by Lila Monroe
“Do you have a pen?”
I yawn. “What?”
Fitz flags down a passing waitress and begs one from her, then turns back to the contract. He crosses out Scott’s name and writes in his own.
I laugh. “Come on, give me that.”
Fitz flips to the signature page at the end and signs his name.
I pause. “Seriously, stop screwing around.”
“I’m not.” Fitz slides the contract back across the table to me. “There,” he says with a wink. “All set. I’ll marry you.”
My jaw drops.
OK, I must have gone from “mildly tipsy” to “blackout drunk” in five seconds flat because there’s no way he just . . . I mean, he couldn’t be . . .
“Are you SERIOUS?!”
Fitz grins. “I’m never serious, but I meant what I said. You do still need a fake husband, don’t you?”
“Well, yes . . .” I blink, my head spinning.
“And this is a matter of some urgency, right?”
I nod dumbly. “I have a meeting with Brett and the lawyers tomorrow morning. If I can’t produce a husband then, they’ll file a lawsuit to block me from inheriting.”
“Then we better get moving.” Fitz checks the expensive watch on his wrist. “City Hall closes in ten minutes.”
He gets to his feet and reaches for the perfectly-cut suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. I just sit there in disbelief. Is he serious right now?
“But . . . I don’t even know you!” I blurt.
“Didn’t seem to hold you back with Scott.”
“And . . . you don’t even know me!” I cry. “I could be weird, or bitchy, or, or a Scientologist!”
Fitz grins. “Life’s an adventure.”
“That’s it?” I blink. “You’re willing to marry a total stranger because, what, you’re bored?”
“Seems a good enough reason to me.” Fitz offers me his hand. “Clock’s ticking, princess. What’ll it be?”
I stare at him, speechless. Today has already been crazy enough, but this? This is too much for my tequila- and carb-addled brain to process. I need to take a nap and drink half my weight in water, and then maybe, just maybe, I could begin to make sense of my life right now.
But I don’t have time to sleep. And if I don’t do something drastic, I won’t have a bed to do it in, either.
“OK,” I find myself answering, because why the hell not, when clearly, he’s lost his mind? “Let’s do this.”
Fitz breaks into a mischievous grin, and for a moment, I wonder what I’m getting myself into here. But he’s already taking my hand and pulling me towards the exit. I grab my purse and follow him out, blinking as we emerge into the harsh light of day.
I check the time. Shit! “Five minutes until closing!” I yelp, and we take off towards City Hall.
We race down the street and up the front steps. “This way,” I call, practically skidding down the hallway in my high heels. I arrive, breathless, at the clerk’s office—just as he’s about to shut the window. “Wait!” I cry. “Stop! Do you have time for one more wedding?”
He frowns at me. “Didn’t I just see you . . . ?”
Fitz steps forwards and flashes that irresistible smile. “She’s the love of my life,” he says, putting on a sincere look. “I can’t believe my luck, she feels the same way.”
The guy rolls his eyes, like he couldn’t care less. “Witnesses?”
Crap! I look wildly around. There’s a couple at the end of hallway making out, clearly newlyweds—in matching Game of Thrones costumes.
Fitz strides over. “Sir? Madam? Would you have a minute to help us out?”
They agree, and before we know it, I’m standing back at the makeshift altar, with the same crappy ring, and a totally different guy beside me this time.
Gulp.
The registrar clearly has someplace to be, because he races through the script at top speed, and before I even know it, we’re on to the vows. “Arthur Fitzwilliam Fitzgerald, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I blink. Wait, his name is what?!
“I do,” Fitz says casually, like he’s ordering up another round of fries.
“And do you, Rebecca Jane Delaney, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To cherish and be faithful from this day forward, forsaking all others?” the registrar asks, giving me a side-eye judgey look.
I look at Fitz, reality hitting me for the first time.
I’m getting married. To him. A hot British man I know exactly nothing about, besides the fact he drinks whiskey, and looks damn good in a suit.
My stomach lurches, but before I can come to my senses and call the whole thing off, Fitz catches my eye, and gives me a wink.
A you’ve got this wink.
A we’ll figure this out wink.
A if nothing else, your new fake husband is sex on a stick wink.
And just like that, I decide.
“I do.”
Which is how I wound up tying the knot to a complete stranger, while a Dothraki king and Daenerys Targaryen made out in the front row.
2
Becca
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
I wake to the sound of my alarm going off the next morning, splitting my poor head in two. At least, it feels that way as I flail blindly to shut it off.
Hello, hangover.
What the hell happened last night? I have the worst headache in my life, and it feels like I drank my body weight in tequila. I vaguely remember the failed wedding to Scott . . . Pounding shots at the bar with Poppy . . . And for some reason, I feel like I need to watch Game of Thrones?
I let my head fall back in the pillows and groan. Which only makes my head ache more. “Owww,” I whimper, as my phone sounds with a text from Poppy.
How r u holding up?
I yawn, about to text a reply. Then I catch sight of a cheap ring on my finger. The ring finger of my left hand.
Wait a minute . . .
Suddenly, it all comes rushing back.
