a loud knocking at the door. I look from my phone to the door and feel a surge of anger. No way. He couldn't know where I live. And he wouldn't have the balls to show up at my door – would he?

  Of course, he would. He had the balls to not just dig up my phone number, but call me as well. Half a dozen times since the sun came up this morning, in fact.

  I can't believe the nerve on this guy. Seriously. My blood is up and I'm ready to beat him to a pulp as I storm across the living room and down the short hallway to the front door. I drop my phone on the small table and practically rip the door off the hinges as I open it.

  “You have got a lot –”

  My voice dies in my throat when I see that it's not in fact, Brady Keating darkening my doorstep, but my landlord Roger. And he's standing there with a look of annoyance on his face and a piece of paper in his hand – which can only mean one thing.

  The tide of anger that had welled up within me quickly ebbs away and is replaced by an overwhelming wave of fear. It comes crashing down and pulls me under, leaving me a trembling, fearful mess.

  “I still have one more day,” I say quickly. “You gave me two days. I have until tomorr –”

  Roger holds up his hand. “You can stop talking now.”

  I open my mouth to speak again and then quickly close it. I look at the paper he's holding, but it's folded, so I have no idea what it is. Though I'm relatively certain it's an eviction notice. What else could it be?

  “Roger, please,” I plead. “Just give me a little more time. I have a few solid leads on a job and –”

  I stop talking when he crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares me down, the annoyance in his face deepening. I stand there, my stomach in knots, my head hurting, and still not knowing whether or not I have chocolate smeared all over my face like some gluttonous pig.

  “Are you done?” he asks.

  I nod quickly even though it takes a monumental effort to keep myself from speaking.

  “Good,” he says. “Because what I was going to tell you is that I have some good news for you.”

  I raise my eyes and look at him questioningly. Good news? It seems like it's been forever since I've heard good news that I'm totally unfamiliar with the concept.

  “You're going to give me a little extra time to get the rent together?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “But your rent has been paid up for the next twelve months.”

  I understand the words that came out of his mouth, but I don't really comprehend what he's saying. My rent is paid for the next twelve months? I'm not sure what he means by that. He looks at me as I struggle with comprehending it all and looks irritated. He rolls his eyes and shoves the piece of paper into my hand. I unfold it and look at it – my eyes widening when I see it's a receipt for twelve months worth of rent.

  I look up at him, not understanding how this is even possible.

  “You have a guardian angel, Amanda,” he says.

  I shake my head, trying to wrap my head around it all. A guardian angel? Who in the – and just as the question enters my mind, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have a feeling I know exactly who my mysterious benefactor is.

  “Who was it?” I ask, my tone dark and grim. “Who is this guardian angel?”

  “Somebody who obviously likes you well enough to not want to see you on the street,” he replies.

  “Who, Roger?” I demand.

  “Anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  I sigh. “Roger, who? Who was it?”

  He looks at me more irritated than ever. “Said his name is Brady,” he replies, his tone curt. “But he could call himself George Washington for all I care so long as his check clears.”

  I feel like I'm about to puke. I feared as much. I shake my head and try to get myself under control.

  “You have to give the check back,” I say.

  “The hell I do.”

  “Roger,” I say. “I cannot accept his – charity.”

  “Like hell you can't,” he says. “Way I see things, you don't got much of a choice. You don't take it, you're out on the streets.”

  “Then I'd rather be out on the streets.”

  He shakes his head. “I don't get you, girl,” he says. “Some fella comes along and gives you the answer to your problems and you wanna just throw it away?”

  “It's – complicated.”

  “Don't seem that complicated to me,” he says. “You need money. You got money. You get to keep a roof over your head. End of story.”

  “It's not that simple.”

  “It is to me,” Roger replies. “I ain't returning the check. Whether you decided to move out or not is up to you. Either way, this place is yours for the next twelve months.”

  He turns and walks away without another word. Feeling my nausea rising, I run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up. I flush the toilet and then stand up, turn on the sink and look myself in the mirror for the first time.

  The reflection I see staring back at me is a hot mess – and covered in smeared chocolate.

  “Yeah, you're a real winner,” I mutter.

  I rinse my mouth out and then brush my teeth. Turning on the shower, I strip down and climb in, letting the hot water rain down over me. My mind is still swirling and my heart is still thumping. I let the steam fill the room and breathe it in deeply, letting it clear me out. As the water works its way into my skin and muscles, I feel my head begin to clear and I'm able to focus my thoughts a little better.

