“Who?”
He rolls his eyes, looking at me like I’m denser than lead. “The physio, dickhead. What did she say when you proposed to her?”
“Her name is Naomi.”
Joel takes another sigh, staring up at the ceiling as if he’s praying for patience. “Fine. Well what did Naomi say when you fucking proposed to her.”
I’m kind of enjoying pushing his buttons. I know he just wants the best for me, and he’s being a good friend, but my head is a mess and seeing Joel get frustrated over something simple is the most entertainment I’ve had all day.
“She said she’d think about it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
We’re silent for a while. Joel groans as he pushes himself up, reappearing with two cans of beer. He hands me one, grinning.
“I didn’t shake this one up, I promise.”
“What happened to ‘never drinking again’?”
“I reconsidered.”
I glance at my watch. “I guess it’s after twelve, so we can drink now.”
“I don’t care what time it is, I need a drink to take the edge off this hangover.”
“You know all that does is prolong the hangover, right?”
Instead of answering, he just cracks open the beer. I chuckle and do the same. When the cold beer hits my tongue, I close my eyes and lean back.
“So,” Joel starts. “Basically, you’re fucked. You have to pretend to be engaged to Naomi in order to keep your job and your inheritance. When and if your parents find out that the engagement is all fake, they’ll cut you off anyway.” He holds up the beer. “Your fake engagement is just like having a beer to cure a hangover.”
“Or, they’ll never find out.”
“What’s your end game, here? Leave her at the altar?”
Ouch.
“Look, your past with women hasn’t exactly been perfect either.”
“We’re not talking about me right now,” Joel grins. “I’m not trying to be a dick here. I know why you asked her. But it just seems like maybe it would be a better idea to just talk to your parents?”
“Have you met my parents?”
Joel laughs. “Fair point,” he says. “They’re almost as bad as mine.”
“The ‘girls from the club’ were calling my mom all morning.”
Joel groans. “My mom was probably the first one on the phone to her.”
“It’s a miracle we turned out normal.”
“Are we normal?” Joel laughs. “You’re considering fake-marrying your physio just so your parents don’t cut you out of your inheritance and job. That doesn’t exactly seem normal.”
“Shut up, Joel.”
Joel just laughs and fumbles for the remote. He flicks the TV on and finds the sports channel. “Football’s about to start. Text Connor and Graham, tell them to bring some food.”
“Alright.”
For now, at least, I can think about football and I can forget about Naomi, my parents, weddings—all of it. Or at least, I think I can forget about it, until my college ex-girlfriend’s face pops up on the screen.
“And newly engaged couple, Farrah Harris and the New York Giants Quarterback, Elijah Matthews. Congratulations to the happy couple.”
I groan. Joel glances at me, then back at the screen.
“Well, at least she got the husband she wanted,” I say bitterly.
“What a fucking gold digger,” Joel spits. He was there when she left me the day after my injury, and she saw her chase after the next star quarterback. Looks like she’s made it all the way to the top. I reach down towards my knee, massaging the sore tissue as I stare at her smiling face.
It feels like she’s smiling at me, spiting me through the television.
Joel reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Look at the bright side, Max. At least you’re engaged now, too.”
I punch his arm and he yelps as he laughs, throwing his hands up. I can’t help but grin with him, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Farrah’s face disappears from the screen.
This week, I just can’t get away from weddings, engagements, women, and heartbreak.
Chapter 10 - Naomi
The drive to my mom’s house is a blur. It’s a good thing I’ve travelled this route hundreds of times, because I don’t remember any part of my drive here. When I pull in to her driveway, I turn off the car and rest my head on the top of the steering wheel. I take a deep breath to try to clear my head.
Max’s words are still swirling around my head.
He wants to marry me?
I mean, he doesn’t really want to marry me. He wants to tell his parents that he’s marrying me, which isn’t the same thing. Does that sting? Am I offended by that?
I don’t even know how I feel.
My mom’s house is small and tidy, and it looks exactly the same as last week. Or does it?
For the first time, I notice the paint peeling on the side of the house. The roof looks worn, and the planters aren’t bursting with plants like they used to. I get out of my car and take a deep breath of fresh, country air before heading up the flagstones towards the front door.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, crossing my arms and burying my chin into my chest. Winter is definitely on its way.
There are weeds poking up between the stones which makes me frown. Usually, Mom would have her garden looking immaculate, even in the fall.
When I get to the front door, something doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m seeing the house for the first time—the worn paint, the creaky steps, the weeds. I look in the mailbox and pull out a stack of letters.
My heart drops when I flick through them. A big, red stamp with the word ‘FORECLOSURE NOTICE’ is plastered across one of the letters. My eyes widen, and the blood starts pumping in my ears.
“Mom?”
I knock on the door before opening it, calling out again as I step through.