I got married last night. To a sexy British stranger with a charming smile and—
I don’t know what else. Because I don’t know anything about him.
Holy shit!
I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart racing. Is this real? I stumble out of bed and into the living room where I left my purse. I scrabble wildly, tossing lipstick and tampons and half an energy bar to the floor until I finally find what I’m looking for: the fake-husband contract—and a marriage license.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
I’m his.
I sit down on the floor with a thump. I can’t believe I actually went through with it. I mean, I’m not saying I’ve never done anything crazy, but there’s a big difference between throwing caution to the wind and eating ice cream when you’re lactose intolerant and, you know, getting hitched to a complete stranger.
Mrs. Rebecca Fitzgerald . . .
Maybe not.
I look around, feeling a rush of relief. This old apartment isn’t the fanciest place in the world—there are scuff marks on the honeyed wooden floors, the plumbing is temperamental, and the AC unit always breaks in summer—but it’s been more of a home more than any place I’ve ever lived before. The windows catch the morning sun, the kitchen is still decorated with vintage pink tile, and there’s more than enough room for an overstuffed couch, writing desk, and a thrift-store dining table with mismatched chairs. Which in New York is really saying something.
And now I get to stay.
Not just me, but everyone else in the building, too. Because that’s what Marigold wanted when she left the place to me. She knew I would keep her legacy alive, so we would all still have our small community, in the middle of Manhattan.
If there was ever a good reason to hitch myself to a complete stranger, this is it. I know exactly why I said “I do” last night . . .
So, what was Fitz’s reason?
I find his number on the contract and dial. Voi
cemail. “Um, hey, it’s your wife!” I try to joke. “Sorry, that sounds really weird. Anyway, if you can call me back, we have that meeting with the lawyers this morning at nine. I’ll text you the address. See you there. And, umm, thanks?”
I hang up, feeling seriously awkward.
Could it really be that he was just bored and looking for a laugh? After the quickie ceremony, he said he had someplace to be and disappeared. I have zero idea if I’m even going to see him again, but even though it would probably be easier if I didn’t, I can’t help remembering that playful sparkle in his eye, or how hot he looked in that suit . . .
Not that it matters. The contract we signed makes it clear that when it comes to our arrangement, sex is off the table. Way off. Fitz is obligated to sell this “happy newlywed” story, but aside from that, we have to keep our hands to ourselves. Olivia pretty much lectured me for an hour about how complicated and confusing these fake relationships can be. I zoned out, since there was zero chance of me falling for Scott, but now it turns out my new husband could give Tom Hiddleston a run for his money . . . ?
Nope. Focus, Becca.
I have bigger things to think about. Like the meeting with Brett and his lawyers, which—damn—I’m going to be late for. I struggle to my feet and go shower at top speed, pulling on my best “married” outfit and hurtling into the hallway.
“Becca—” my neighbor, Marcy, tries to greet me; her sullen teenage daughter Artemis barely glancing up from her phone. Hell, I’d be sullen 24/7 if I got saddled with a name like Artemis.
“Sorry!” I yelp, already racing for the stairs. “No time! Talk soon!”
I practically sprint to the subway and spend the whole trip smooshed up against a very pungent armpit. By the time I arrive at the snooty midtown offices of Harper, Wells, and Milstein, I’m breathless, sweaty, and nervous as hell.
“Fitz, where are you?” I whisper into his voicemail. Again. “Call me back!”
“This way, Ms. Delaney.” The gorgeous model of an assistant leads me down the hallway. I follow, surreptitiously checking my reflection in the polished art frames as we pass. My curly hair is already escaping my not-so-French braid, and I’m pretty sure my shirt is inside out, but there’s no time to take a moment and collect myself because she’s throwing open the doors to a long, echoing conference room.
The polished table in the middle of the room could seat fifty. I look around. It’s empty—save a violent-looking statue with massive spikes sticking out of it. “Is that where you display the scalps of your enemies?” I joke.
She looks at me blankly. “Mr. Milstein will be right in.”
OK. Clearly, they didn’t hire her for her sense of humor.
I take a seat, nervously checking my phone. There’s no word from Fitz, not even after I’ve sent him half a dozen panicked texts.
Where R U?
Seriously, Fitz??!!!
HELLLOOO?????
“Miss Delaney.”
I look up as the lawyer, Milstein, sweeps in, followed by Marigold’s nephew, Brett. They’re a matching pair in designer suits, with gelled hair, fancy watches, and smug grins on their pale, pampered faces.
It must be the prep school special.
“Hi.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for battle. Where is Fitz? I was hoping to have my fake husband as back-up for the meeting, but I guess I’m going it alone.
Brett collapses into a chair and sneers at me across the table. “So, have you seen sense? Or do you feel like spending the next year in court as I sue your fucking ass off?”
“Hello to you, too, Brett.”
“Whatever.” He spins on his chair. His lawyer clears his throat.
“What my client means is, have you reconsidered your position?”
“Oh, you mean do I want to just give in and let you take everything?” I ask. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Brett scowls. “You realize I can bury you. She was clearly off her rocker, leaving you everything.”