  I cannot believe that Brady paid my rent for the next year. On the one hand, it's great. It gives me time to find a job. It gives me some security. I won't have to worry about being homeless for a while. On the other hand, it's horrible. Because I know it's not a gesture that comes without strings. Brady doesn't strike me as an altruistic man and I know that he's going to want something in return for such a generous – and expensive – favor.

  And it's what he might want in return that scares me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I throw on a nice outfit and do what I've done everyday since I got fired �
� I'm going to hit the bricks, knock on doors, and find a job. I have no idea how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to pay Brady back. Every damn cent of it.

  I don't like being indebted to people – least of all, somebody like him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brady

  I check my watch and lean against the car outside of Amanda's apartment, waiting for her to come down. By now, she has to know that I paid her rent for the next year. I did it as a way of apologizing for getting her fired, of course – even though, I didn't really. If she hadn't been on thin ice to begin with, she wouldn't have gotten canned.

  But I did it more as a way to get her attention. I really think that we can help each other and benefit from having a business relationship. I just need to make her see that, which is going to be no small feat. The girl is one of the angriest people I've ever met. She walks around with a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas itself.

  But, I have to try. I have to find a way to make this work. I need the help, she needs the help, and we can both help each other. This is a good thing.

  I've had a private investigator doing some background work and also tailing her for the last week or so, so I know her routine pretty well. Yeah, it might be a little creepy, but if I want to make my pitch to her, it'll be easier to do if I know where to find her – because I have a feeling, I'm going to have to make the pitch several times. And if there's one lesson I did learn from my father, it's that persistence pays off.

  Okay, this probably isn't the way he intended that lesson, but I'm going with it anyway.

  “Well, good morning, Amanda,” I say as she comes out of her building.

  “You know, there's cheaper ways to get a girl to talk to you,” she says.

  I give her a slow smile. “Probably so,” I say. “But I don't want to talk to just any old girl.”

  In dark slacks, a white button-down shirt, and black jacket, she looks every inch the professional. I can tell from where I am though, that her outfit is well worn. It's definitely not new and it's most definitely off-the-rack finds rather than anything name brand. Probably things she found on sale at a discount store.

  With her red hair tied back in a ponytail that reaches the middle of her back, skin the color of alabaster, and eyes that sparkle like polished jade, she's a striking girl. She's trim, but athletic. She's got an hourglass figure and I can tell that she works out. She's a beautiful woman – though most wouldn't define her as classic, or Hollywood beautiful.

  She's not my usual type – which is probably a good thing for what I am going to propose – but I find that women are like exquisite pieces of art and can appreciate their own unique beauty all the same.

  She looks like she wants to run, but instead turns to me with genuine fury in her eyes. Her chin up and head back, she marches over to me, her scuffed and worn heels click-clacking on the pavement.

  “How in the hell do you know where I live, anyway?” she snaps. “Are you following me?”

  I shrug. “No, I paid somebody to follow you.”

  She looks at me with disbelief in her eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Well – yeah,” I say. “I needed to vet you.”

  “Vet me?”

  I nod. “I have a proposition to make and I just wanted to check you out a bit,” I say. “It's just smart business.”

  The look on her face is one that is both incredulous and exasperated at the same time. “I can't believe you,” she says. “You invasive, creepy, son of a –”

  “I didn't dig too deeply, darlin'. I didn't want to be too invasive,” I say. “I just wanted to know if you had a criminal background or anything. The good news is, you came back squeaky clean. Like I said, it's just smart business.”

  “Gee, that's great,” she says. “I'm ever so glad to hear that.”

  “It's also how I knew you were in trouble with your landlord,” I say. “It's why I wanted to help on that front. To hopefully, sort of make up for – what happened the last time we saw each other.”

  “You mean, the day you got me fired,” she says – a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah, that,” I say slowly. “I feel bad about it and wanted to try to make it up to you.”

  She looks at the ground and sighs. I can tell she's not happy, but she also knows she's caught between a rock and a hard place. Finally, she looks back up and gives me a tight smile – one I can tell is very far from genuine.

  “I suppose I should thank you for that,” she said, her tone icy.

  “Well, it's traditional when somebody does something nice for you,” I reply, grinning. “At least, down here in Texas.”

  She looks angry, like she's about to unload on me. If she had a gun, she might not hesitate to put a round or two in me. It's amusing. She looks at the ground and sighs and I swear that she's counting to ten. Finally, she looks back up at me, her eyes dark with anger and suspicion.

