by Lila Monroe
“And a lifetime of guilt for selling out all my friends,” she shoots back. “Come on, I organized flashcards.”
Sure enough, the table is neatly organized with paperwork. But I linger, noticing a familiar hardcover on the shelf. I grin. “You like the Alex Chase books?”
Becca looks surprised. “I love them. It’s like a modern-day Indiana Jones, treasure-hunting around the world . . . You never know where the next book will take him.”
“Reviews of this one were mixed,” I say, turning it over in my hands. “People hated that he killed off—”
“NO!” Becca yelps. “Spoiler alert!” She claps her hands over her ears and starts singing. “La la la, I can’t hear you!”
I laugh at her panic. “Relax, I won’t tell.”
She lowers her hands. “I’m surprised you’re a fan,” she says, giving me a quizzical look.
“Why? I can read, you know.”
She grins. “Well yes, but you don’t strike me as a guy who sits up alone with a good book late at night.”
“Who says I’m alone while I’m reading?” I waggle my eyebrows, and she rolls her eyes.
“See? I’m surprised you have the attention span to make it through a single chapter.”
I hide a smile. She really has no idea . . . “I do all kinds of things you can’t even imagine.” I give her a smoldering look that usually turns women into fluttering, breathless fans.
Becca just snorts. “Enough fooling around. Time to get to work. Tell me about your family. You said they were in England? Any siblings?”
“Nope. Only child. We don’t talk much. I’m their biggest disappointment.”
Becca winces. “Me too.”
“Really?” I turn at that, surprised. Becca is smart, beautiful, and annoyingly warm-hearted. Who could be disappointed at that?
She gives a shrug. “They’re big into status and appearances. When I told them I was dropping out of med school, they acted like I’d just announced I was joining a sex cult. They’d love you,” she adds.
“Gee. Thanks.”
“No, sorry, I just meant, you seem very successful,” Becca corrects herself. “What’s your family business, anyway? Insurance?”
“Yes. But they disowned me years ago,” I tell her cheerfully. “Apparently, I’m not cut out to push papers around a desk all day and smoke cigars with ancient business tycoons.”
Becca frowns. “Wait, if you’re not a trust-fund kid, what do you do for a living?”
I grin. “Anything I like.”
“But—”
“Enough about me,” I cut her off, before she can go delving into my private business.
My private, top-secret business that nobody—not even my closest friends—know about.
“Tell me about you,” I say, strolling over to join her at the table. “After all, I need to know something about the new Mrs. Fitzgerald”
Becca switches gears. “OK, I’ve prepared a bullet-point overview of my entire life,” she begins, sliding me a page.
“Seriously?” I laugh, scanning the page. Schools, employment records, medical history . . . “Come on, this isn’t the stuff we need to pull off the ruse.”
Becca frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Just that I can’t remember the last time a date and I traded SAT scores,” I smirk. “And not just because they don’t have them in England.”
“They don’t?” Becca frowns and makes a note. I take her pen away.
“None of this is going to sell Brett on our relationship. Lose the study guide,” I tell her, getting to my feet. “It’s time for a field trip.”
I drag Becca downstairs and out into the real world. We get coffees at the place across the street, and then stroll around the neighborhood, while Becca tries to quiz me on my entire personal history.
“Shoe size? Age you lost your virginity? Oh, and what’s your mother’s maiden name?”
I laugh, amused by her diligence. I can tell she was a swot in school, scribbling away in the front row while I was already ditching class to flirt with the student nurse. “Easy there, Tiger. Real couples know more than just plain facts.”
“And how would you know?” she shoots back, looking annoyed.
“Ouch. You’ve got me.” I clutch my chest dramatically. “Look, think of people you know who are in love. They don’t rattle off each other’s credit scores—which, by the way, yours is excellent. You know they’re for real because of the way they act together.” I think of my buddy Luke and his girlfriend Stella. “How relaxed they are, finishing each other’s sentences, and sharing private jokes, and touching each other without even noticing.”
