Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  “That?” Josh snorts. “Don’t let your new wife hear you talking. Mazel Tov, by the way.”

  “It’s . . . a long story,” I reply. I look across the room at Becca, who’s checking something on her phone. Her hair tumbles into her eyes, her sweater fitting her just right, and I’m hit by another steamy flashback to last night. Her, up against the window, moaning my name as she came apart.

  “. . . Fitz?” Josh repeats again, and I reluctantly drag my thoughts back to the present situation.

  “I’m here.”

  “I don’t know if you were planning on keeping your marriage under wraps, but it’s all over the gossip sites, and the papers will be running it too, in the morning.”

  I wince. So much for low-key and anonymous. But on the other hand, if the cat’s out of the bag, then there’s nothing stopping me hitting the town with Becca—or the sheets, either.

  “Thanks for the update,” I tell him. “Now, don’t disturb me for the next week.”

  Josh chuckles. “Honeymoon phase, huh? Say no more.”

  I hang up and stroll back to Becca. “Good news?” she asks hopefully.

  “If you count our marriage being splashed across the gossip columns as good, then yes,” I tell her, and watch her jaw drop.

  “What? Fitz, no—”

  I cut off her wail with a kiss.

  Much better.

  Becca sinks against me, her delicious curves hot under my hands. She kisses me back hungrily, then pulls away. “This was supposed to be a secret,” she sighs.

  “Look on the bright side. More evidence to convince Brett it’s all real,” I point out, sliding my hands over her ass.

  Also real? The raging lust that’s gone from zero to a hundred just touching her.

  I can’t get enough, so I kiss her again, pushing her up against the counter.

  “Don’t think you can distract me,” Becca says breathlessly, in between kisses. “I want the full story.”

  “Later.” I pull her close again, reaching for her sweater. Becca giggles, and ducks back.

  “I’m supposed to go back to the office.” She looks reluctant. “This was only my lunch break . . . which has been two hours now!”

  “So call in sick for the rest of the day.”

  She looks guilty. “I can’t lie to them.”

  “Then say your husband is very, very ill, and needs to be nursed.” I smirk. “Preferably, with you wearing a sexy uniform.”

  “Fitz!” She laughs—but she doesn’t make a move to leave.

  Bingo.

  “It’s already after two,” I point out, leaning in to nibble at her earlobe. She shivers, melting a little more against me. “By the time you make it back across town . . .” My hands slide lower, and she gasps against me. “It’ll be time to clock off again.”

  “You’re right,” she agrees, smiling. “I’m better off just staying here. Avoiding rush hour. And finding out all about this secret double life of yours.”

  “Hold up,” I protest. “I never said that.”

  “Hmmm.” Becca pauses, assessing me. “You really don’t want to tell? How about I get one question, you get an item of clothing?” she says with a wicked smirk.

  “Strip Twenty Questions?” I quirk an eyebrow. “I like the sound of this game.”

  “I thought you might.” She grins and begins backing her way down the hallway towards my bedroom. “When did you start writing?”

  I strip my shirt over my head. “At university,” I reply, my blood already running hot for her. “I was bored with all the coursework and fed up with all the pressure from my father. I had dreams of just running away and exploring the world,” I admit, “and, well, somehow, that became my first book.” I definitely didn’t expect it to turn into a career, but here we are.

  It definitely beats insurance for a job.

  We reach the bedroom. I snap my fingers. “Sweater, off.”

  Becca grins and tugs it up over her stomach in a striptease. She tosses it to the floor, revealing her magnificent breasts spilling out of a flirty pink bra.

  I really, really like this game.

  “Why do you keep it secret?” Becca asks. “If I was a bestseller, I’d want to shout it from the rooftops.”

  I pause for a moment. “It’s easier this way,” I admit. “Nobody has any expectations of me, I can write whatever I want, and it’s not me. It’s Alex.”

  “But don’t you want the praise? The legions of adoring fans?” Becca asks, teasing.

