Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  Something inside me aches.

  “Oh. Right.” I gulp. “Did you, ummm . . . what I mean is, has Fitz . . . ?”

  “Reviewed the paperwork?” Olivia finished for me. “Yes, I’ve already been over it with him, and he signed off on his share.”

  The air leaves my lungs. He signed the papers. It really is over.

  “Oh,” I say again, feeling numb. “Well, thanks. If you just show me the page, I can sign right now—”

  “No, you should look over them,” Olivia insists. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if you didn’t check over every detail. Make sure you’re protected.”

  I give a hollow snort. “I don’t have any assets to protect.”

  “Still,” Olivia says, handing me the envelope. “Take your time to read it. You might find something to your liking.”

  In a document laying out my legal separation from the man I’ve secretly fallen for? I doubt it. But I don’t want to be rude, so I just take the papers and force a quick smile. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “Take care, Becca,” she smiles. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again.”

  For another fake relationship? I won’t be making that mistake twice. I smile and nod, and I get the hell out of there before I start crying again.

  I head home, but not before a stop at the grocery store on my way. We’re at DEFCON 1 here, and I’m going to need liquid courage before I can bring myself to sign these papers.

  And by “liquid,” I mean, the caramel swirl in a family-sized tub of ice cream.

  I settle in on my couch, pour myself a glass of box wine, dig out a spoonful of Ben and Jerry’s finest, and set the divorce papers on the coffee table.

  This is it. The end of the road.

  I brace myself and gingerly read the first page.

  Petition for the divorce of Rebecca Delaney and Arthur Fitzwilliam Fitzgerald.

  I eat another spoon of ice cream. Somehow, seeing our names there in black and white feels like another blow. I knew this day would come eventually. Hell, the divorce was the whole point of this fake-marriage charade, but still, after everything that’s happened with Fitz, it still feels extra-painful to see the end of our relationship spelled out in dry legal writing.

  I carefully read through the pages. It all seems pretty straightforward to me, considering we were married for under a month. When I reach the part about division of assets, I have to smile. After all, I’m not coming after any of Fitz’s money, and as for my worldly possessions . . . I’m guessing he won’t be fighting me for my collection of rom-com DVDs.

  . . . Each party will maintain control of the assets brought into the marriage. Excepting the ownership deed of Waverly Place, which will go to Miss Delaney, Mr. Fitzgerald waives all claim to . . .

  Wait, WHAT?!

  I blink, and read it again, but I wasn’t just hallucinating. How the hell does Fitz have ownership of the building?

  And why would he just be giving it to me?

  I snatch up my cellphone and call the Agency for answers, but I just get the voicemail. Crap. I bolt to my feet, grab the papers, and hurry downstairs—bumping straight into Lionel, on his way up.

  “Becca, just the person I was looking for!”

  Double crap.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just on my way out—” I try to duck around him, but Lionel firmly takes my arm.

  “I smelled something funny coming from Marigold’s old apartment. I think it might be a gas leak.”

  “Then you should call the utilities company,” I say, still clutching the divorce papers to my chest. “I really have to go.”

  “Yes, but you’re the one with the keys,” Lionel replies. Still holding my elbow, he steers me the rest of the way downstairs and towards the back of the building. “If you could just open up and take a peek, it won’t be a moment.”

  I bite back my frustration. “Sure. Fine,” I say quickly, and unlock the door. I push it ajar and take a whiff. “Smells fine to me.”

  “Are you sure?” Lionel gives me a push, practically shoving me inside.

  “Hey!” I protest, fighting to keep my balance. “What the hell—?”

  Then I look up, and my cry fades on my lips.

  There’s a trail of rose petals snaking through the apartment, leading out to the back door.

  “Lionel?” I ask, turning to question him. But he just shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone.

  Music starts playing.

  Backstreet Boys.

  I freeze. I remember the last time I heard that—cheesy, cringe-inducing—song. It was being sung to me by the most infuriating, handsome, irresistible man I’ve ever met.

