Charade (A Fake Fiancée Romance) (Pretense and Promises Book 1)

by Jade C. Jamison

  Brock continued to play the gentleman, holding the door open for her and taking her hand to assist her getting out of the car. She’d changed into jeans and a sweater, hoping her supposed in-laws wouldn’t mind if she enjoyed her downtime. And even though he was wearing his standard black leather jacket, she could see that Brock was also wearing jeans, paired with a long-sleeved cotton shirt that didn’t quite cling but certainly emphasized his musculature.

  Damn him for being so yummy.

  Brandon answered the door. “Perfect timing, guys. We’re just about ready.” After closing the door behind them, he said, “I’ll take your coats.” While Brock and Erica stood in the foyer, Brandon walked inside a small doorway to the left. “Either of you need to use the restroom?”

  Erica followed Brock as he walked toward where Brandon had turned. He was hanging their coats inside a closet, but she saw that there was also a room beyond him as well as a bathroom behind. Both of them declined using the facilities and, when Brandon finished with their coats, he clapped his hands together. “We’re so thrilled you decided to join us.”

  Now, Erica was no psychologist…and, while she thought part of what Brandon had to say was genuine, she also got the feeling that his being thrilled was a bit of an exaggeration. Smooth Brock answered, “It’s our pleasure. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Brandon smiled, all charm. That was one thing the Ford brothers had in common—charisma by the bucket load. “Well, I think Lisa’s got a bit of an ulterior motive.” Lowering his voice as they walked into the spacious dining room, he said, “She wants to get to know you better, Erica, since you’re going to be her ally here very soon.”

  Ally? What—like it was girls against boys? But no way was she going to ask, because she wasn’t really going to be part of the family soon—she merely had to keep playing the charade a little longer.

  Lisa walked in from the left, Saffy in her arms. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, making her look a little younger than normal. Smells of broiled veggies, delicate meat in sauces, and gourmet gravies wafted through the doorway, making Erica’s mouth water, reminding her that she’d been so busy, she’d forgotten to eat lunch. “So glad you guys came,” she said, walking first to Brock, who took baby Saffy in his arms after kissing Lisa on the cheek, and then over to Erica. She hugged her and then kissed her cheek. “You look gorgeous as always.”

  “Thanks, Lisa. You look great, too. Do you need any help in the kitchen?”

  The other woman laughed. “No. My cook left just a few minutes ago and I just had to transfer it all to serving dishes. I guess you could help me bring it all out to the table.”

  Erica agreed, and they made a few trips back and forth. The kitchen was huge, white, and spotless, with a morning room toward the back with a huge window facing the cozy back yard. What Erica loved most about their home was the high ceilings that made the rooms feel even more spacious. And the kitchen was perfect.

  But it couldn’t compare to the dining room. The center of attention was a large dark hardwood table surrounded by eight upholstered chairs, all with intricately carved edges. This place felt expensive, especially with the beautiful hutch full of china and liquor bottles, a Persian rug on the floor, and a window covering that probably cost more than she’d made in three months. She could hardly breathe, thanks to the overwhelm, but she looked forward to the meal nonetheless. Spending time with Brock’s family over the past month, she’d discovered her palate could easily become spoiled by the fine food they consumed.

  By the time they were all seated, Brandon had filled their glasses with wine. They also had glasses for water and two carafes were filled to the brim. Lisa set Saffy on a blanket on the floor, surrounded by toys and a bottle. “I fed her earlier, so please don’t think I’m starving her,” she said to Erica. “She couldn’t wait to eat.”

  “Smelling all this, I can see why,” Erica joked.

  They passed platters and bowls around the table, and soon her plate was filled with a slice of prime rib in a savory sauce, a baked potato she’d loaded with butter and sour cream, asparagus spears, and steamed broccoli. She also had a small bowl of salad made of various greens and cherry tomatoes sprinkled with a lemon vinaigrette and, next to it, a small plate with a slice of crusty French bread. If she’d been at home with her parents, she would have been chowing down, but she knew she had to be dainty and take her time with these people who ate in a more refined, patient manner. It wasn’t that she was a pig but that she enjoyed food.

  Soon, they were all eating and making light conversation—about a snowstorm that was going to blanket the Denver area that weekend, a dispute case Brandon was buried in, and how Saffy was crawling all over the place, probably close to walking soon. But halfway through the meal, Lisa said, “Erica, I would be honored if you’d let me help you plan your wedding.” Erica raised her eyebrows but continued chewing the piece of prime rib between her molars. “I helped Bret and Elle, because I didn’t get much say in my own wedding.” As if they were being recorded, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “My mother domineered my entire ceremony, so I’m kind of experiencing the joy by helping my future sisters-in-law.”

