by Vesper Young
“How about a driver’s license?”
She shook her head. “I have a metro card.”
“That won’t count for ID.”
So that was where the jet came in.
Mindy, as it happened, had also never flown. I expected some nervousness. Personally, I found flights relaxing, but she reacted with exuberance. It was early in the morning, the first rays just slowly dripping over the horizon.
“This is awesome,” she exclaimed once the plane began its ascent.
Her face was glued to the window even though we were still just on the tarmac.
I walked over to her side, just in case there was something different up close. Same black pavement that was always there.
My eyes caught on her broad grin. It was absolutely delighted. Her cheeks stretched wide, with small little smile lines denting her face and the scrunching of her eyes that was utterly unselfconscious in its joy. I couldn’t look away.
After a while, the jet leveled out and she turned towards around, startled to find me so close. From this angle, I could almost imagine her chest was heaving slightly in excitement to be near me rather than just surprise.
I debated backing up, but I rather enjoyed that thought.
We stayed like that for a moment as if frozen. She blinked first, shifting back in her seat. I followed and sat in the one next to hers.
Not that there were many spots to sit. Eight seats in total, arranged in pairs to form a square. The back section of the jet had a decent wash closet and bar, fully stocked even though we were closer to five a.m. than p.m. The whole area was beige with the only spots of color being the red velvet covers of the seats. And, of course, as the epitome of wealth, there were golden accents everywhere. But did they have to be so ostentatious and glittery?
I debated letting the man who lent me the jet borrow my interior decorator as a thank you.
“This plane is gorgeous,” Mindy remarked and I stifled a laugh. Of course, she would love it in all its glory.
“If you hadn’t made me sign the prenup, I’d take this in the divorce,” she teased.
“Sorry to disappoint, but its a loaner.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I must be a fool, marrying a man who doesn’t own a private jet.”
“I could buy one, it’s just not practical,” I clarified.
“Someone’s defensive.” She patted my arm. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you could, my little sugar plum.”
“Sugarplum? I thought we were over the nicknames.”
“But I thought you wanted me to really sell it. You can’t sell a marriage without pet names, Dolly-Wolly.”
“That’s even worse. And you can,” I insisted. “No one would believe I’d go by such ridiculous names anyway.”
She snorted. “No one would believe you could stop working long enough to get married. We just have to show them how wrong they are.”
I glanced at the ring on her finger. Married. Or soon to be, anyway. Once we landed, we’d head to wherever my lawyer had arranged for us to get the papers signed and officiated.
“Back to the jet,” I said. “I really could buy one. But it’s not a practical use of resources. Commercial is sufficient since at the moment most of our business is within the tri-state area.”
“I guess you wouldn’t take it for vacation either?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Guess so.”
She knew I never took days off and I knew she didn’t either. Even the four days I was missing for this felt excessive. Realistically, I could put a few hours in tonight but we had to have some form of a honeymoon to sell it.
At least it would give us time to move her in with me.
“Do you like your ring?” I asked. I was curious. I’d gone into the jewelry store and told the man to give me whatever thirty large would buy. At least when it was over, it would have some resale value.
She looked down at her hand, fingers flexed.
“It’s, um, nice.”
“Nice?”
“A bit much, don’t you think?”
I did, but it was a statement. Deacon Blake could provide for his wife and would be dedicated to her and his company. Stage dressing.
“What would you have chosen?” I asked. Maybe she just didn’t like the shape.
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“How about wedding rings?”
She looked at her hand again. “Something simple. Matching. Just a band. What about you?”
I’d never given much thought to it. “Something simple sounds nice. Tell you what, you can pick them out.”
Her head snapped to me. “Really?”
“Sure. The movers will come tomorrow and afterward there won’t be much to do. We have to do something together, right? It is our honeymoon.”
She flushed and I realized she’d taken it in a way I hadn’t meant. I debated correcting it, but a swell of masculine satisfaction hit me when I saw her reaction.
She turned back towards the window and I went into my own thoughts about the day. They were, predictably, filled with the woman next to me.
Four hours later we were married.
***
It was silly to drop Mindy off at her apartment rather than just start sleeping in mine, but she asked for one last night of her own and, objectively, there wasn’t any actual harm in letting her. No one knew we were married yet, after all.
Frankly, I wasn’t sure where to put her. My room had closet space and a Californian king bed. Even if we both slept there, we could have several feet between us. If anyone visited, it would be odd to have her somewhere else.
Conversely, there was an office space she could use for her sewing. She liked sewing, I recalled. It would be nothing to discretely add a stowaway cot.
What husband, even a fake one, let his wife sleep on a cot?
The next morning she arrived, the movers a few minutes after.
She looked exhausted. Then again, I’d noticed she wasn’t much of a morning person. I would’ve thought her outfit would wake her up: orange sweater, navy slacks, white shirt and a ribbon holding her hair back.
“Coffee pods are in the kitchen,” I said in greeting.
She nodded gratefully, then looked around.
I led her into the apartment.