  I gulp.

  Could it be . . . ?

  I follow the trail of rose petals, my heart already in my throat. I don’t want to get my hopes up, I don’t even understand what’s going on here, but when I step out of the back door to Marigold’s little garden and find Fitz standing there with a bouquet of roses, a box of Krispy Kreme, and a sheepish smile on his face, I want to leap for joy.

  He’s here. For real this time.

  “What are you . . . ?” I stammer, not sure I can believe my eyes. “What’s going on? And why are you treating the neighbors to 2002’s greatest hits?”

  Fitz grins at me and sets down the gifts. “It was a choice between this and ‘Come Fly With Me,’ ” he says. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.”

  “But . . .” I move closer, as if drawn by gravity to him. “You’re here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You’re not in London,” I say, suddenly breathless. “Or entertaining your adoring fans.”

  “I don’t know how adoring they are,” Fitz replies, looking amused. “I just got my first fan email, from a woman in Tallahassee who is furious at me for shaving off his beard in the last book.”

  “But Fitz . . .” I swallow hard. All the emotion of the past few weeks is hitting me at once, and I don’t even know where to begin. So I start simply, with a, “Hi.”

  “Hey.” He smiles back, and the knot I’ve been carrying around inside my chest untangles. That smile . . . it spells mischief and laughter and all good things wrapped up in one breathtakingly smoldering package.

  “I missed you,” I say softly.

  He exhales. “Well, that makes this easier. I had two-to-one odds on you taking the donuts and slamming the door in my face. Three to one on your friends telling me where to shove it.”

  “So Lionel and Stanley . . . ?”

  “Agreed to help set this up.” Fitz nods. “Not without a talking-to, by the way. They care about you a lot.”

  “They do,” I agree. But what about the man right in front of me. How does he feel?

  Fitz’s smile slips for a moment, and he looks serious. “I owe you an apology.”

  “No, Fitz, it’s OK!” I blurt. “I know you didn’t mean to give the game away.”

  “Still, I did. And it’s not just that,” he adds. “Everything else you said—”

  “Was just because I was upset,” I interrupt. “And lashing out, and—”

  “True,” Fitz cuts me off. “Every word was the truth. I was taking the easy way out, pretending like nothing mattered to me. But things do. You do.”

  He takes my hands and looks into my eyes, and I just about levitate six feet off the ground from his touch.

  I’d tried to forget how it feels with him, but now it all comes rushing back.

  “I don’t want to just keep people at arm’s length anymore. You were right, it was just a way to avoid disappointing anyone, but I don’t want to live like that anymore,” he continues. “You saw something in me that nobody else did. You make me want to be that man, all the time. I want to disappoint you.” Fitz stops. “Wait. That didn’t come out right.”

  I laugh, feeling practically giddy. “I understand,” I say, my heart racing. “And I’m sorry, too. I let my insecurities drive us apart. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that, I know you never meant to t
ell Brett the truth.”

  “About Brett . . .” Fitz’s smile turns wicked. “It turns out, the problem is solved.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I bought him out,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he’s talking about picking up the tab on a round of beers. “The building belongs to me now . . . and I’m giving it to you.”

  My jaw drops. “But, you said . . . it’s worth . . .” My mind boggles.

  I knew the Alex Chase books were successful, but this?!

  “Let’s just say, we came to an arrangement.” Fitz winks. “It turns out I have some pretty cutthroat lawyers myself, and Brett decided to take a bargain price rather than have this drag out for ten years. It seems the lovely Vanessa isn’t so patient when it comes to him having his payday. True love.”

  I exhale in a whoosh. It’s almost too much to wrap my head around. Fitz coming back would be more than enough, but saving the building, too?

  I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you!” I cry, smothering him in kisses. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”

  He laughs. “I know.”

