Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  Music is playing, and Lionel and Stanley are already there when I arrive—although Lionel is wearing a pair of spotless slacks that read “cocktails” not “manual labor.” He already has a snack table assembled of bagels and lox from the deli around the corner.

  “Sweetie, we were just telling Howard about your new friend. How is he? Will he be stopping by?” Lionel cranes his neck eagerly to check the hallway for passing British hotties.

  The mention of Fitz makes my cheeks flush all over again. “I, um . . .” I stutter, trying to think of an excuse.

  “Hush that, leave the poor girl alone.” Stanley sweeps me inside. The living room is already covered in sheets, with cans of paint and brushes piled on the table. “She doesn’t need you poking around her love life.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s what we’re here for,” Lionel objects. “Who else is going to make sure he’s good enough for our Becca?”

  “Where’s Howard?” I change the subject.

  “In the library.” Stanley waves vaguely down the hall. “Tell him if he doesn’t pick a color soon, the whole room is going to be flamingo pink.”

  I make my escape from their interrogation and find Howard tucked away reading in his library. The room is lined with bookcases, and there are display cases full of dried insects and creepy-crawlies. “Hey,” I say, stepping into the room. “You’re missing the party.”

  Howard looks up from his book with a reluctant expression. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood, to tell you the truth.”

  I give him a sympathetic smile. I didn’t know his wife, Maggie, for long before she passed, but the two of them seemed devoted to each other, and I know it’s not been easy for Howard, adjusting to life alone at sixty-eight.

  “Didn’t you tell me that a fresh coat of paint would brighten the whole place up?” I remind him. “If you leave Lionel and Stanley to their own devices, the place will look like Palm Beach.”

  He smiles at that. “True. I just hate to see things change, that’s all.”

  “Not all change is bad,” I point out gently. “And you have to admit, that shade of gray on the walls doesn’t exactly fill your heart with joy when you walk in the door.”

  “It used to be blue,” he says, looking nostalgic. “We painted it together when we moved in. Must be thirty years ago, now.”

  “We could find the original color, if you want?” I offer. “Get it looking as good as new.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s time for something else.” Howard gets to his feet. “But not pink.”

  I laugh. “Amen to that.”

  We rejoin the others in the living room, and Howard picks out a warm shade of white—much to Lionel’s disappointment. “How about a nice peach?” he suggests. “Or a bold red. Very daring.”

  “Winter Magnolia is about as daring as I need to be,” Howard replies with a chuckle.

  Lionel sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe we should redecorate, what do you think?” he nudges Stanley.

  “Whatever you want, as long as I don’t have to lift a finger or spend a dime!”

  I laugh. “That philosophy will get you nowhere.”

  He winks. “That’s the point, love.”

  We get to work scrubbing the walls and prepping for paint, and I brace myself for the third degree. Sure enough, I’m up to my elbows in a sudsy bucket when Lionel turns to me.

  “So . . . are you going to make us beg?” Lionel demands. “Howard, have you heard any details about Becca’s new man?”

  “There’s a new man?” Howard perks up. “Now that’s news.”

  “No, it’s not!” I exclaim. “It’s private. The opposite of news.”

  Howard turns on his sad face. “Now, you wouldn’t deny a poor widower a ray of hope, would you?”

  Lionel cackles. “There, you can’t hold out on us now.”

  “Sure I can.” I roll my eyes and focus on scrubbing.

  “Nothing? Really?”

  I give an uncomfortable shrug. “It’s . . . new. I don’t want to jinx it.”

  Stanley takes pity on me. “Back off, you two. Can’t you see? She really likes him!”

  I want to deny it, but I realize it’s easier if they just think I’m smitten and self-conscious. Not that I’m hiding a fake marriage from my closest friends.

  My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Another message from Fitz.

  I’m on your street. Are you around?

  I gulp. Fitz? Here? Hell nope.

  I’m just about to text out a reply, when another message pops up.

  Your neighbor says you’re painting. On my way up.