“In here, honey!” My mom calls from the kitchen. The smell of warm, home cooking wafts through the familiar hallways as I make my way towards the back of the house.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I lay a kiss on her cheek. She’s wearing a white apron with little yellow flowers on it, using an old wooden spoon to stir a pot of pasta sauce.
“Hi, honey,” she says with a smile. “You’re here later than usual this week.”
“I had to make a stop on the way,” I say vaguely, dropping the stack of mail on the kitchen table.
“Oh yeah?” She says, poking her head in the fridge.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, picking up the foreclosure letter. “What’s this about?”
Her long, grey-streaked hair is tied back in a braid down her back. She turns towards me, looking over her glasses towards me. Her lips pinch together and she straightens up, grabbing the letter and stuffing it in her apron pocket.
“Mom,” I start.
“It’s nothing.”
“What’s going on?”
“Everything is fine, honey. Don’t worry about a thing. Dinner’s ready, will you grab the plates?”
“Mom, I’m not letting this go.”
My mother turns her back to me and leans her hands on the counter, dropping her head to her chest. Her shoulders look slight as she takes a deep breath. She turns to me slowly, wringing her hands and staring at the ground. She takes another deep breath, finally dragging her eyes back up to mine.
“I missed a couple payments.”
“Why? Do you need money? I can help you, Mom.”
She shakes her head. Her eyes fill with tears.
“I have breast cancer.”
My stomach drops. The room spins. I stumble backwards, grabbing for a chair and sinking into it. My mother comes to me, wrapping her arms around my head and hushing me, cooing and making comforting noises as she strokes my hair.
“It’s okay, Naomi. It’s okay, shh,” she says.
“You shouldn’t be comforting me, Mom,” I
say, pulling away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I didn’t want you to worry, Naomi. I know that you worry, and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew more.”
“And the foreclosure…?”
She takes a deep breath, sitting down in the chair next to mine and putting her hand over mine. Just like the house, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. Her skin is papery-thin, and her face is drawn. Her green eyes don’t seem as bright as they used to be. They’re almost yellow. She looks so, so tired.
“I remortgaged the house to pay for the treatments,” she explains. “I had to get rid of my health insurance, you know. And business has been slow lately, so I haven’t been able to pay the bank back.”
If my mother is saying ‘business is slow’, that means business is non-existent. I grew up watching her paint huge canvasses, selling her work and sustaining us with her art.
But these days, people just don’t seem to be buying paintings anymore. I’ve watched her do odd jobs to make ends meet, always being resourceful, and always refusing my help.
“Mom,” I say, as my heart breaks. Tears gather in my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks. My mom’s eyes mist up and she brushes her frail thumb across my cheek.
“Don’t worry, honey, it’ll all be fine.”
“How do you know that?”
She sighs, looking over at the pot of bubbling sauce. She heaves herself up and walks over to the pot, stirring it slowly.
“Grab some plates, Naomi. Let’s eat.”
We put everything aside and eat together. I tell her about work, avoiding anything relating to Max Westbrook. I focus on her, checking that she has enough groceries and supplies for the week. My heart breaks every time I see her labored movements, and I hold back all the comments and questions that flood through me.
By the time dinner is over, she hugs me again with the strength that only a mother has. She kisses my cheek and looks into my eyes.
“Don’t worry about me, Naomi.”
“Let me help you, Mom. I don’t want to lose the house.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath, nodding her chin down slightly. “Thank you, Mimi.”
With another hug, she lets me go. I climb back into my car, watching her silhouette wave at me in the doorway. She closes the door and I turn on the car. I only make it around the corner when I have to pull over. I break down. The tears flow down my cheeks and drip off my chin until my pants are soaked and I’m a blubbering, sniffling mess. I get a little packet of tissues out of my bag and clean myself up, and then take my phone in trembling hands.
I find the napkin with Max’s number on it, and type it in to my phone. As soon as I send the message, I know that my life is going to change forever. Three little words that will shape my future:
I’ll do it.
Chapter 11 - Max
I pace back and forth across my living room, checking the time for the thousandth time. She said she’d come here when she got back to the city, but it’s almost ten o’clock at night and she’s not here yet. How long does dinner with her mom usually take?!
This is a mistake.
I shouldn’t be putting her in this position. I should just man up and talk to my parents. They shouldn’t be forcing a wife on me, anyways!
I slump down on the couch and drop my head in my hands. A bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck, and my heart feels like it’s beating erratically. I massage my temples, keeping my eyes closed as I take deep breaths through my nose.
I’ve gone around in circles ever since my parents called this morning. I don’t have a choice. I’ve heard that tone in my father’s voice before, and he never backs down from it.
He was serious when he said he’d cut me off and fire me if I kept up my lifestyle. But that shouldn’t mean I have to marry a woman I’m not even dating! We were just in a picture together, nothing more.
I blow the air out of my nose and stare at the ceiling. This is the only way. I just need to make it through this visit from them, and then I can make up some story about Naomi and I parting ways. That will buy me enough time to figure out how to handle my parents.