  “I mean it.” I pull back, worried. “I’m not just happy because of the building. I already went and fell in love with you beforehand. This is just the cherry on top.”

  Fitz holds me close. “What was that you just said?”

  I flush. “Right. That.”

  I wonder if I’ve put my foot in it now. Said too much, too soon. After all, he’s just spent the past fifteen years as a confirmed bachelor. Saying the L-word too fast might send him running for the hills again.

  But Fitz breaks into a delighted smile. “I love you too,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss. His mouth finds mine, and I melt against him.

  It’s hot, and deep, and perfect.

  Like coming home.

  Finally, we come up for air. “So how does it feel now that your secret is out?” I ask.

  “Which one?” Fitz replies with a smirk. “That I’ve fallen in love with a smart, beautiful woman?”

  I give him a playful smack. “That you’re a bestselling superstar!”

  “Oh, that.” Fitz shrugs. “Somehow, that hasn’t been high on my priority list. I’ve had other, more pressing things on my mind . . .” He pulls me close again, and this time, the kiss is hot enough to melt my clothes right off. I slide my hands over his chest, already panting for more.

  He pulls back and glances up. “How many apartments look out onto this garden?”

  “A few,” I reply, confused.

  “Then we better get inside, because the things I have planned for you would definitely draw an audience.”

  I laugh. “I don’t know . . . Olga would probably have some tips.”

  Fitz grins and yanks me back inside. “Raincheck,” he says, already kissing a blazing path down my neck. “This time, I want you all to myself.”

  I moan in response, falling back against the wall as I tug his shirt over his head. Fitz yanks off my blouse, burying his head against my chest. I gasp as his lips close around one nipple, sucking hard through the fabric of my bra.

  God, I want this man.

  I don’t think I could ever get enough.

  We strip off our clothes in a hot, frenzied blur of hands and mouths, and by the time I’m finally naked, I’m wound so tight I can hardly breathe. “I need you,” I gasp, loving the hard slide of his body against me. He dips his hand between my thighs and strokes, teasing me. “Fitz, please!”

  “I’m right here,” he growls into my ear. He lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist, and sinks inside me. Fuck. My head falls back, and I close my eyes, reveling at the feel of him inside me, the thick friction and perfect pressure. He fucks me hard, and I match him, thrust for thrust, a wild, animal rhythm. I’m holding on for dear life, but with every deep stroke, I know it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. My body tightens, I beg for more.

  “Don’t stop!” I gasp, and he doesn’t. He keeps moving, keeps driving into me, hard and deep, and the expression in his eyes is enough to send me flying. I break apart with a cry, pleasure crashing through me as Fitz groans against me, joining my breathless ecstasy.

  We cling to each other, until I’m capable of coherent thought again.

  “Wow,” Fitz mutters, gently placing me back down on the floor.

  “Welcome home,” I agree, laughing.

  He looks around. “No offense, but the chintz isn’t really my style.”

  “I know,” I agree. “Maybe it’s time to finally renovate down here. I don’t think you—or your collection of books—is going to fit in my place.”

  Fitz lights up. “We could knock these walls down . . . open up the whole room . . . build out a master suite . . .”

  “A very big master suite,” I agree, grinning. “With room for a king-sized bed.”

  “Of course,” Fitz grins. “I wouldn’t expect my wife to settle for anything else.”

  I pause. “You’re going to have to repeat that part,” I tell him, frowning.

  “The renovation plans . . . Or the wife part?” Fitz asks with a smirk.

  “Yup. That.” I stare at him. “Does this mean . . . ?”

  “If you want it to.” Fitz drops the smirk and looks at me with a sincere expression.

  “What do you say?” he asks softly. “Want to give this marriage thing a try, for real this time?”

  There’s only one thing I can say to that.

  “I do!”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading! Keep scrolling for a sneak peek of my new book Cupids Anonymous - featuring Becca’s friend, Poppy! Cupids Anonymous is available to order now!