  I stand up so fast, I nearly knock over a can of paint.

  “I bet I can guess who that’s from,” Lionel teases me. “Look at you, your cheeks have gone all red.”

  “I, um, I’ll be right back!” I yelp, dashing out of the door and into the hallway—just as Fitz emerges from the stairwell.

  I stop dead.

  Why does he have to look so handsome? In a pair of dark-wash jeans and a soft-looking black T-shirt, he’s like a cool drink of water.

  Or a hot bath.

  Oh God. Like I needed to remember that.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down so nobody will hear.

  “Lovely to see you too.” Fitz grins, looking me over from head to toe. “I like the new look. Very Raggedy Ann.”

  He reaches out to touch my headscarf. I bat his hand away. “You can’t just show up here without warning. These people don’t know our story, remember?”

  “Well, I got the feeling you were avoiding me.” Fitz smirks. “Now why would you do something like that?”

  I gape like a fish for a moment, before remembering my strategy. Deny, deny, deny!

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage to say. “I thought dinner with Brett went well.”

  Fitz arches an eyebrow, and for a moment, I think he’s going to call me on what really happened last night, but then he just gives a smile. “You’re right. I think he bought the act. Thanks to my amazing boyband moves.”

  I exhale in relief.

  “You missed your calling as a pop idol,” I agree. Or a diplomat.

  “So, what are you up to today?” he asks, and I explain about painting Howard’s apartment. “Sounds like fun,” Fitz says. “Do you need a hand?”

  “No!” I yelp. “I mean, that would make life way more complicated.”

  “How so?” Fitz asks.

  “These are my friends.” I send a guilty look down the hallway. “I don’t want to lie to them.”

  “So don’t.” Fitz shrugs. “Just tell them I’m your date. Your devastatingly handsome, incredibly charming date,” he adds with a grin.

  I roll my eyes, but I don’t see a way around it. I can’t exactly hide him away for the next few weeks, and it’ll look kind of weird if he’s never stepped foot in my place.

  “Fine,” I agree reluctantly. “But whatever you do . . .”

  “I know, I know.” Fitz grins. “I promise I won’t tell them we’re married.”

  I hear a clattering noise behind me, and whirl around. Lionel is standing there—and has a paint can on the floor sloshing Winter Magnolia all over the hall. “You did what?!” he cries, and I cringe.

  Oh crap.

  “It’s not—I didn’t—” I try to explain, but he just sweeps me into a hug and shakes Fitz enthusiastically by the hand.

  “Why didn’t we know about this? Congratulations!”

  “No, wait—” I try to protest, but it’s too late.

  “You naughty girl, trying to sneak something like this past us,” Lionel beams. “This calls for a celebration!”

  My heart sinks. He’s already barreling back inside. “I told you!” I hiss at Fitz, and he gives me an apologetic grin.

  “Whoops?”

  Already I can hear Lionel proclaiming, “Becca got married!”

  The secret is well and truly blown.

  8


  Fitz

  They say that when you marry someone, you marry their family, too, but I never quite understood it until I’m sipping warm beer with a paint roller in my hand, in the middle of an impromptu wedding celebration-slash-painting party.

  I’ll say one thing for Becca’s neighbors, they’ve got her back. I don’t think I’ve been quizzed like this since I took Charlotte Dewberry to the Year Eleven boat party formal, and found her father waiting at the end of her drive with a cricket bat when we got home.

  I mean, sure, it was 6 a.m., but still, there’d been no need to smash the windows of my Fiat Panda.

  “And will you be living here, or in Europe?” One of Becca’s neighbors, a German woman, sizes me up.

  “I would imagine here,” I answer, looking around for rescue. But Becca is trapped across the room, looking uncomfortable.

  I feel a tiny bit guilty. She said she didn’t want to lie to anyone, and here she is, having to play the happy bride. But I didn’t mean to announce our nuptials. And I definitely didn’t think we’d wind up in the middle of this scrum.