“You want to cop a feel, is that it?” Becca folds her arms, and I grin.
“No, but if you can hold my hand without flinching, that would be a start.”
Becca takes a deep breath, and then reluctantly holds her hand out. “Well?” she demands, when I don’t take it. “I thought we were practicing.”
“You make me feel so cherished,” I tease, entwining my fingers in hers.
It feels nice. Warm and light in mine.
“OK, hand-holding,” Becca repeats, like she’s checking it off some mental checklist. “I can do this. What else?”
I want to laugh. She must have been out with a bunch of guys—there’s no way a woman as attractive and witty as her is living like a nun—but she’s acting like she’s forgotten everything about dating. “Who was the last guy you were involved with?” I ask, changing tack. “Didn’t you say you used to be engaged?”
Becca pauses. “Yes . . .” she replies, looking reluctant.
“And did you walk around telling people his blood type or major food allergies?” I dangle her fact-sheet.
“No. But he was a B negative and couldn’t handle shellfish,” she adds quickly.
I laugh. “Look, our cover story is: we met recently and fell head-over-heels in love. Nobody’s going to expect us to know every detail about each other’s lives, but they will think it’s weird if you look like your sucking lemons every time I kiss you.”
“There’ll be kissing?” Her voice goes up. She clears her throat. “I mean, I know there’ll be kissing but . . . shouldn’t we have a sign? Or a code word? So, you know, I can brace myself.”
“Gee, thanks.” If I wasn’t so amused by how flustered she’s getting, I might be offended. Luckily, it takes a lot to dent my pride.
I tug her to a stop and turn her to face me. “See, to the casual observer, we’re just like any other love-struck couple,” I tell her. I reach to push hair out of her eyes, and even though Becca freezes, she doesn’t flinch away.
Progress.
Her eyes have a hint of hazel in them, I notice. She catches her breath. “Why are you being so nice about this? I mean, you don’t have to be here. Doing . . . this.”
This feels pretty damn good. I tug her closer, enjoying the scent of her strawberry shampoo, and the way her blouse flutters in the breeze. “What if I told you I admire what you’re doing?”
“Lying to the world to cheat somebody out of what’s probably their rightful inheritance?” Becca cracks.
I grin. “That too.” My voice drops as I look into her eyes, feeling weirdly sentimental. “You care about something, and you want to make a difference. Not many people can say that.”
Becca flushes pink. “You make me sound like some kind of Mother Theresa.”
“No, you’re much hotter than her,” I grin. “Although, I heard she liked to party with that communion wine.”
Becca smacks my arm, laughing. “Fitz!”
“What? I’m just saying. There’s a reason everyone thought she was a saint!”
Becca walks on, still giggling. She links her arm through mine, and it does actually feel natural this time. Like we’re really one of those couples out for a weekend stroll, in monogamous, committed bliss. I always thought they were suckers, antique shopping when they could have been sleeping off an epic hangover or getting sweaty w
ith a flexible paramour.
But now, I can’t say I mind.
Because hey, it’s only temporary. Come next month, I’ll be back to my old tricks, and Becca here will be on to some flashcard-loving new friend.
“Remember to keep your hands off the waitress,” she says suddenly. “I saw you with the bartender the other night, and slipping another woman your number doesn’t exactly scream fidelity.”
“I don’t know, the French think it can lead to a long, healthy marriage,” I quip, and Becca snatches her arm from mine with a huff.
“God help whatever woman thinks she can reform you,” she mutters, scowling. “You’re a lost cause.”
“Just remember you’re lucky to have me,” I snark back. “I didn’t exactly see men lining up to take you down the aisle.”
“Thanks for the reminder. How about we make this a silent walk?”
Ah, wedded bliss.
5
Becca
What do you wear to dinner with your new fake husband and the smarmy asshole determined to prove your marriage is a ruse?
“I have nothing to wear!” I cry forlornly as I tear through my—pitiful—closet.
“What about your red dress?” Poppy weighs in via FaceTime from another weekend shift at the office.
