Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  “Whoa, down boys!” Fitz says, stumbling back. They push past him and start sniffing and slobbering all over me.

  “I see they sent a welcoming committee,” Fitz says wryly. “After you.”

  I step around the dogs and head inside. There’s an imposing foyer, with a grand staircase and stern oil paintings glaring down from the walls.

  “You have a cheerful family,” I whisper, and Fitz laughs.

  “You should see Grandpa Nelson, we have to keep that one hidden in the library because he kept scaring off all the delivery guys. Hello?” he calls again, then shrugs. “Guess they forgot we were coming.” He turns to me, and his smile turns smoldering. “I wonder how we’ll amuse ourselves . . .”

  Fitz slides his hands around my waist and pulls me close.

  “I’m all gross from the flight!” I protest weakly as he kisses me. But Fitz doesn’t seem to mind. He pushes me back against the wall, hands sliding up under my sweater as the kiss deepens. Hot, and deep, and—

  “Oh, there you are.”

  I leap back with a yelp. An older woman is standing in the hallway, dressed in a beige twinset and tweed skirt. I can see the resemblance right away in her blue eyes, but while Fitz’s always seem to be laughing, there’s zero amusement in her gaze.

  In fact, she’s looking at us like something the dogs dragged in.

  “Mother,” Fitz says evenly. “Good to see you.”

  “Quite.” The woman’s gaze slips past him and looks me over from head to toe. I wish I’d thought to change at the airport, because I’m still dressed in my comfiest travel clothes, aka a pair of leggings masquerading as jeans, and a massive “The Future is Female” sweatshirt. “And this must be . . .”

  “Rebecca,” Fitz introduces me. “Becca, meet my mother, Lydia. Mum, this is—”

  “Your wife,” she finishes for him. “Yes, the newspaper had a delightful photo of the two of you, necking outside some restaurant. Not exactly one for the family photo album now, was it?”

  I cough, seriously embarrassed. Sure, it wasn’t a real wedding, but this must be the worst first impression in the world. Ever.

  “Sorry we didn’t invite you,” Fitz says, sounding totally unapologetic. “But it was all a bit of a whirlwind. You know how it is.”

  “I know how you are.” Lydia purses her lips. “Well, you better come and have some tea then.”

  She turns on her heel and disappears deeper into the house.

  The minute she’s out of earshot, I sink back against the wall with a whimper. “She hates me!”

  “I did warn you.” Fitz gives me a sympathetic grin.

  “She thinks I’m a slut.” I look down, and find my sweatshirt is still rucked up above my waist from Fitz’s exploring, and the pink lace band of my thong is visible above my jeans. “Oh God, how am I supposed to make up for this now?”

  “Look, you were never going to stand a chance,” Fitz says, sounding surprisingly matter-of-fact. “You’re guilty by association. With me.”

  I quickly rake my fingers through my hair, and make sure I’m not flashing anything I shouldn’t be. “OK,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Tea. I can do this.”

  In fact, I can’t wait. I missed most of the food on the flight, and now visions of a proper English afternoon tea are dancing in my mind. Scones, and clotted cream, and those little finger sandwiches they made on The Great British Bake Off. “Point me to the food.”

  Fitz’s smile slips. “About that . . .”

  He leads me in to an austere living room, decorated sometime a hundred years ago. There’s an uncomfortable-looking couch and some straight-backed chairs. Lydia is already sitting near the fire with a couple of the dogs sniffing around her as she pours tea into china cups. I look around eagerly for the spread of food, and find . . .

  A single plate of thin biscuits.

  Nooo!

  “Rebecca, was it?” Lydia gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Tell me about yourself.”

  We sit. “Well, I live in New York,” I begin, before Fitz interrupts me.

  “Becca works at a community health clinic. She helps people and does lots of charity work.”

  “So, she’s an office worker?” Lydia curls her lip.

  Fitz sighs. “How have you been?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Oh, just fine. Except for being inundated with calls about my only son’s marriage. I wish I could have told everyone more details, but of course, I didn’t know them, did I?”