  “And how compatible are you sexually?”

  My head whips back around. “I beg your pardon?”

  For a moment, I wonder if she somehow knows about the phone incident last night. Lord knows I haven’t been able to think about anything else. It’s why I somehow found myself over on Becca’s side of town today, wondering if she wanted any help with her reading.

  The woman looks me up and down. “You certainly seem virile, but sexual compatibility is of great importance in a marriage. Hunter and I have similar erotic sensibilities. It’s why our relationship is so strong.” She nods to the Adonis-like guy painting the ceiling. Shirtless.

  Way to go, Olga.

  “Becca has no complaints,” I reply diplomatically. And after last night’s preview, neither do I.

  She snorts. “A lack of complaints does not mean enthusiastic praise. I have several books and articles, if you would like the tuition.”

  Is she offering . . . ?

  I cough. “Perhaps another time. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  I try to duck away, but I’m barely across the room when another one of the crowd intercepts me. “So, Fitz . . .” It’s the older guy, Howard, with a bald patch and horn-rimmed glasses. “Let’s have a little chat.”

  “I was actually just—” I gesture towards the snack table, but it’s no use.

  “Now, I think.” He takes my arm in a surprisingly firm grip and steers me down the hallway to a musty old library.

  He shuts the door behind us.

  Oh dear, what now? He doesn’t seem the type to be offering me sex tips. At least, I hope not. I browse the shelves, and I’m amused to see he has a full set of Alex Chase books too. Maybe they have a building book club here.

  Howard clears his throat. I turn. He fixes me with a suspicious stare. “What are your intentions?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, stalling for time.

  My intentions are pretty much trying to tempt Becca into a wild fling before she gets her inheritance and we go our separate ways with a no-fault divorce, but I’m guessing that reply wouldn’t go down too well.

  “Towards Becca.” Howard gives me a scowl. “She’s a very special girl, and I don’t know what you’re playing at, with this quickie wedding—”

  “It was her idea,” I protest, before he can bring out a shotgun. “I promise, I have all the respect in the world of her.”

  Howard pauses. “Well, good,” he says, frowning. “We care about her very much.”

  “I can see that,” I agree. It’s clear that everybody in the building adores her. “I can assure you, I won’t do anything to hurt her.”

  It’s not a lie. Despite what Olivia and everyone else think about me, I don’t go around trying to ruin people’s lives.

  “You better not.” Howard scowls. “I know people at the IRS.”

  I blink, confused by the sudden change in topic. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  He snorts. “You haven’t suffered through an audit yet, sonny. Just remember, we’ll be watching you.”

  Luckily, the door swings open. It’s Becca. “There you are!” she exclaims, looking panicked. “I wondered where you were.”

  “Right here.” I exhale in relief. “Just having a chat with Howard.”

  Becca’s eyes flick back and forth between us, but her fake smile stays plastered on her face. “Oh. Great. Can I, umm, steal you for a sec?”

  “Please do.” I grab her hand and hurry to the door. “Good chat, Howard. Uh, thanks.”

  Becca drags me through the apartment, and out into the hall, where, thankfully, it’s quiet, with nobody around. “What were you telling him?” she demands, before dropping her voice.

  “Just that I aim to be the perfect husband,” I reassure her.

  “Oh.” She exhales in a whoosh. Suddenly, she just looks tired. I realize this whole lie is taking its toll.

  “Why don’t I take off?” I suggest, feeling bad for her. “Tell them I had an appointment, and you can finish up here alone. That way, I can’t put my foot in my mouth again, and you can tell them whatever you want.”

  “Or go take a very long nap,” Becca sighs.

  “I’m sorry.” I pull her into a hug without thinking. Becca tenses for a moment, but then relaxes in my arms. I rub her back, trying to think supportive, friendly thoughts.

  And not hot, naked ones.

  She pulls away. “Thanks,” she says with a sigh, pushing back her hair. “I guess it was too much to hope that we could keep this under wraps and nobody would know.”