  Erica had to remind herself that none of this was real. She wasn’t going to marry Brock, nor was she going to become part of this family. In the short time she’d spent with her supposed fiancé’s family, she had pegged Brandon and Lisa to be the ones most concerned with money, and their home just kind of confirmed that. During the meal she’d learned that the house was three stories instead of two and the garage housed three cars instead of a couple—not that they needed a space that big. They had expensive taste and it showed. Either Brandon made a million or more a year or they were in debt up to their ears—but they could afford it. Easily. They were all about money and appearances, finery and fashion, and even though Lisa seemed nice enough, her adoration of brand names Erica had never even heard of and her worship of gold and dollar bills grated on her nerves. So while the wedding wasn’t even a real thing, the idea that Lisa would put her into debt without a blink of her eyelashes for a ceremony Erica would likely loathe made her feel backed into a corner.

  It’s not real, she had to remind herself.

  The longer Lisa talked about multi-tiered wedding cakes, melt-in-your-mouth wedding mints, a white chapel-length train on a wedding gown adorned in lace and pearls, an orchestra, various venues, menus, and the like, the more Erica was beginning to hate the conversation.

  She wouldn’t have been able to marry into this family. She couldn’t be that person.

  Brock, who’d been engaged in a side conversation with his brother, happened to glance over and overheard what was going on. “You know, Lisa,” he said, and Erica looked to her left, interested in hearing what he had to add, “Erica and I haven’t talked about the actual wedding. I realize we should, but we just barely made it official. But if I had to guess,” he said, his face full of arrogant charm, sending a bolt of lightning zipping through every tendril of Erica’s nerves, “Erica doesn’t want a huge, ostentatious, pretentious wedding. Giving it some thought, I know she’d prefer to elope somewhere—like having a small wedding on the Mediterranean on a week-long cruise or maybe a small ceremony on a beach in Hawaii.”

  Wow. How the hell had Brock nailed it so well? It was like he could see inside her soul, knew the essence of her. He’d discovered that, if and when she ever found the right guy she wanted to attach herself to for life, she wanted something simple and beautiful and romantic to commemorate the moment—not something cheap and flashy or even over-the-top monied and flashy.

  Did Brock already understand that about her? Did he already know her that well?

  At first, when she looked at him, she was certain he could read all that inside her eyes—and the smirk on his face confirmed it. So she cocked an eyebrow as if to tell him, Don’t think you’ve got my number, mister. But she needed to let him know that, yes, he was right—and maybe then Lisa would stop rambling on and on
about all the shit she thought Erica would need for an overpriced ceremony. “Yeah, I’d love that actually.”

  Brock smiled then and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. He was full of genuine sweetness at that moment—enough that Erica knew Brandon and Lisa would fall for the entire act. Finally, he turned his head to his sister-in-law and said, “Sorry. I don’t think we want the big wedding, Lisa.”

  “Brock, Erica…” Lisa said, waiting until they both looked at her, “that’s really not fair to your family, you know? They’re going to want to participate.”

  “We didn’t say anything about no participation, Lisa, but we don’t need everybody whose anybody to participate in our wedding. It’s not like they care anyway.”

  Brock went one step further than Erica, though, when he said, “I don’t care. This isn’t about them.”

  Brandon, who’d been quiet up until this point, stepped in. “Not cool, Brock. I don’t know why you gotta pull out one of your old tricks.”

  “What old tricks?”

  “Selfishness. Immaturity.”

  This is about my bride and what she wants. If she wants a small wedding, she gets it.”

  “Blaming it on the bride?”

  Brock rolled his eyes and polished off the wine in his glass. “You should just be happy I’m getting married.”

  Brandon finally laughed. “True.”

  The rest of the meal felt strained, but at least Lisa changed the subject to home décor. It was evident she knew a lot about the subject, considering their beautifully decorated home.

  A couple of hours later, Erica and Brock were finally heading out. Coats on, they left the house, porch light shining their way toward his car parked on the street. Before Brock opened Erica’s door for her, he said, “I don’t think my brother’s buying you and me. A couple of things he asked me when he and I were alone in his study made me realize he’s still on the fence about it.”

  “Even with all the wedding discussion?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “To begin with, I think we need to engage in a little more PDA. That would add credibility to our case.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Like right now.” Brock was up close, gazing in her eyes with the house behind him. “I’ll bet my brother is watching us right now. Can you see?”

  Over his shoulder, Erica could see the house clearly, and—just as Brock suspected—Brandon was looking through the thin window beside the door. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Then we need to kiss to make this believable.”

  She searched his eyes. Was he full of shit? Did Brandon really care? At this point, it didn’t matter. Heaven help her—she wanted Brock to kiss her…to kiss her like tomorrow would never come. So she nodded slightly, feeling her lips part a fraction in anticipation. As his face neared hers one centimeter at a time, she moved forward as well until their lips touched, and it was as if she could feel the molecules exploding as they collided with one another. It was pure magic, and her entire body hummed while his tongue tickled and teased. As if her hands belonged to someone else, she felt her fingers winding through his hair, a small groan forming in her throat, reminding her that she wanted this man again. One more time.

  Just until the engagement was off.

  Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.

  * * *

  The way she kissed him back, he wouldn’t have believed for a second she was only pretending. The connection felt too real, too genuine, and that little noise she let out was certainly not for Brandon’s benefit. His brother couldn’t hear them out there in the cold.