  “It only happened a week ago,” Fitz tells her. His voice is still calm, but I can see his shoulders getting tense.

  I place a hand on his arm.

  “That was my fault,” I say, honestly. “We just got swept up in the romance of it all, didn’t we, Fitz?”

  “That’s right, pookie.” He grins back.

  Lydia makes a tutting noise. “You always did get carried away.”

  There are footsteps in the hall outside, and a tall man appears in the doorway. This must be Arthur Sr. He’s got gray hair and a disapproving look on his face, but again, the likeness is uncanny. Just age Fitz another thirty years and have him suck on lemons the whole time. “They’re here?” he demands. “Why didn’t you come get me?”

  “You said you weren’t to be disturbed,” Lydia says tightly.

  “I mean by one of your inane interruptions, not this!” The man strides forward. “Arthur.”

  “Dad.”

  Is it just me or did the temperature go down another ten degrees? Never mind the weather, this warm British welcome is going to leave me with pneumonia before the day is out!

  “Arthur and his new wife were just telling me how they met.” Lydia winces on the “wife” part.

  “Let me guess, it was one of your clubs,” his father says.

  “Actually, it’s a funny story,” Fitz begins. “We met in a—”

  “Bar!” I interrupt with a yelp. Now is so not the time for the “sex shop” story! “We met in a bar. Love at first sight.” I squeeze Fitz’s hand. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Whatever you say,” he grins, looking amused.

  “She works in an office,” Lydia adds faintly. Art Sr. scowls.

  “Typical. You always go rushing into things, never mind the consequences. God knows this will last about as long as your usual pranks, but in the meantime, we have business to attend.” He crosses to the bureau in the corner and pulls out a thick stack of documents. He marches back and drops them on the coffee table in front of us with a thwack. “I refuse to let your irresponsibility drag this family through the muck any more than you already have.”

  He adds a heavy fountain pen to the pile.

  “What’s this?” I ask, confused.

  “A post-nuptial agreement,” Art Sr. says. “I don’t care what you thought you’d be getting by marrying my wastrel of a son, but I’m here to tell you it won’t be a penny!”

  “Welcome to the family,” Fitz says wryly after we escape to the village pub for a real dinner. The place is cozy and cute, with low wooden beams and a fire roaring in the grate—which I need to warm up after the Arctic reception we just got back at the house.

  “I know you said your family was bad, but I wasn’t expecting that . . .” I say, still shell-shocked by the open hostility. I’m so stunned, I’m barely even touching my hearty meat pie. “I mean, my parents are terrible too, but at least they mask it with fake concern and disappointment.”

  “Here, drink this.” Fitz nudges over a pint of something strong and dark. “You get used to it after a while.”

  “The beer?”

  “No, the sense of being a constant failure.”

  I look over at that, struck by Fitz’s light tone. I can’t believe he’s taking this so well—until I realize he’s probably been dealing with it his whole life.

  Suddenly, his devil-may-care attitude makes way more sense. After all, it’s probably the only way he could deflect his parents’ bullshit and still keep a smile on his face.

 
I feel a pang of sympathy. Imagine growing up in a house like that.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hand.

  “What for?”

  “Roping you into this! If I hadn’t dragged you to the altar . . .”

  “They would still have plenty of reasons to judge me,” Fitz reassures me. “And I seem to recall, I was the one who did the dragging.”

  “Still . . .” I wince. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things even more complicated.”

  “Actually, you’ve provided them with a welcome distraction. They get to sing some new tunes instead of the standard ‘when are you going to shape up and stop running around?’ ”

  “Fitz . . .”

  He smiles. “Really, I’ll live. My parents and I like to keep things at arm’s length. I should thank you. This trip means I get to skip Christmases for at least five years.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tell them about . . .” I glance around and drop my voice to a whisper. “The books? Wouldn’t they get off your case if they knew you were doing something amazing?”

  “You’re an optimist, that’s sweet.” He takes a gulp of beer, then pauses—and gets a decidedly wicked smile on his face.