  Cupids Anonymous

  A Romantic Comedy

  Readers around the world are raving over USA Today bestselling author Lila Monroe’s hilarious romantic comedies. Now fall in love with her brand new sizzling standalone - perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella and Christina Lauren!

  Poppy Hathaway is a professional Cyrano - minus the honking great nose. Need a love note, raunchy sext, or apology letter so epic that your other half will forget you hesitated a beat too long when you asked, ‘does this make me look fat?’? She’s got you covered. But when her most frequent client, the annoyingly charming (or is that charmingly annoying?) Dylan Calloway comes to her with an unconventional new job, Poppy discovers that three little words can add up to one big complication.

  Because Dylan doesn’t want help seducing another swimsuit model (for once in his life). He wants Poppy’s help breaking up his sister from her dirtbag gold-digging boyfriend - and he’s prepared to make it worth her while. Throw in a summer Catskills trip that’s equal parts ‘Dirty Dancing’ and dirty-talking, and this Cupid is soon out of her depth - and head over heels with the last man she expected. But can she find the right words when it comes to her own heart? Or will this happily ever end in disaster?

  Find out in the sparkling new romantic comedy from Lila Monroe!

  Cupids Anonymous is available to order now!

  1

  Poppy

  I found my calling in life when I was twelve years old.

  My younger brother, Noah, had a crush on a girl in school, but being a boy – and a gross, stinky one at that – his idea of romance was to shoot spitballs at her, and chase her around the playground. Enter me. Two whole years older, eons wiser, and equipped with a romantic spirit and a love of cheesy rom-coms. I wrote him a cute note to pass to her in class, inviting her to split a pack of cookies at break. What girl could turn down a free snack? Nobody worth dating, as far as I’m concerned.

  And, sure, she turned out to have a peanut allergy, and wound up being rushed to the E.R, but for those three glorious minutes before she started choking, my brother had found love. And I had found my future career. Because everyone knows, true love needs a little help sometimes. The right words to say exactly what’s on our minds.

  Or rather, the romantic version, minus the peach emojis and dick-pics.

  That’s
where I come in. Your own personal Cyrano – just without the honking great nose. I’ll craft you the perfect love note, compose a dirty email to get your paramour panting, and write the most epic apology, it’ll make your other half forget that you hesitated a beat too long when they asked, ‘Does this make me look fat?’

  Maybe I’m a big softie at heart, but I love being able to give romance a helping hand. There’s no task too big when it comes to my clients, no challenge too great…

  Which is why I’m halfway up a tree in Central Park, feeding lines through a tiny microphone to the man proposing to his girlfriend just below.

  “Since the moment I laid eyes on you in the virtual reality game, I knew, you were the one I wanted to quest with me – in real life.”

  Henry dutifully repeats every word, in front of a small circle of family and friends. I tried to talk him out of that part – public proposals seem like a recipe for massive humiliation – but he insisted. But now, I’m the one at risk of embarrassing myself, if I can’t keep hidden up in this tree for another page of heartfelt devotion.

  The tree branch lets out an ominous creak.

  Oh crap. I lean forwards, trying to spread my weight – and not miss my place in the proposal.

  “And as Leia said to Hans, I’ve always hated watching you leave…” I whisper, reading off my cellphone screen. Henry says the line, and everyone in the crowd breathes a swoony, ‘ahhh’. His girlfriend is already crying. Happy, oh-my-god tears, and not ‘get me out of here’ sobs.

  I hope.

  The branch creaks again, and I cling on for dear life, as Henry makes it through the rest of the proposal.

  “So, Kelly, will you make me the happiest man in the galaxy, and agree to be my wife?”

  There’s a pause, and I grip on tighter, sending up a silent prayer. Please let her say ‘yes’, and go celebrate someplace else, before this proposal literally comes crashing down to earth.

  “Yes! I will! Yes!” the girlfriend sobs, and I let out a huge sigh of relief.

  Way to go Henry!