  “Are you sure you don’t just want to tell them?” I ask. “They’re your friends. I’m sure they’d be touched to know you’re doing all this for them.”

  Becca shakes her head. “I can’t risk getting their hopes up, not until everything is signed and sealed.”

  There she is again, being all noble and self-sacrificing. And meanwhile, I’m just planning when to get her into bed.

  Talk about a reality check.

  “I should go,” I say again, before I can screw this day up for her any more than I already have. “Just call me when you need an appearance for the lawyers, or Brett.”

  “I will.” She gives me a faint smile. “Thanks.”

  I head back to my place, thinking hard about the day. What started as a fun prank is already getting way more complicated, and I can see how much Becca has riding on this charade.

  She’s a woman of many contradictions, that’s for sure. The organized planner who has flashcards waiting . . . and marries a complete stranger after five tequilas. The kind-hearted woman who wants to help her neighbors . . . who also can take me from zero to turned on with the naughtiest phone sex session I’ve ever had.

  I’m not sure what other surprises she’s got lurking beneath the surface, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t wait to find out.

  I’m hungry by the time I make it back to my place, so I duck into the Thai place across the street to grab some food to go. It’s my regular spot, they see me in here almost every night, so the owner pours me a beer while I wait.

  “Have you been here before?”

  I look up. A gorgeous redhead has walked in and is poring over the menu, looking hesitant. “Sorry.” She flashes me a smile. “I just never know what to order. Any recommendations?”

  “You can’t go wrong with the Pad Thai or the spicy chicken wings,” I offer.

  “Thanks,” she beams. “That sounds delicious.” She’s wearing a tight red sweater cut in a low-V, with jeans that hug her shapely figure, and as she moves closer, she meets my eyes with a flirty smile.

  In other words, exactly my type.

  Except I’ve already promised Becca no fooling around until we’ve officially “split.”

  Damn, I deserve a medal for this.

  “Mmm, I could use a cold beer,” Red continues, eyeing my drink. Hint, hint.

  I’m almost relieved w
hen the waitress interrupts us, delivering my two bulging bags of food—enough to last me the week. “Enjoy your dinner,” I tell Red politely.

  “All that, just for you?” she asks, teasing.

  “It seems so.”

  “Now that’s a shame. A guy like you, eating all alone on a Saturday night.” Red flutters her eyelashes at me. “How about I join you, liven things up?”

  I cough. Never mind a medal, I deserve the Nobel prize for resisting an offer like that. But I made Becca a promise . . . and somehow, the memory of her breathy voice on the phone last night feels more enticing than this woman right in front of me. “Thanks, another time maybe.”

  “Are you sure?” Red sidles closer and runs her fingertips down my arm. “I know a great bar nearby. I could call some of my girlfriends, make it a party.”

  I pause. I’m used to women hitting on me, but there’s something different about this one. A determined glint in her eye.

  “No. Thank you,” I say politely, backing away. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Come on, Fitz.”

  I stop. “How do you know my name?”

  She looks flustered, then covers. “Well, come on, you have quite the reputation.”

  Sure I do. But I’m guessing that’s not how Red heard about me.

  “Goodnight.” I stride out of the restaurant and head across the street to my building, my suspicions growing. “Any messages?” I ask the doorman, Andre. “Or people hanging around?”

  “I was going to call you.” He nods. “There was a guy here earlier, asking about you. He had all kinds of questions about you—and your wife,” he adds.

  Dammit.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing, boss.” Andre grins. “Except how you two seem very happy together.”

  I exhale, relieved. “And the guy, what did he look like? Did he leave a name?”

  Andre shakes his head. “I asked, but he didn’t want to leave a message. Seemed pretty sketchy to me. He waited around outside for a while and met a woman there. Hot redhead. Not sure where they went after that.”

  Somewhere with a view of the street, I’m guessing. So they could stake out the building—and send Red in to the Thai place after me.