I find it crumpled in the depths and hold it up. I wince. Was it always so short . . . And tight . . . ?
“I’m at least ten pounds and two breakups too big for it.” I toss it back with a sigh. “I thought getting married meant I could let myself go now. You know, stop shaving my legs and wearing makeup, because I’ve already locked him down.”
Poppy laughs. “Only if you want to divorce within a year. Which . . . would actually work in your situation.”
I pause, eying my favorite sweatpants with longing. But if there’s anything less likely to sell this Fitz marriage, me showing up looking like the homeless woman on the corner would do it. “He’s the guy who dates supermodels and actual celebrities,” I whimper. “Nobody’s going to believe him walking in with me.”
“First, you’re gorgeous—when you make the effort to actually brush your hair.” Poppy grins. “And second, isn’t his whole deal how reckless and spontaneous he is? Rich people do stupid things all the time and nobody blinks. Didn’t the Topshop heiress have a baby with the Hot Felon?”
“At least he had a six-pack to offer.” I tug up my work-out top. That I wear to run errands. Ugh. I’ve been stress-eating like crazy since Marigold died. No, scratch that—since He Who Shall Not Be Named dumped me like a broken couch at the refuse site.
I didn’t regret the extra helping garlic mashed potato at the time, but now…?
There’s a knock at the door. “Hold that thought,” I tell Poppy, and head out to answer it.
“Rebecca, hello.” It’s my neighbor from upstairs, Olga. She’s is in her 40s, a chic and totally intimidating German woman who is some kind of psychiatrist-slash-sexual therapist. She’s always lecturing us about “integrating our sexual selves,” and clearly, she practices what she preaches, because her husband is a strapping blonde guy in his 20s who could double as a Chippendale centerfold.
In other words, she amazes and terrifies me in equal measure.
“Olga, hi,” I say, wrapping my robe tighter around me. Not that it matters. Olga’s been known to sunbathe nude on the roof. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if I could borrow some honey.”
“Honey?” I think of the pathetic contents of my pantry. “Sorry, I think I’m out. I have sugar, if you need.”
“No, that won’t work,” Olga replies. “The grains deteriorate latex. Thank you, all the same.”
She gives a brisk nod and heads back to her wild night of latex and sticky substances.
Get it, Olga.
I hurry back to my bedroom, but surprise, surprise, my closet hasn’t been restocked by the fashion genie. “It’s useless,” I groan, sinking down on my bed.
“There’s only one thing for it!” Poppy declares.
I wince. “Do I have to?”
“Suck it up, buttercup. There’s only one way you can lose three inches overnight and fit into your skinny jeans.”
“I know.” I go to my dresser and reach in the top. Loathed and begrudgingly admired in equal measure, just the sight of them are enough to strike fear in the hearts of womankind.
It’s time for my emergency Spanx.
Squeezing myself into the Medieval torture garment isn’t pretty, but by the time I meet Fitz at the restaurant, I’ve actually polished up nicely, if I do say so myself. By some miracle (or feat of industrial garment design), I actually fit in my flirty red dress again, and after forty minutes with my hair dryer, my messy curls are tamed into something sleek and vaguely fashionable.
Not bad, Becca. I check myself out in the window—before catching sight of Fitz in the lobby inside. Dressed in a perfectly cut designer suit and crisp white shirt. Flirting with the six-foot-tall Amazonian hostess.
Suddenly, I don’t feel so much like a sexy siren as an overripe strawberry.
Then he turns and sees me and gives a wave. “Darling.” He flashes a heart-stopping grin as I step inside. And for a moment, I teeter on my platform sandals, because that suit, with that body, and his face . . . ?
Hello, lover.
“You look beautiful,” Fitz says, moving to kiss me on the cheek. I get a whiff of cologne and a brush of heat from his body, and suddenly, I’m lightheaded.
I don’t even care that this is Oscar-caliber acting here. Can the show please extend its run?
“Fitz, hi.” I clear my throat and try to remember the plan. Which involves acting like smitten newlyweds.