  But shit. Not that he would ever tell her, but he knew it himself. It wasn’t just one sided. Brock, too, was feeling something, a lot more than he should.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Hell, no. This shouldn’t be happening. A serious relationship was not on the agenda. Hadn’t been. His life plan included marriage—but not till his late thirties or early forties, even. He still had plenty of bachelorhood to make his way through, and no matter how enticing Ms. Erica Larson was, he was not going to allow himself to fall for her.

  Deep down, though, he knew—it was far too late. He’d already fallen. The question was if he could pick himself back up.

  Yes. Yes, he could. Just because he was falling didn’t mean he was hopeless. If Erica would stop looking at him like that, it’d be a hell of a lot easier. And he knew just how to get under her skin. As he opened his eyes, he saw that hers had a dreamlike quality to them. Even in the semi-dark of the street lights, he could see that. “Thanks, babe, but you didn’t have to give an Academy Award performance. A simple kiss would have sufficed.”

  He could feel her muscles stiffen under his arms through her coat, could see the slight flare of her nostrils before the air she huffed out turned white in the cold, and she pushed against him slightly. “I was just following your lead, Brock. Apparently, you thought you needed to convince the jury.” She turned, pulling on the door handle that wasn’t opening because the car was still locked. “But the jury already got bored and left.”

  He turned and saw that, indeed, Brandon had left the foyer—had even shut off the porch light. Pressing his fob so the door would open, he tried to reach the door handle so he could open it for her, but she wasn’t about to let him near it. He waited until she was seated inside the car before walking over to his side.

  The seat was cold, but he could fix that in short order. He hadn’t noticed the chill before but now that it was coming from both the air and radiating off Erica’s body, he couldn’t help but feel it down to his bones. But maybe that was what he needed—because, if not, his very life was in danger.

  His life as a bachelor, that was.

  The ride was stiff and quiet and the longer it went on that way, the more he felt like a real Grade A asshole.

  Both of them were contemplating a next move or the future or…well, he didn’t know quite what she was thinking. He was guessing, but he knew what was wrong with him. He kept reminding himself that he only had to make it one more month. Once the paperwork was finalized, this charade could be over and he could go back to his normal self.

  There was just one problem…he didn’t want to.

  He asked it again: What the hell was wrong with him?

  Whatever it was, it led him to what happened next in the parking lot. Before he could open her door—and before she let herself out in a huff—he touched her arm until she looked up at him. “Hey, Erica. I’m really sorry.”

  Her voice was full of venom. “Sorry for what?”

  Time to own it. “For being an ass. I’m not going to explain why I go there sometimes, but I do want to apologize for acting like a jerk. You’re helping me out…and I need to let you know I’m grateful for that.”

  Even in the darkness in the car, he could see her features soften. That was for the best. Right now, some strange part of him was thinking about her as a long-term girlfriend, but the rest of him—the part he’d called an ass—wanted him to cut ties now, to stop acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of having a girlfriend or of being attached. He was too young and far too busy to go there right now. There would be plenty of time in the future when he didn’t have so damn much to prove.

  “I want to walk you to the front doors. I know this is a good neighborhood and I’m not really your fiancé, but I’d feel better doing it, even if you’re mad at me.”

  He could barely hear her voice when she replied, “I’m not mad at you.”

  He got out and then helped her out on her side, only a little surprised when she let him keep his hand on her lower back. He wanted to say something but knew that probably anything out of his mouth at this point would sound like bullshit.

  In the quiet walk across the parking lot, he looked up at the sky. The low-hanging clouds were pink, light, and bright, signaling that snow was imminent. When he imagined that Erica would enjoy that, he smiled and then immediate
ly chastised himself. What the hell was he doing? He needed to stop. He was acting like a wide-eyed puppy, and one of them was going to get hurt. It would likely be him if he didn’t knock that shit off right now. Erica was likely okay, because she’d gone into this whole matter knowing it was an act. They were engaging in an adult version of the kids’ imaginative game of playing house. Except today the homes, clothes, and ages of the participants were real—and so were their hearts.

  He was falling in love with Erica Larson and bewildered as to how to stop himself.

  Erica herself wasn’t making things any better. When they got to the top step leading to the doors of the building, she held her keys but paused from sliding them into the lock. “Do you want to come up for a few minutes?”

  Holy fuck. Any other real date and he’d know exactly what that meant. An invitation for a short visit or a cup of coffee translated into sex in his world, and he imagined that was what it meant for Erica. Yes, there were the occasional dates who literally meant talking or drinking coffee, but most times those phrases were euphemisms for getting it on.

  And there was no denying that he desperately wanted to get it on with this woman, his pretend fiancée.

  There was no way he could say no.

  She opened the outer doors and slipped her tiny hand in his. He saw an elevator down the hall, but she pulled him up the stairs—which meant that there would be no elevator foreplay.

  When she unlocked the door to her apartment and flipped on the light switch, he quickly glanced around, trying to get a feel for the woman underneath it all. But that was silly. He already knew her. Yes, he could get to know her better, but it wasn’t like she’d ever hidden herself. Still, he wanted to discover her secrets.