Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  “No. Influencer.”

  “Vanessa has over fifty thousand followers on Instagram,” Brett speaks up.

  “I sell a range of vegan bikinis with empowering slogans,” she adds. “Body positivity is a vital cause. That’s why my range goes all the way up to size four!”

  I have to cover my laughter with a cough.

  “Are you OK, sweet cheeks?” Fitz asks, reaching to rub my back.

  “Mmhmnm,” I manage, taking a gulp of water. “Thanks, honey buns.”

  He smiles at me like I’m the only woman in the room, and I forget myself for a minute. Because, wow.

  “So how did you guys meet?” Brett’s question cuts through my daze.

  “It’s a funny story, actually,” Fitz begins. I look at him, confused.

  “Not really.” I already set our cover story, something bland and forgettable that wouldn’t raise any questions. “We were in line together at the grocery store.”

  Fitz takes my hand and squeezes. “It’s OK, you don’t have to lie to them.”

  “I don’t?” I squeeze back meaningfully. Where is he going with this?

  “We weren’t at the grocery store.” Fitz turns back to Brett and Vanessa. “We ran into each other out shopping for sex toys.”

  We WHAT?!

  “I was looking at handcuffs, Becca was browsing the—what do you call it, sweetheart?” Fitz turns to me, clearly enjoying himself. “That vibrator of yours, the one with the little bunny ears.”

  “The rabbit!” Vanessa exclaims.

  “That’s the one.” Fitz slaps the table. “Nifty little gadget, isn’t it? We’ve had some fun times with that, I can tell you.”

  Oh. My. God. I can’t believe he’s doing this.

  “Fitz . . .” I grind out through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a story to tell in public.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’re all friends here,” Fitz says happily. “Anyway, our eyes met over the KY lube, and just like that, it was love. We took our new purchases back to my place, and didn’t come out for, well, long enough that my doorman had to send a guy up to get proof of life.”

  He chuckles merrily. I wonder if it’s too late to flee for the bathrooms and never come back.

  “Awww, so romantic,” Vanessa coos. “And naughty, too. What is it with guys and handcuffs?” she asks me, giggling. “Brett just loves it when I walk all over his back in my five-inch Louboutins.”

  I gulp my wine. I did not need to know that.

  “So here we are.” Fitz slings an arm around my shoulder. “Happily married. And I’ve got to tell you, there’s nothing like newlywed sex to spice things up. Am I right, Pooh bear?”

  I’m going to kill him.

  “Well, he’s glossing over a few things,” I say, wanting to wipe that smirk off his face. “Like his performance anxiety. But it’s fine, it happens to most guys after a few too many drinks. And once we figured out he could only rise to the occasion playing YouTube videos of My Little Pony, it was smooth sailing from there on out!”

  Fitz’s jaw drops. I keep beaming. “Plus, the Rogaine is working out great, don’t you think? You can’t even tell it’s not his natural hair.”

  “Baby, a word?” Fitz glares at me.

  I pat his hand. “Aww, I know you’re shy, but like you said, we’re all friends here.”

  Luckily, our main courses arrive, so we avoid a full-on fight.

  Unluckily, the chef seems to be a Martian who hasn’t encountered the concept of food. I nudge a strand of something green and gloopy. Fitz doesn’t seem to be faring any better with his orange mulch sprinkled with black dust. The only one who seems to be happy is Vanessa, who’s whipped out her cellphone and is snapping pictures of her dish. “Hashtag healthful!” she beams.

  I’m going to need another drink.

  “I still don’t get it,” Brett says, frowning through a mouthful of something pink. “Getting married is a big step. When did all this happen?”

  “As soon as she said yes,” Fitz replied. “I mean, when a woman like Becca agrees to be your wife, you don’t want to wait around. I couldn’t risk her changing her mind, could I now?”

  He takes my hand and gazes at me besottedly, and even though I know it’s all pretend, it still makes something stir in my chest.

  I can’t remember the last time a man looked at me like that. Like I’m the only woman in the world.

  In fact, I don’t think anyone ever has.