  I laugh. “I’m doing just fine for adoration, thanks. And that was two questions,” I add with a smirk. “Jeans, shoes, off.”

  Becca follows my orders, until she’s dressed in just her bra and panties. I shuck off my pants, so we’re even.

  She pauses, suddenly frowning. “This means I owe you an apology.”

  “What for?” I’m distracted by the sight of her, tantalizingly close to naked.

  “Assuming you were just . . . you know.” Becca bites her lip.

  I grin. “A reckless, lazy, good-for-nothing trust-fund kid?”

  “I never said that!”

  “You thought it, though,” I say, teasing.

  She blushes. “I’m sorry. But in my defense, you don’t exactly try to avoid the stereotype. Not many people get all of this from their own hard work,” she adds, gesturing at my apartment and the sweeping city views.

  True. And if my parents had their way, I would be exactly what the world thinks I am: another guy coasting along on family connections and a cushy corporate job. At least, if I hadn’t been looking for something to distract me in the library one afternoon and dreamed up the first globetrotting tale.

  “Disappointed?” I ask lightly.

  Becca laughs. “Relieved!” she exclaims. “It didn’t add up, your public persona and you in real life.”

  “Why not?”

  She gives a little shrug. “You’re too kind. And thoughtful.”

  Her words give me a warm feeling inside, but I still have a reputation to uphold. I clutch my chest dramatically. “Owww! Next thing you’ll be calling me ‘nice.’ ”

  She snorts. “God forbid.”

  I pull her closer. “Enough questions,” I say, kissing her neck. Becca giggles.

  “Technically, I have two more before I’m naked.”

  “Really?” In one deft move, I unsnap her bra, and slide her panties down. “Whoops, I guess the game is over.”

  And that’s the last talking we do for a very long time.

  It’s dark out by the time my stomach starts to rumble. I lift my head, lying exhausted and naked in bed.

  Which is my new favorite place, especially with Becca also naked and exhausted beside me.

  Damn, that woman has moves.

  “Food,” she sighs, snuggling closer. “We need food.”

  I yawn, not wanting to let go of her. Her hair is tickling softly against my face, and her body is nestling against my front. Usually, this is my cue to make an excuse about a meeting or workout, and send them on their merry post-orgasmic way, but with Becca . . . ?

  I want to stay right here.

  “Too much effort . . .” I mumble, holding tighter.

  “To call for delivery?”

  I smile against her and slide my hands over her curves. “My phone . . . Too far . . .”

  She laughs. “I guess I’ll have to go hunt and gather myself then.”

  She slides out of bed, treating me to an excellent view of her naked body. She grabs my robe, but I protest. “Sorry, didn’t I mention? I have a rule now. No clothing in the apartment.”

  Becca tosses a pillow at me. “Phone?”

  “Somewhere over there . . .” I gesture, and she fishes it from my pants pocket.

  She frowns. “Um, Fitz? You have fifteen missed calls.”

  “And?” I yawn.

  “They’re from an international number.”

  Oh shit.

  I sit up, as Becca plays the first voicemail on speaker.

&n
bsp; “Arthur, it’s your mother,” the prim English voice sounds, ringing with tight-lipped disappointment—my mother’s favorite tone. “We just had a very distressing call from the Daily Mail. They say you’ve gone and gotten yourself married. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking, but I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. Still, if it’s not too much trouble, it would be nice to actually meet the woman you’ve chosen to carry the Fitzgerald family name,” she adds, passive-aggressive as ever. “Perhaps at the Fitzgerald anniversary benefit this weekend. I’m sure your invitation got lost in the mail, again. We look forward to meeting her.”

  There’s a click. I wince.

  Becca gives me a sympathetic smile. “Crap, I’m sorry.”

  “Why? For giving them another reason to be disappointed in me?” I shrug. “Believe me, it’s their favorite hobby.”

  “Still . . . I feel bad.” She sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “All this, and Brett sniffing around, too . . .”

  I suddenly think of that collection of souvenirs in her apartment, and I get an excellent idea.