I can manage that.
I slide a hand around his waist, feeling the taut definition beneath the luxurious fabric. “How was the rest of your day?” I ask, trying to look at him without getting flustered and self-conscious. But suddenly, it feels like staring into the sun. I don’t know where to look.
“Pretty good,” Fitz replies. “But I missed you.”
His blue eyes gaze into mine. He reaches to touch my cheek. I pretty much swoon on the spot.
Damn, he’s good.
I clear my throat, trying to remember all those clauses in the paperwork about keeping things professional. PDA only around other people. Hands staying above the waist. And definitely, absolutely no sex.
“Becca.”
I flinch just hearing Brett’s voice, and when I turn, he’s walking in, wearing a hideous pinstripe suit—with a woman on his arm. I know this legal wrangling has been nothing but pain and stress for me since the moment Marigold’s lawyer read the will, but it’s almost, almost worth it for the look on Brett’s face when he clocks Fitz standing beside me.
“I . . . uh . . . You . . .” he splutters.
I grin. “Brett, this is my husband, Fitz.”
Brett coughs, turning bright red. “I, uh, know. We met at a charity polo match last year.”
“Did we?” Fitz gives a bland smile as he shakes his hand. “I really don’t remember you.”
“Dickie Watson introduced us?” Brett presses. “I was wearing a pink shirt, and you’d just got back from a trip to Lake Como? We talked about wine?”
I try not to laugh. Brett is full on fangirling Fitz right now—and Fitz isn’t having any of it.
My handsome husband shrugs. “Sorry, can’t place you. But I remember Dickie,” he adds, twisting the knife. “Say hi from me.”
Brett’s face falls. He looks back at me. “You married him?” he asks, in clear disbelief.
“I know, isn’t it great?” I beam. “And who’s your friend?”
Brett turns, finally remembering his date for the evening. “This is Vanessa,” he says, introducing the blonde woman beside him. She’s poured into an expensive-looking crop top and linen pants, with gold jewelry jangling on both of her toothpick wrists.
She’s definitely not wearing Spanx. In fact, I’d bet good money she hasn’
t tasted butter in the last decade. Still, just because she’s a gorgeous, skinny woman who has volunteered of her own free will to spend the evening with Brett, it doesn’t mean she’s not a lovely person, right?
“Hi, Vanessa,” I greet her with a smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“You have lipstick on your teeth,” she says flatly, her hand as limp as a noodle in mine.
“Oh.” I falter, but Fitz puts an arm around me.
“That’s my fault,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m always messing her makeup. I’ve told her, just don’t wear lipstick, because if I want to kiss you . . . well, I’m just going to have to smudge it. Isn’t that right, darling?”
He grins at me. I smile back. Brett and Vanessa glare.
“Your table’s ready.” The hostess materializes. “Follow me.”
I exhale in relief. “Great! I’m starving. What is this place, anyway?” I ask, looking around as we cross the room. It’s all blonde wood and white linens, full of super-chic-looking people.
“Saline.” Brett replies, puffing out his chest. “It’s new. There’s a month-long wait for reservations, but I managed to pull some strings.”
“Great.”
We take a seat at a table in the corner. As Brett argues with the sommelier about the wine list, Fitz catches my eye. He leans closer, whispering, “How are you holding up?”
“OK,” I murmur back, trying not to shiver at the soft brush of his lips against my ear. “I just want to get this over with.”
“Hey, at least we get to eat,” Fitz says with a wink. But when I take a look at the menu, I realize his confidence is overstated.
Raw beet carpaccio with fennel pollen. Bone broth with celery leaves. Avocado confit with dehydrated kale.
This is food?!
“What temperature is the broth prepared at?” Vanessa quizzes our waiter when he comes to take our orders. “Because studies show that the nutritional benefits decline at higher temperatures.”
I blink.
Vanessa sees me watching. “Health is my profession,” she says smugly.
“Oh, are you a nutritionist?” I ask.