  “Thank you,” she says, trying to actually sound thankful – and failing. “I appreciate your generosity. Just know that I will pay back every dime of this when I get back on my feet.”

  I wave her off. “Don't worry about it, darlin'. It was my pleasure.”

  Her eyes narrow and she looks at me like she wants to murder me even more than she did just two minutes ago. And I'm not entirely sure what has her so riled up.

  “While I appreciate the very generous gesture,” she says through gritted teeth. “I will pay you back. And please, do not refer to me as darlin'. It's demeaning.”

  I nod, finally understanding. “I'm sorry about that,” I say. “It's a Texas thing. I don't mean anything by it.”

  “All the same, please stop calling me that,” her voice is tight.

  I nod. “Noted,” I say. “As for the rent thing, consider that my way of trying to make it up for getting you fired. I know I played a role in that –”

  “No,” she says and sighs. “That's on me. It's my fault. If I hadn't lost my temper – well, I did. No sense dwelling on it now.”

  I see the pain flash through her eyes, but then it's gone in the next heartbeat. In that moment though, I realize that Amanda isn't a woman who likes to be thought of as weak. Unable to care for herself. She's wrapped so much of her self-image in her need to stand on her own two feet that she blinds herself to a lot of other things.

  And then I grin to myself, shaking my head as Thomas' words float through my mind.

  “Is something funny?” she asks.

  “I was just realizing how similar we are, you and I.”

  “Similar?” she scoffs. “Given the fact that you've got a mansion and a car with a driver and I have to rely on – you – to keep a roof over my head, forgive me if I'm not seeing the similarities.”

  “I only mean that you have a hard time asking for help,” I say. “Or accepting it when it's offered. We're a lot alike in that way.”

  A bitter little grin touches her mouth. “Given who you are, I also have a hard time believing you need a lot of help.”

  “You might be surprised,” I say. “Where are you from? Originally, I mean. You're obviously not from Texas.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, her arms crossed over her chest. The look in her eye is one of skepticism and suspicion. It's like she's debating with herself just how much personal information to give me.

  “San Francisco,” she finally says.

  “Ah, a California girl.”

  “Oh, you know a little geography, good for you,” she says. “Apparently, those private tutors worked out well for you.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You know, you're pricklier than a porcupine,” I say. “Makes it hard for somebody to get to know you.”

  “I don't want you to get to know me,” she snaps. “I want you to leave me alone.”

  “But you haven't even heard my business proposal yet.”

  “We have no business together, Mr. Keating,” she growls.

  I shrug. “Well, not yet,” he says. “But if you hear me out, I think –”


  “No, I don't want to hear you out,” she says. “My life is in ruins right now and I need to figure out how to put it all back together.”

  I slip my hands into my pockets and try to give her a reassuring look. “And I think that's where I can help you,” I say. “And you can help me.”

  Her expression is one of a woman who just had a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. And I can't tell whether she's going to hear me out or scratch my eyes out. I'm coming to realize that's just part of her charm.

  “Look, I appreciate what you did for me. I really do,” she says. “But I really don't want anything else to do with you. I'll get you your money back as soon as I'm back on my feet. Now, if you don't mind, I really need to go.”

  Without waiting for me to reply, she turns on her heel and marches swiftly down the street. I shake my head and sigh. This girl is going to be one tough nut to crack. But I'm a Texan and we're as stubborn as the day is long. And we don't give up that easily.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amanda

  I sit in my apartment stewing. It's been two days since Brady saved my ass and kept me from being homeless. Two days of stewing about it, two days of filling out applications, and two days of not getting a phone call for a single interview. Not one.

  As I sit there stewing about it, a dark and oppressive feeling settles down over me. Depression. No doubt, that's what my old therapist would have said – right before she prescribed me a dozen different pills to fight it off. That's one reason therapy doesn't work for me. The last thing I want to do is walk around in a drugged-out haze feeling like a zombie. That's not how I want to spend my life.

  I take a deep breath and let it out again, trying to focus on the positives in my life right now. Of course, it doesn't take long to count them. I don't have to worry about not having a roof over my head – because of Brady Keating.

  Knowing that I'm not sleeping behind some dumpster in an alley only because of that man makes my blood boil. He's an insufferable prick and I hate the fact that I am indebted to him. Just seeing his face and hearing that slow Texas drawl of his makes me want to scream – and punch something.