  Which is depressing enough to bring me back down to earth with a thump.

  I swallow. “We’re very happy together,” I tell Brett quickly. “I’m only sorry Marigold isn’t around to meet him.”

  At the mention of his aunt, Brett scowls. “I never understood why she stayed in the city instead of moving to that retirement home in Florida like I suggested.”

  “Maybe she wanted to be with her friends,” I say pleasantly, not wanting to get in another bitch-fest about his family.

  He snorts. “It would have made everything simpler if she’d just given me the building years ago, like everyone wanted.”

  I bite my tongue. Which currently tastes like plastic, thanks to my miserable excuse for an entrée.

  “But then, she never could just go with the flow,” Brett complains. “I remember, even when I was a kid, she would send me these weird handmade gifts instead of the stuff I wanted for my birthday. I mean, the old bird had money. Who wants a fucking quilt?”

  My temper snaps. Marigold loved quilting, and she would spend months working on special pieces for her family and friends. “You had no idea who she was—”

  “Darling,” Fitz cuts me off. He lays a warning hand on my arm. “I know talking about Marigold makes you emotional. Why don’t you go freshen up?”

  I glare back. But he’s right. I even told him to run interference if it looked like I was going to dump Brett’s water glass over his head.

  Which is seeming like an excellent plan right about now.

  But if normal Brett is suspicious and bitter, drenched Brett will be out for my blood.

  Sorry, Marigold. I send up a silent apology for not defending her good name. I get to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  I make my way past the row of weird fake bamboo and into the white expanse of the marble bathroom. What’s with those people who splash cold water on their face? I don’t want to wreck my makeup, so I just stick my hands under the faucet instead and take a deep breath.

  Almost there, I reassure myself. Just dessert and coffee, and we’re home free.

  Or, based on what I’ve seen of the menu, carob foam on a slice of raw lemon, with a mug of steeped grass tea.

  The door swings open, and Vanessa walks in. My heart sinks, and I force a smile as she saunters over to the mirror and plucks a lipstick from her tiny clutch purse.

  “I like your shoes,” I offer. Marigold’s number-one philosophy was when all else fails, give a compliment. And they are cute: sky-high wedges that would break my ankles in two.

  “Oh, thanks,” Vanessa preens. “They’re vegan leather, hand-made by artisan villagers in Northern Tibet.”

  I blink. “Well, those villagers did a great job.”

  She turns to me and bites her lip. “I wasn’t going to say anything before, but, well, us girls have to look out for each other’s wellness. Should you really be drinking?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, in your condition.” Vanessa eyes my stomach meaningfully.

  Is she serious?!

  “I’m not pregnant,” I say, trying not to sound offended. “But thanks for the concern!”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “But, if you’re not . . . Then why did he . . . ?”

  “Marry me?” I finish her insult for her. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just lucky!”

  “Wow.” Vanessa looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “That’s amazing. Seriously, my friends and I had him on our hit lists, but we never thought he would actually settl
e down. Wow. Wow.”

  I clear my throat. She’s gazing at me like I’m a unicorn who just wandered in from Candyland. Is Fitz marrying me really such a magic trick?

  Wait, I don’t want to know the answer to that.

  “How did you hook him?” Vanessa asks, eager now. “Because I was almost there with this guy in Florida, but he called it off at the last minute and totally threw my schedule off. I’m supposed to be pregnant with my first by now,” she continues, “pivoting to mommy-blogging, and instead, I’m stuck doing the single girl in the city, hashtag brunch, hashtag girlcrew bullshit. And Brett, I mean, he pretends to be this bigshot, but it’s all talk. If he doesn’t get this stupid condo deal through, he’s basically broke.”

  “Condo deal?” I perk up.

  “Uh huh. He’s got some partnership with a developer, to turn some building into these fancy condos, and sell for millions of dollars. Oh wait.” Vanessa’s eyes widen. “That’s the one he’s fighting you for, isn’t it? Whoops! You won’t say anything. I think that was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Don’t worry.” I smile wider. “Just between us girls.”