  “Uh-oh,” I say. “I know that look. That’s the look you get before doing something crazy.”

  Like seduce me up against a window, or suggest we go exchange vows. Now that I think about it, that look usually turns out pretty well for me.

  Fitz smirks. “I just realized . . . Our bags are still in the car.”

  “And?”

  “And, why don’t we finish up our meal and just drive straight to London?”

  “Tonight?” I blink. “I thought we were supposed to go back to your parents’ house?”

  “The benefit event is in the city, anyway.” Fitz shrugs. “Do you want to go back to that house and suffocate under the weight of my parents’ disapproval? Or, would you rather spend the night in the best hotel in London, ordering room service dessert and having wild sex in the king-sized bed?”

  He squeezes my knee under the table, and suddenly, there’s zero contest.

  “Let’s go.”

  15

  Becca

  Fitz is a man of his word. We wake in a gorgeous four-poster bed in one of the classiest hotels in London, with a butler bringing us breakfast in bed and a view of Hyde Park in the distance. I thought my life couldn’t get any crazier.

  I was wrong.

  “Is that . . . Buckingham Palace!” I squeal, craning my neck out of the window.

  “Drafty old place,” Fitz says, still lounging in bed. “I told Harry to get some insulation.”

  “You did not!” I toss a pillow at him. He ducks, laughing.

  “No, I didn’t. We were a few years apart at Eton. But I could get us a private tour, if you want?”

  “Yes!” I squeal, hurling myself onto the bed with an excited bounce. “I want to see everything. Big Ben, the dungeons, ooh, and the crown jewels . . .”

  We’re only going to be in town for a few days, and I’m determined to make the most of it. I reach for a rasher of bacon and take a happy bite. “When’s Wimbledon? That’s not for another few months, right?”

  “Right. But we could take the Eurostar over to Paris, if you want?”

  “Don’t tease me!” I cry, noticing the amusement on his face. “I know you spent the past ten years gallivanting around the world, but this is all new to me.”

  “Gallivanting?” Fitz pulls me into his lap with a smile. I kiss him.

  “Rambling. Roving. Wandering.” I run my hands through his thick hair, smiling.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  Fitz’s hands do some roving of their own, under my tank top, making me gasp. Then moan. “But the morning . . . Our tours . . .”

  “Big Ben’s been standing there for almost two hundred years.” Fitz kisses along my collarbone. “It can wait another hour.”

  “Only an hour?” I ask, tugging on the waist of his pajama pants.

  Fitz’s smile grows. “Why, Mrs. Fitzgerald, are you seducing me?”

  “Hmmm, Mr. Fitzgerald . . .” My hands move lower . . . and then my lips do, too. “You’ll just have to wait and see . . .”

  It takes us another couple of hours to leave the luxury—and privacy—of our hotel suite, but after that, all bets are off. I drag Fitz around the city playing tourist to my heart’s delight, and, to my surprise, he makes an enthusiastic tour guide.

  “Waterloo Bridge was originally built with timber shipped from the battle site in France. They used elephants to bring it up the banks.”

  I pause, checking my guide book. “You’re lying.”

  “Well, yes,” Fitz admits, “but it makes a better story than ‘some old guy decided to build a monument to some other old guy.’ ”

  I laugh. “Where do you get your inspiration? You know, for your secret career?” I give him a wink, and Fitz chuckles.

  “Why? Do you want a sexy American woman to make an appearance in the next book?”

  “Would you do that?” I feel a thrill.

  “Sure,” Fitz grins. “The only question is, do you want to be a femme fatale or a studious partner in crime?”

  “I kind of like being the partner in crime,” I decide, and he smiles.

  “Then keep a lookout for the next book. Coming some time in the next millennium, if I manage to finish on time.”

  Fitz takes my hand, and we walk a while along the banks of the Thames, enjoying the tourists and street vendors selling plastic flags and postcards of the view.

  It feels nice. Real nice.

  And real.