A knock on the door makes me jump. I stand up, my bare feet sinking into the thick rug for a moment as I stare at the door.
This is it.
My heart is hammering and my mouth is suddenly dry. Even though this is insane, even though this is a ridiculous situation to be in, there’s a part of me that’s excited to see Naomi.
She’s here.
I get to talk to her without the stark fluorescent lights of the physio office beaming down on us, without the thumping music from the bar beside us, without prying eyes and flashing cameras.
Just her, and me.
My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans as I walk to the door. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on the doorknob and turn.
“Hey,” she says.
My heart drops to my stomach. Naomi’s eyes are shining with tears, and her skin, typically smooth as porcelain, is blotchy and red. Her hands are clasped in front of her as if she’s trying to stop them from trembling.
This isn’t what I wanted. A lump forms in my throat and I struggle to swallow past it.
“Hey,” I croak.
“Can I come in?”
I step aside, closing the door behind her. She kicks off her shoes before I can tell her to keep them on, lining them up against the wall next to the front door. Her eyes sweep across my apartment and I see a slight lifting of her eyebrows.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks. Beer?”
“Sure.”
We don’t speak while I go to the fridge. She takes a seat at the kitchen island, accepting the green bottle of beer with a nod. She takes a sip, closing her eyes and drinking as if she needs the liquid courage.
My heart squeezes.
This isn’t what I intended.
“Look, Naomi,” I start. “I think this was a mistake. You… I don’t want to put you in this position.”
“In what position?”
I open my mouth and close it again, leaning against the counter across from her. Taking a deep breath, I choose my words carefully.
“You don’t seem like you want this. To… to marry me. Or pretend to marry me, I mean.”
“Tell me about your parents,” she replies suddenly. “Why did you ask me to do this? Why can’t you just talk to them?”
We stare at each other for a moment, and a bitter snort escapes me. I shake my head.
“Where do I start?”
“At the beginning.”
I grin, nodding my head towards the couch in the living room. She follows me, and I sit down on one end of the three-seater while she sits at the far end, tucking one leg underneath her and resting her chin on her other knee. She’s curled herself into a tiny ball, with her long, red hair falling like a curtain over her shoulder.
Even with a bright red nose and sadness in her eyes, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. All I want to do is reach over and wrap my arms around her. I want her to tell me why she’s so sad, why she decided to accept my proposal. I want to know what she’s thinking and what she’s scared of.
But I can’t ask her anything. She’s staring at me, waiting for me to speak. So I do what she said: I start at the beginning.
“My parents started a company when they were in their twenties. My mother borrowed a bunch of money from her father, who ran an import-export business, and my father was a clever, ambitious young man. They built the company up to what it is now. They supply all kinds of materials for huge construction projects on the entire eastern seaboard.”
I take a sip of my beer, glancing over at Naomi. Her eyes are glued on my face, as if she’s listening to the things I’m saying and the things I’m not saying, all at once.
“I’m an only child. I found out a couple years ago that my mom miscarried a bunch of times, and finally they had me when they were almost forty. I was their golden child.
”
“I’m an only child, too,” Naomi says softly. I look at her, nodding. “Sorry,” she continues. “Go on.”
“Well, they handed me the world. I went to the best schools. They wanted me to study business and come and work for them. They wanted me to get married and do what they had done—make something of myself and become the next generation of Westbrook ‘power couples’. But then, I fell in love with football. To their credit, my parents embraced it. Maybe they saw it as an opportunity to be a different kind of ‘power couple’. I had the best coaches, trainers—everything. By the time I went to college, I was already being scouted by NFL teams.”
I take another sip of beer, trying to ignore the pang in my chest.
“Then your knee happened,” Naomi finishes for me.
I nod, not wanting to meet her eye. If I look at her, the mist in my eyes might turn to real tears. “My knee happened. I was dating this girl, and she left me the next day, as soon as the doctor told me I’d never play football again.”
“Max…”
I shake my head, swallowing past the lump that’s re-appeared in my throat.
“It’s fine. I graduated, my parents gave me a good job, and now I’m working my way up their company. I have everything. They’ve given me everything.”
“Have you told them you don’t want to get married?”
I snort. “Yeah, I’ve told them. They don’t get it. All they see is their society, where the women have their own power circles and the men have theirs. Single people don’t make it.”
I turn and look at Naomi again. She’s unfolded her legs and is leaning against the couch’s arm, resting her cheek against her closed fist. Her other hand is playing with the beer label, and she’s staring out the windows at the twinkling lights of the New York skyline.
“So why’d you say yes?” I ask. “Last night, you said you didn’t believe in marriage.”
Naomi flinches, as if my words hurt her physically. My heart squeezes.
She takes a deep breath and then shrugs. “I got some bad news, and two hundred and fifty grand would solve a lot of problems.”
Engaged to Mr. Right: A Fake Marriage Romance (Mr. Right Series Book 1) Page 5