  We head back to our table, and this time, I’m determined to keep the peace. If Brett has already lined up a developer, he’ll be looking for any excuse to challenge the will and kick us all out onto the street. That means, no matter what Fitz does, or how annoying his stories get, I just need to suck it up and smile like a smitten new bride would.

  Fitz greets me with a smile. “Feeling better?” he asks, patronizing.

  “Much, darling,” I agree.

  And just before I can pour the rest of the wine bottle directly down my throat, he gets to his feet—and then hops onto his chair. “Can I have your attention, please?” he calls to the rest of diners.

  Oh dear Lord, what now?

  The restaurant hushes, and I begin to get a very bad feeling. Even worse than the hunger pangs currently ricocheting around my empty stomach.

  “Now, some of you may know, I made a very public vow never to settle down,” Fitz announces, grinning. But all that changed when I met the woman of my dreams. Becca,” he announces loudly, pointing down at me. “You are the bread to my butter, the Khaleesi to my Khal Drogo.”

  What is he even talking about? I have no idea. I just know that there’s an entire room of strangers staring at me, and no way to escape.

  “I hate you,” I mouth at him, but Fitz just grins wider.

  “I love you too sweetie. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, too. This song is for you. Hit it!”

  He leaps down from the chair, just as music begins to play loudly and I realize my humiliation is just beginning. Because he didn’t pick something classy. A little Elvis or Frank Sinatra to serenade me with style. No, he had to go right for the good stuff.

  Backstreet Boys.

  “You are my fire, my one desire . . .” Fitz sings happily. My cheeks are burning, and I want to crawl under the table and never come out. Why did I have to marry an attention-whore? Weren’t there any nice agoraphobic, anti-social men out there for the taking?

  “Tell me why!” he croons, and if I weren’t planning on ways to kill him, I would admit he has a pretty good voice. But why couldn’t he have decided to show off his pipes at the karaoke bar, or in the shower, like most normal human beings?

  As the torture continues, I sneak a look around the room. Everybody is looking at us, smiling along like this is somehow an acceptable form of affection and not a targeted attack. Fitz is laying it on thick, and I can see some women even looking jealous. You can have him! I want to cry, but that would probably give the game away, so I’m stuck grimacing a smile as Fitz hams it up, even throwing in a couple of dance moves.

  “I WANT IT THAAAAAAT WAY,” Fitz finishes, and the room erupts in applause. I don’t even have time to feel relief that he’s done before Fitz is pulling me to my feet and sweeping me into his arms.

  “That’s for the Rogaine,” he murmurs with a wicked grin. Then he dips me halfway to the floor and kisses me.

  Boy, does he kiss me.

  Maybe it’s because I know that all eyes are on us to sell this “fake relationship” deal, or maybe it’s the fact that Fitz has clearly become a master at the art of sweeping women off their feet, because I’m powerless to resist.

  His mouth presses against mine, warm and seductive. His tongue eases my lips apart, and then pretending is the last thing on my mind, because we’re full-on making out here; my head spinning and my body waking all the way up.

  Hot, and deep, and hard. Fitz kisses me like it’s just the two of us, like we’re horny teenagers in the back of his car on a Friday night before curfew.

  Like he would rip my clothes off and fuck me senseless right here in the middle of the restaurant.

  He releases me and draws back with a flourish. I pant for air. And maybe my panties, too, because they must have melted clean away. Our audience is whistling and hooting, and even Vanessa looks green with jealousy.

  “I think that’s our cue to leave,” Fitz murmurs, quiet, so nobody can hear. “What do you say—want to get out of here and find some real food?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life before.

  “Sorry, I need to get this one home,” he grins widely, shaking Brett’s hand and saying his goodbyes so fast, I could give him a medal. “See you guys soon. Maybe Christmas? Bye!”

  He grabs my hand and drags me to the exit. We’re just a few steps from freedom when somebody steps out from behind the hostess stand, and I come face to face with . . .

  He Who Shall Not Be Named.

  Fake husband, meet real ex-fiancé.

  Oh God. What do I do now?