There weren’t many options, beyond my favorite brand. But then again, it was considered the best on the market so that wasn’t such a bad thing.
I handed her a mug and she got two packets of Splenda.
A second later, a piping hot coffee came out and she added them. Then she handed the cup to me.
I looked at it.
She looked at me. Then at the mug.
“Oh. Right.”
I laughed. The comical realization written on her face was better than anything money could buy.
“Old habits,” she said lightly before setting about to make another cup.
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the movers. I’d hired a crew of ten, though I imagined it was overkill given the meager contents of the apartment.
It took all of two hours to move her furniture and other possessions in. Her clothing went in closets in my room, which she didn’t comment on. Her hobby equipment, a sewing basket and box of scraps, in the other room. Past that was the bedframe, mattress, and a beat-up laundry basket full of miscellaneous supplies, which I offered to store for her.
Once they left, it was just the two of us. Factually, I knew my apartment was huge. I hadn’t spent much time in it, truthfully, beyond using it as a bed, shower, and on ambitious days—which most were—a gym, which was down the hall.
“Would you like the grand tour?” I asked.
We made our way through. I tried to imagine what it looked like to her. There wasn’t much furniture beyond what my decorator had deemed appropriate and essential. I didn’t care one way or the other as long as it met my needs, but Mindy was politely curious about each room. Then again, this was where she would re
side as well.
I carefully omitted the bedroom, leaving the question of sleeping arrangements. She’d seen the room when they moved her clothes in, anyway.
“Hey, would you mind if I used your shower briefly? Last night was hot and I’m a bit gross,” she confessed.
I hadn’t noticed. I kept the apartment at a moderate sixty-seven degrees year-round. “Not at all. It’s your shower too, now. Linens are in the closet next door.” I gestured back the way we’d come, to the bathroom.
An odd look came over her face. She didn’t say anything, however, just went the way I pointed.
I made my way to the living room. The apartment was silent, as it was still somewhat early. It felt odd to not have to go to the office on a weekday. My body itched to move, get going, and put some hours in, but I couldn’t.
A moment later I heard the faint sound of the shower running. Huh. I hadn’t realized I’d be able to hear her across the hall.
This was, I supposed, what living with someone else would be like. I’d told her it was hers, too. She was here.
She was here, naked in the shower, came the unbidden thought.
I shook my head. I’d told her there wouldn’t be a physical component and I meant it. I couldn’t risk her being uncomfortable and unconsciously giving away the fact we were not, in fact, happy newly weds. As it was, she’d relaxed some around me. She was, perhaps, the only person I could see living with for six months and putting on this act with.
I wondered how messed up it was that I could imagine a fake marriage with anyone, let alone my former secretary.
Who was now naked in the shower.
Nope, Deacon, power through it, I chastised myself. Do something else. Be productive.
That was what I did, after all. Work. There was always something that needed to be done around the office. The issue people have is when they don’t see what needs to be done. They’ve answered all their emails so they don’t send new ones to prospective clients. They attend the dinner party they’re invited to, but they don’t throw their own one.
I thought back on that. A dinner party, to announce our marriage. Was it too overt? We’d eloped, after all. No one knew Mindy. They should. They’d probably like her, love her even. I’d need to arrange that shortly.
Of course, to do that, we’d need rings. Which reminded me of the conversation I had yesterday morning with my wife.
I’d gotten used to having Mindy tend to any day-to-day errands I needed. Her efficiency was beyond reproach. I’d fired many before her for a lack. Of course, now I couldn’t do that. Thankfully, I wasn’t exactly left to the wild west of doing my own menial tasks.
I called down to the front desk and told them what I wanted. They assured me it would be taken care of within the hour.
Mindy 16
I stepped out of the most amazing shower I’d ever been in and dried off with an unexpectedly fluffy towel. Who knew a shower could have so many bells and whistles? I mean, obviously my leaky, low-pressure shower that had opted not to work this morning wasn’t at the forefront of innovation, but wow. I eyed my clothing on the floor. I’d grabbed whatever I could and shoved the rest in boxes Deacon sent over. Packing had been a mess and I was sweaty. I kind of wanted fresh clothing, but it would require getting to the bedroom closets.
I wrapped the towel around myself. The bedroom wasn’t far. Just slip in, change, and deal with whatever came after I was in clean—coordinated—clothing.
I needed a second to reorient myself once I exited. I’d been surprised Deacon lived in an apartment since he was so wealthy. I figured he’d have a mansion, not a city dwelling. Apparently, if you had enough money, the two weren’t mutually exclusive.
And I would be here for the next six months. I’d be a miracle if I didn’t get lost.
I tiptoed out, one hand clutched around the towel closing and the other on my laundry. Which reminded me—where was I supposed to put my laundry?
Chill, girl, one thing at a time.
I started walking, figuring I had a fifty-fifty of remembering the right way to the bedroom. Was it around this corner?
Thud!
I walked into a wall and lost my balance, dropping my hands and flailing.
The wall caught me.
I blinked. The wall was six foot two and apparently had a rock-hard chest because ouch.