  “How about we go?” I suggest, tugging her closer.

  “Where?”

  “London.” I smile. “You can meet the parents and run out the clock on Brett and this whole inheritance business. After all, he can’t get under your skin if you’re a thousand miles away.”

  Becca gapes. “Are you serious? England?!”

  I chuckle. From the excitement in her voice, I’m guessing it’s a good plan. “Sure. We’ll see the sights, drink some tea . . .”

  Join the mile-high club.

  The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. And pissing off my parents, too? That’s just an added bonus.

  “How about it?”

  14

  Becca

  England!

  Maybe for some people, the prospect of a trans-Atlantic jaunt is no big deal, but I am so not one of those people. I barely have time to put in for the week off work and pack my bags before Fitz is whisking me onto a first-class flight.

  “We have hot towels!” I whisper-squeal in delight as we get settled in the cabin. “And cocktails! And this seat lays completely flat!”

  Fitz looks amused. “You’re easily impressed. I like that in a woman.”

  I lightly smack his arm. “Hush, you. Some of us have been slumming it in coach our entire lives. I can’t believe I get my own special blanket. And an amenities kit! This sure beats the Greyhound bus.”

  “Just wait until we get to the hotel,” Fitz teases. “They have miniature-sized bottles there, too.”

  I settle back in my seat and stretch my legs all the way out. I can’t even touch the back of the seat in front. “I love being rich. Or at least, pretending to be, temporarily.”

  “Doesn’t it make you tempted to sell Waverly?” Fitz arches an eyebrow. “You could fly first class for life.”

  The idea is tempting for a moment, until I think of Lionel, and Stanley, and Howard—all the people I would be screwing over if I sold the place out from under them. Keeping the building is the one thing that has kept me strong through this crazy charade—and why it’s such great timing to get away from Brett’s prying eyes until everything is safely finalized.

  “I couldn’t,” I answer with a sigh. “That pesky conscience of mine, remember? But it’s awfully nice for now.”

  “Well, in that case, how about some more champagne?” Fitz hits a button, and like magic, a stewardess materializes. Not scowling and overworked, but with a bright smile.

  “Can I help you with something, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

  “More drinks for me and my lovely wife,” he says, taking my hand. “And how about some of those yummy chocolates, too?”

  “Right away!”

  I sigh happily—and not just because Fitz is holding my hand. Is it terrible that I’m enjoying life as Mrs. Fitzgerald so much? The moist hand towels, the mind-blowing sex, the international travel . . . I know we’re just supposed to be playing pretend here, but the more time I spend with him, the more natural it all feels. Somewhere, a part of me is waving a red flag . . . but that part is getting smothered by the aforementioned hand towels.

  The stewardess returns with our drinks and a box of luxurious chocolates. I select a caramel-filled truffle and take a bite.

  “Is this what life is like for you all the time?” I ask, only half-joking. “People just bringing you things at the click of your fingers?”

  “Pretty much,” Fitz grins. “Except my finished manuscripts. I wish I could order those up too, but I have to write them the old-fashioned way, one word at a time.”

  There’s so much I want to ask him about his secret career, but the lay-flat bed is just too comfortable, and I fall asleep almost as soon as we hit cruising altitude. By the time I wake up, I’m almost disappointed to discover that I’ve missed the whole flight: we’re just about to land.

  “That was more comfortable than my actual bed,” I say, reluctantly sitting up again.

  “Then remind me to order you a new mattress before I sleep over again,” Fitz says, glancing over from where he’s busy typing on his laptop.

  I hide a smile. Fitz is planning on sleeping over . . . In my bed? I won’t argue with that. “Have you been working on your next book?” I ask instead.

  “Trying to.” He slams the laptop shut. “But enough of that . . .” Fitz’s smile turns suggestive. “How about I show you the first-class bathroom before we land?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I’m cut off by the pilot’s announcement that we’re getting ready to land. “Too late,” I say, surprised to feel a little disappointed. Was I really considering getting down and dirty with Fitz right here in a cramped airline bathroom stall?