  6

  Becca

  I stare at him in disbelief. New York may be big and overcrowded, but the one thing it’s excellent for is avoiding ex-boyfriends. It’s been a year since we split—well, since he dumped me out of nowhere and broke my heart—and I haven’t run into him once. I changed my usual Starbucks, switched subway routes to work, and gave up my favorite little Chinese place down the block from his apartment. And it worked. No bumping into him on the street with greasy hair and laundry-day outfits, no awkward date-night run-ins making small talk over moo shu pork.

  I guess the gods were storing all the awkward up for tonight.

  “Becca?” There he is, standing right in front of me with those wire-rimmed spectacles and the same sheepish expression on his face. “It is you. Wow. I mean, I caught the song, but . . .”

  You didn’t think I was worthy of a public serenade? Suddenly, I’m relieved to be clutching Fitz’s hand.

  “Christian,” I say, my head spinning. “Uh. Hi. This is Fitz.” I thrust him forwards. “My husband.”

  Christian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Congratulations, you guys. Come over here, hon,” he says, turning, and then SHE comes out from behind the bamboo plant.

  Mary Jane “call me MJ” Prettyman.

  Five-foot-five of cute-as-a-button, home baking, “I knitted this sweater myself” fiancé-stealing scum. With a beach ball stuffed beneath her dress and a radiant glow on her face.

  I can’t look away. That’s not a food baby struggling to free itself from her Spanx. She’s pregnant. Seriously pregnant.

  “Oh my gosh!” she’s squealing over Fitz and me. “That’s so great. See, I knew your story would have a happy ending, too. We both found our soulmates, just the way it was supposed to happen.” She beams up at Christian, stroking his arm possessively.

  My jaw drops. Is she serious right now?

  Fitz must have clocked my disbelief, because he gently steers me to the door. “Great to meet you guys,” he calls behind us. “But we really have to run!”

  He leads me outside and halfway down the street. I follow blindly, caught up in an old wave of betrayal and bitterness.

  The way it was supposed to happen?

  Fuck, that girl has nerve of steel hiding beneath her Etsy embr
oidered cardigan.

  “So . . .” Fitz says, once we’re finally a safe distance away from what can officially be known as the worst restaurant on the entire freaking planet. “That was the ex-fiancé you didn’t want to talk about?”

  “Yup.”

  “And his lovely partner is . . . ?”

  “The bitch who broke us up.”

  The words aren’t even out before I’m regretting them. “No, that’s not fair,” I correct myself, scuffing the sidewalk. “He’s the one who did this. She just sent him a message on Facebook saying gee, it had been so long since they saw each other in high school, why not get together for lunch and catch up? He’s the asshole who came back from said lunch and called off our engagement because the two of them were destined to be together.”

  “That must have been some lunch,” Fitz jokes, and I manage to crack a smile.

  “Clearly, it wasn’t at Saline.”

  He laughs, and the sound of it calms me, somehow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Running into him like that sucks.”

  “How would you know?” I shoot back, before I can stop myself. “You’ve never had your heart broken.”

  Fitz pauses.

  “Sorry.” I sigh. “I’m hungry and cranky and you did just humiliate me in front of an entire roomful of people . . . But that’s no excuse.”

  He smiles. “That’s my cue to find you some carbs, right?”

  “You’re learning fast,” I say, relieved—that he’s not holding my crankiness against me. And also the promise of carbs. “And, thanks for having my back at dinner. I mean, aside from the complete and utter humiliation part.”

  “Look at it this way,” Fitz grins. “Nobody would make an ass of themselves like I did unless they were seriously in love. Brett has to believe your story now.”

  “Here’s hoping,” I agree. Because if he doesn’t, this whole painful, embarrassing night will have been for nothing.

  Fitz takes me to a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, where I inhale three slices with extra pepperoni fast enough that even the guy at the counter gives me a clap. Then we stop at the ice cream shop next door for double-chocolate cones, and slowly stroll back downtown towards my place as the carbs line my stomach and the sugar hits my bloodstream, and I finally start to relax.