“We really must stop meeting like this,” he teased.
“We must,” I loftily agreed.
He glanced down and I followed his gaze. Right. Towel. Shower. Crap. Said towel had loosened slightly, though it still clung to my body.
I blushed.
Deacon cleared his throat. This close, it was a physical thing I felt as his chest rumbled. He discreetly turned his head to the side. Then, quickly, to the other side.
I was confused until I looked at his initial direction and saw when my laundry fell, my underclothes had apparently made a very overt landing.
I refastened the towel and wiggled slightly to indicate I had my balance, then hurriedly bent to pick up the offending articles.
A quick once-over revealed I was as decent as I could get in a towel.
“Which way is the bedroom?” I asked.
He gave me a surprised look. Then smirked. “The couch is closer.” His voice was a silky purr.
My eyes widened. “Deacon! I need to change.”
He laughed. “Oh, that. This way.”
He started off the way I’d come and I followed. He’d thought I was, what, propositioning him? Or had he thought I was joking and joked back?
He led me back to the bedroom. It was huge, brown hues all around with a massive four-poster bed. There was even a massive walk-in closet, which was where my meager clothing now resided. Deacon’s suits and shoes and ties and shirts and whatever else a sexy forty-something business executive wore filled the other side.
“I’ll leave you to it, unless you want company,” he said.
Okay, he was definitely teasing me. The twinkle in his eye definitely did not send little flutters down into my stomach that made me stammer a quick “Thanks, but no thanks, Dolly-Wolly” and shut myself in the closet, which in turn shut off the lights so I had to open it before he left the room which made him look at me in a way that does not think wow, this woman is witty and suave. Which was normal because I was neither of those things and why did it matter what he thought? This was just business to him. Flirtatious business.
“Meet me in the living room after.”
The thought occurred to me that maybe that was just how he was. He’d taken plenty of young female bosses in their own right out to dinner to wine and dine them before signing them on. Maybe it just bled into our interactions, too. There was nothing else behind it.
I picked out a simple outfit, my one pair of yoga pants for lounging and a heather grey t-shirt, figuring we wouldn’t be going anywhere.
I made my way back to the living room without any further mishaps. I saw the grey couch first and gave it a dirty look. Bedroom or couch, my foot. I resolved to ignore any further meaningless flirting. Not that I’d ever been inclined to listen to it, but it didn’t hurt to make a note of it.
I took in the rest of the room and realized it was no longer just Deacon. Perpendicular to the couch was a man standing behind a large, collapsible table fully of shiny things. Rings. He had rings, I realized.
I shot Deacon a confused look. When I’d left, there had not been any impromptu bazaar set up in the living room.
I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Mindy Killip.”
“Blake,” Deacon corrected.
He turned to the man. “This is why we need rings. So she remembers her new name.”
“Right. I’m Mindy… Blake.” It tasted strange on my tongue. Different. Not bad, though.
The man behind the table gave an utterly understanding nod. It was the type of nod salespeople give you when they really, really want you to spend money and will agree the sky is red if it means you’ll buy the awful leathe
r skirt that gives them ten percent on commission. The rest of him seemed quite homely. A crown of white hair, plump cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye to match the wares, though it could have been a dollar sign.
“Of course, Mrs. Blake. I’m Roland Andrews. Been in the wedding business decades, family shop and all. Happens all the time!”
We shook. “Nice to meet you.”
Deacon moved by me.
“So, what do you like?” he asked.
I looked down. There were about six rows of a dozen rings. Some were the traditional gold bands, while some were bedazzled in a way that put my engagement ring to shame. And everything in between.
Well, we only needed something functional. Not that I really liked gold, but it would do.
“How much?” I asked, pointing to the plainest option.
Deacon grabbed my hand, causing me to turn towards him.
“Babe, pick what you like best. The price doesn’t matter.” He turned back to Mr. Andrews. “And he wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
The jeweler nodded in effusive agreement.
I wasn’t sure if the gesture was sweet or insulting. I cupped his face in my free hand. His stubble rubbed against my palm, the heat of his cheek pulling me closer as I leaned in.
“Oh, do you mean it, my prickly pear cactus? Whatever I want?”
I suspected he wanted to pry my hand off at the name, but we had an audience, so he played along.
“Of course, Mindycakes. I know you love your sparklies.”
His hand went down my arm to my hand. He pulled it up and kissed the giant diamond on my engagement ring. His breath caressed my hand while he gazed at me from under his lashes. Even though the movement was utterly facetious—and I would have to draw the line at Mindycakes if he was sticking with babe—something in me did a somersault.
I pulled back and went back to perusing the rings.
The gold may have been just a bit too typical, but in reality, it wasn’t that far off the mark in terms of style. Despite my questionable taste in other apparel-related areas, I felt a wedding ring should be simple. Classic.
Not covered in rubies that formed a sine wave.
I inched toward another pair. They were at the opposite end. It was a silver pair, though they had an unusual sparkle. I picked one up. There was a small etching around them that gave a discrete flair.