“What my client means to say is, there’s a strong case to be made for mental incompetence,” Millstein says smugly. “Not to mention undue influence.”
“From who?” I ask, confused.
“You!” Brett snorts. “You must have done something, cozying up to a vulnerable old woman. Why would she have named you in the will instead of her beloved nephew?”
I grit my teeth and try not to lose my temper. “Marigold was hardly vulnerable,” I glare. “She swam twice a week at the Y and was sharp enough to hustle everyone at bridge. Which you would know, as her beloved nephew. Except, wait, you never visited her once, did you? At least, not in the past five years.”
Brett turns red. “It doesn’t matter. The will says you have to be married to inherit, so you’re shit out of luck.”
I smile. Is it terrible if I’m enjoying this a little? “Actually, I forgot to mention . . . Congratulations are in order. I got married.” I wave my left hand at them.
Their jaws drop. I wish I could take a photo.
“You . . . what . . . when?” Brett stammers.
“Yesterday.” I beam back. “So, there isn’t a problem anymore. How long will it take the will to be executed, do you think?”
Milstein coughs, flustered. “Uh, a month or two, maybe.”
“Perfect.” I get to my feet. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen, but I have to run and see my husband. Newlyweds, you know how it is.”
I sashay out, hoping I don’t have anything stuck to my skirt. I almost make it down the hall to the elevators before Brett catches up with me.
“Don’t think this is over,” he scowls. “There are a hundred ways around that will.”
“Good luck getting a judge to agree with them,” I say lightly—even though my heart is beating double-time in my chest.
“So where did you find this husband?” Brett narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Marriage fraud is a crime, you know.”
It is? I try not to gulp. “It was a whirlwind affair,” I lie through my teeth. “Love at first sight, that kind of thing.”
“Huh.” Brett doesn’t look like he believes me for a minute, and I brace myself for more questions, but instead, his face smooths into a smarmy smile. “When do I get to meet him?”
“I, uh . . .”
“He must be some guy, to sweep you off your feet like that. We should all have dinner. Tomorrow night. Unless that’s a problem?” he asks, his beady eyes still watching me.
“Not at all!” I yelp. “Can’t wait.”
“I’ll see you then.” And with the creepiest smile in the world, he gets on the elevator. “Coming?”
Get trapped in a confined space with him?
“No thanks. I think I’ll take the stairs.”
I still haven’t heard from Fitz by the time I finish descending fourteen flights, so I check the contract for his address and limp over there. It’s a swanky building on the Upper East Side, but when I tell the doorman I’m Mrs. Fitzgerald, he bursts into laughter.
“No, really,” I insist.
“Sure. And I’m married to Beyoncé.” He reaches for the phone and dials. “Hi, Fitz, I’ve got a woman here claiming to be your wife.” He pauses, then laughs. “Sure thing, boss.” He hangs up, still chuckling, and steers me to the elevator. “You can go right up. Penthouse level.”
He swipes the keypad and hits a button and I swoosh upwards. My earlier triumph from the showdown with Brett is fading now. What exactly do I know about this guy? He could be a serial killer, or worse—a Belieber. What if he’s some kind of con artist, marrying desperate women to steal all their worldly fortune?
The doors open—directly into the penthouse apartment.
I gape.
OK, this guy definitely isn’t a con artist. Or if he is one, he’s swindled some really, really rich people in his time, because wow. The apartment stretches over the whole floor, with an open-plan living area and a drop-dead view of Central Park.
I wander closer to the windows, drooling. I tho
ught apartments like these were the preserve of Real Housewives and those mysterious foreign buyers on Million Dollar Listing.
“Becca,” a sexy English accent sounds, and I whirl around.
Fitz has sauntered into the living room. Half naked. In a towel. He must have just emerged from the shower, because his dark hair is wet and there are rivulets dripping over his tanned, taut chest . . . and his muscular abs . . . and—
Lower.
I gulp for air and promptly start coughing. Fitz’s smile slips. “Are you OK? Here, put your arms over your head.”
I shake my head, spluttering to speak. “I’m”—COUGH—“really”—COUGH—“fine.”
I manage to catch my breath, bent double and wheezing.
Real smooth, Becca. Way to make a good first (sober) impression.
Finally, I pull myself together and paste on a smile, hoping I don’t have mascara tracks trailing down my face. “Hi!” I say brightly. “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my message about the meeting this morning?”
“Right, sorry about that.” Fitz flashes a charming grin. “Things got rather crazy last night. Everything work out alright?”
“Yes, but . . .” I pause, hesitant. “It was in the contract. For you to make those appearances with me. You know, to sell the whole ‘fake husband’ thing.”
“I never was all that good with small print.” Fitz saunters over to the gleaming bar that takes up half a wall. “Drink? Champagne? We should toast our nuptials.”
I bite my lip, not wanting to be a buzzkill. “It’s eleven in the morning . . .”
“So, we’ll make it a mimosa.” Fitz winks. “Live a little.”
I reluctantly shake my head. “I have to get to work. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He pours himself a generous splash of champagne and fixes me with that devilish smile. “So, how does it feel to be married? Is it everything you dreamed about and more?”