  I know I should be on my guard, but away from Brett and New York, it doesn’t seem like a charade any more. Fitz and I are just like any other couple strolling in the afternoon sun, chatting and laughing and pausing for a kiss. Nobody watching; no one to fool.

  Just us.

  And maybe it doesn’t have to end . . .

  I sneak a look at Fitz as he pauses to buy a bottle of water. We haven’t talked about the terms of our arrangement, at least, not since falling into bed together. Is all the hot sex and conversation just a perk of the job to him, or is he maybe feeling what I am?

  What am I feeling, anyway?

  Relaxed, happy, and turned on in equal measure, I answer myself. With a pesky side helping of “I really like this guy.”

  Which is a serious problem, because I know that falling for Fitz can only end in tears. Big, ugly-cry, end-of-Titanic kind of tears. I should be pulling back. Playing it safe. But what am I supposed to do? I’m in a foreign country, with a charming, sexy man. It would be a waste to march around ignoring him, or worse still, shut down our sexy makeouts and adventures in bed. We’re both having fun. I can keep it up and still protect my heart. No harm, no foul.

  Right?

  “Ready for this shindig tonight?” Fitz asks, breaking my thoughts.

  “Your parents’ benefit event?” I wince. “Can’t we skip it? They don’t seem to want us there, if yesterday is any hint.”

  “Au contraire,” Fitz says, sounding amused. “My mother has already left three voicemails instructing me not to humiliate her.”

  “See?” I point out. “Why would you want to put yourself through it?”

  “Because I get to show you off,” Fitz says, giving me a grin. “And rub their faces in my incredibly unsuitable marriage.”

  I laugh. “Well, I’m glad I’m good for something.”

  “What are you saying? You’re good for a great many things . . .” Fitz tugs my hand, pulling me in closer. “And some of them are even fit for public display.” He nuzzles at my neck, and I push him playfully, laughing.

  “So, you brought me all this way just to annoy your parents?”

  “And five hundred of their closest friends.” Fitz grins. “Think you’re up to the task?”

  “Hmmm,” I tease, “I had been planning to wear something long, and black, and classy, but now I’m wondering the look
on their faces if I showed up in torn fishnets . . . Maybe a red lace bustier?”

  Fitz chokes on his water. “Never mind tonight, can I get a preview?”

  “If you’re very lucky,” I grin. Then I catch sight of a store window as we pass and stop dead. “Fitz, look!”

  It’s a bookstore, and the front window is filled with a display of Alex Chase books.

  “Come on!” I squeal, and I yank him inside. “Ooh, look, you have different covers over here.”

  “Shh,” Fitz hushes me, laughing.

  “Nobody’s listening!” I grab a copy and flip through. I still can’t get over the fact that Fitz has been carrying on this hidden literary life. “You should sign them. Secretly, like a special surprise to whoever buys it.”

  Fitz glances around, then pulls out a pen. “You keep watch,” he says, so I do, casually, scoping out the bookstore and pretending to browse the nearby display.

  “Wow, reality TV stars,” I remark loudly. “Amazing how they’re all great writers, too.”

  A store clerk gives me a weird look, but I just smile until Fitz’s phone sounds with a call. He checks the screen. “New York, I better answer this. Here, you finish.”

  He thrusts the pen at me. “What? No, I can’t!”

  “Nobody will know the difference,” he grins, then saunters to a quiet corner of the store.

  I put the books back on display—right up front for everyone to see. Fitz still acts like his writing career is no big deal, but I can tell he’s proud of it. And I am, too.

  The man is full of surprises.

  Sexy, charming surprises . . .

  I catch myself just in time and pull out my phone. I compose an emergency text to Poppy and Natalie. London is too romantic. Help?

  Their replies come with a row of emojis.

  Cry me a river.

  Poor Becca, swept off her feet!!

  I smile. Come on, you guys! I’m trying my best to keep my head.

  As long as you’re losing your panties. Take one for the single, pathetic team.

  I sigh. Some help they are. But my friends couldn’t possibly know the tightrope I’m walking here: trying my hardest not to fall for a guy who is, well, pretty much the most smoldering man I’ve ever met.