  Yes, yes I was. Which is testament to how sexy he still looks after eight hours of travel. And how thoroughly he’s blown my mind every time our clothes have come off.

  “Hold that thought,” I tell him, smiling. “We’ll just have to save it until we’re on solid ground.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  We breeze through customs and pick up the rental car, then Fitz hits the road . . . which in England, means navigating a set of narrow, winding country roads in the pouring rain. I crane my neck, happily taking in the—wet—foreign landscape of woods, hills, and cute little villages.

  Fitz doesn’t look so charmed. “Welcome to England,” he says ruefully as the windshield wipers work overtime. “I hope you packed your rain boots.”

  I didn’t, actually. In fact, our trip was so last-minute that I basically threw a crazy mix of outfits into my suitcase and prayed for the best. Which means I’ve probably wound up with five pairs of pajamas, one cocktail dress, and a pair of my old Mamma Mia-worthy dungarees.

  “There’ll be stores if I need to pick up a few things, right?” I ask, trying to remember if I packed my toothbrush.

  “In Lower Dicker, after five o’clock? Good luck with that.”

  “Lower what?!” I repeat.

  Fitz smirks. “Didn’t I mention? My parents live in a charming village named Lower Dicker.”

  I hoot with laughter. “Are you serious? Oh my God. Is there an Upper Dicker?”

  “Yes, and there’s a bitter rivalry over the annual cricket tournament.”

  “What else do I need to know?” I ask, feeling nervous for the first time. Now that the whirlwind part of the trip is over, it’s dawning on me that I’m going to be meeting Fitz’s parents for the first time.

  As his wife.

  I gulp. “Am I going to be walking into the lion’s den here?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Fitz makes a face. “Luckily, my parents are too obsessed with proper etiquette to come right out and be rude to you, so just prepare for some serious passive-aggressive comments and back-handed compliments. Oh, and their favorite subject: what a no-good disappointment I am.”

  I snap my head around. “Wait, they don’t know about your books either?”

  “God, no.” Fit
z shudders. “I can just imagine their reactions if they ever found out. Dad would lecture me about the instability of the publishing industry, and my mother would just sneer and ask why I can’t write real literature.”

  “That’s . . . terrible.” I frown. I can’t believe they wouldn’t be happy to learn about Fitz’s success. After all, he’s on bookshelves all over the world. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe they would be proud of you.”

  “Ha!” Fitz snorts. “Are your parents proud of you for working so hard at the clinic?”

  “Um, good point.” I wince. “OK, so what are some safe topics of conversation?”

  “Politics and religion should be alright,” he says with a smile. “And Brexit. You know, nice, neutral things.”

  “Fitz!” I laugh. “Come on, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” He glances over. “Look, accept it now, nothing you do or say will make them like you. We’re here to make a brief appearance, shake their hands, and then escape to London as soon as possible.”

  I shake my head, determined. “No way. Parents love me, it’s my gift. I’ll find a way to make friends with them, just you wait and see.”

  Fitz just smirks and focuses on the drive, and soon we’re pulling off the main road and down a winding, tree-lined driveway. I peer through the mud-splattered windshield and my jaw drops.

  “Your family lives here?”

  Looming up ahead of us is a huge gray stone building. Hell, scratch “building,” this looks more like a historic stately home, the kind you find in the background of British costume dramas, belonging to an eligible young gentleman with ten thousand a year and excellent prospects. “Did you rent this place out as a set for Downton Abbey?” I ask, only part-kidding.

  “If we had, maybe they would have installed central heating,” Fitz says, pulling up in front. I take a deep breath and brace myself.

  Showtime.

  I join Fitz on the front steps, and he taps with the ornate knocker.

  No reply.

  “Hello?” Fitz pushes the door open and calls inside.

  Immediately, there’s a barking sound, and the scampering noise of three very smelly, muddy Labradors charging down the hallway and out the door.