Fake It: A Fake Fiancée Romance

by Winter, Alexis

  As I pull my seatbelt around me, she turns the crate in her lap so she can look inside at the cat. “What do you think, Cocoa? Did Mommy do well, or did she do well?” she asks the cat, holding up her hand to show off her ring.

  “You are absolutely crazy, you know that?” I tell her, pushing the button and starting the car.

  She doesn’t reply—just rolls her eyes.

  After a twenty-minute drive, I’m pulling up to my house to find the moving truck already parked out front.

  “Wow, that was fast. Had I known you were planning on buying me a whole new wardrobe, I wouldn’t have packed so much.” She offers up a smile.

  I shake my head. “Well, I couldn’t drag you to events and out-of-town trips dressed head to toe in Gap, now could I?”

  She laughs. “You’re giving me credit. Most of my stuff is from Old Navy.” She sticks out her tongue.

  I want to smile at her playfulness, but I hold it back, wanting to appear more serious. This isn’t social; this is business. Besides, I’m not sure how much she is actually joking or if it’s the kind of laughter that comes from stabbing someone with an ice pick.

  We both climb from the car and I lead her toward the front steps. I open the door and pause to let her walk through, but after several moments of waiting, I finally turn to look for her. How could I have lost her already?

  I turn to find her next to the moving truck. She has the cat crate in one hand and a box in the other.

  I scoff and walk up to her, taking the box and placing it back on the truck. “You do not move boxes. That’s what these men were hired to do.”

  She shrugs. “I just figured since they’re my things, I should help out.”

  I take her now-free arm and wrap mine around it as I lead her into the house. “People won’t believe our relationship if you insist on being treated like an ordinary person. Understand?”

  Her brows furrow together. “You mean I actually have to act like a spoiled, better-than-everyone-else princess?”

  I laugh at her description. “Now you’re getting it.”

  Her feet stop moving when we reach the center of the foyer. Her mouth drops open as she gazes around the room. “You live here? Alone?”

  I nod. “The house is fully stocked on help, so you won’t have to lift a finger. Your laundry will be washed, pressed, and put away. All meals are prepared by my own personal chef and served in the dining room, and the maid will come into your room in the late morning to straighten up and make your bed.”

  Her eyes flash to me, her mouth still hanging open. “All of this…for just you?”

  I nod. “That’s right. I don’t have time to do all the cooking, cleaning, and washing. Follow me and I’ll show you around.” Without waiting for a reply, I head up the stairs.

  I take her to her room first. It’s your typical guest bedroom with a king-size bed, walk-in closet, and full bath with shower and jacuzzi. “There’s also a remote in the top drawer of the bedside table. It controls the TV, the shades, and the lights.” I turn to look at her spinning in circles, taking in every aspect of the room.

  “What TV?” she asks, throwing herself onto the bed.

  I open the drawer and pull out the remote. I push the button and she jumps when the small white cabinet at the foot of the bed opens and the TV slides up into place.

  “Whoa! That’s amazing!”

  I chuckle. “Yes, quite entertaining. Now, should we continue on with the tour?”

  She follows me through the house and I show her my room, the other bathrooms, my office, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and the back patio where there is a pool and a hot tub. By the time we’re finishing up, Gordon, my personal chef, is placing lunch on the table.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, leading her back through the dining room.

  “Starving!” Without being shy, she plops down at the table and starts devouring the food on her plate.

  I laugh and shake my head. “I see you’re not one of those shy girls who pretend they don’t eat.” I pick up the cloth napkin, shake it out, and place it on my lap.

  She snorts. “No way. Food is not my enemy. We go waaaay back. But it doesn’t surprise me that your only experience with women is the superficial waif-type who starves herself. It would probably do you some good to expand the company you keep.” She picks up a roll and tears off a big bite, shoving it into her mouth while staring me dead in the eye.

  Another quiet laugh escapes and I shake my head. “Good to know.”

  “So, when do we leave on this trip?” she asks around another giant mouthful of food.

  “Tomorrow you’ll be busy getting groomed, then we leave first thing Monday morning.”

  “Groomed?” She cocks an eyebrow at me. I was hoping she’d miss that little comment.

  “Yes. As I mentioned earlier today, I figure a day at the salon will make you feel fresh for the trip. Just a trim, color touch-up, waxing—all the normal stuff,” I say nonchalantly. She doesn’t look convinced, but she addresses the other issue that’s clearly on her mind.

  “Okay, I’ll address that in a minute, but first, about our flight—by ‘first thing’ you mean what, exactly?”

  “We’ll leave here at six for the airport.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Six?” she asks loudly, almost a yell.

  I nod. “Something wrong?”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s an ungodly time. I mean, is the sun even up by then?”

  “Not a morning person, huh?”

  “You might want to book a marching band to come through my room to wake me.” She shoves in a forkful of rice. “Oh, and watch out, I throw things.”

  “You throw things?” I feel my eyebrows lift on their own.

  She nods. “Yeah, you know, just things that are close by: the alarm clock, remotes, bottles of water. Anything within reach, that is. I usually won’t get up to find something to throw. But,” she meets my eyes and points her index finger at me, “if I do, I’m up. That’s the trick: getting me up.”

  “Got it. Move everything out of reach before waking you,” I make a mental note.

  She smiles. “I think we’ll get along just fine.” She takes another bite before her eyes grow wide again. “So, about this waxing…is it necessary? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to be sleeping together?” She states it as if it were a question.

  I smirk. “You offering?”

  She scoffs and rolls her blue eyes. “You wish, but seriously, why do I need a wax? And why do you feel you get to tell me how to groom my own damn body?”

  “Well, first of all, it’s in the contract. Second, I have no idea what this trip will entail. What if we’re invited to go swimming or something?”

  “So legs, no Brazilian.”

  “Legs and bikini,” I state.

  She gives me a sickly-sweet smile that’s dripping with sarcasm. “How about you leave it to me and it’s none of your business what I choose? Now, do we need to come up with some cute story about how we met or how you proposed?”

  I take a bite of my salad and shrug. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt. What you got?”

  “Hmm, let me think,” she says, placing her finger on her chin for dramatic effect. “Oh, I know! We met at the Joker Club. I was waitressing there while I put myself through school to become a nurse. You saw me from across the crowded bar, and you just knew you had to have me. Then you approached me, and I blew you off because I thought you were just another guy looking to get laid. But that didn’t stop you. You came back night after night and wouldn’t stop asking until I agreed to a date. I finally gave in, and the rest is history.”

  I laugh. “No way! That makes me seem desperate.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “No, it doesn’t. God, no wonder you’re single. It communicates that once you see something you want, you won’t stop until you get it. And since you’re wanting a job from this man, I think it sends a good message.”

  I move my head from side to side, thinking it over. “I gu
ess you have a point. All right, whatever. Now, on to the proposal.”

  “Oh, you proposed to me exactly one year from our first date. You took me to a fancy dinner where you bought out the whole restaurant so we’d be alone.”

  “And I put the ring in your champagne,” I add on.

  “Eww, no way. I hate when people do cutesy stuff like that. And just an FYI, don’t ever mess with my food or drink.”

  I laugh. “Fine. Then how’d I do it?”

  Her eyes roll upward, like she’s watching it play out before her. “All night I knew something was different, but I didn’t know what. I kept asking, but of course, you wouldn’t tell me. We had our dinner, wine, and dessert, and then we stood to leave. Just when I thought nothing was going to happen, you dropped down on one knee and proposed, right there in the middle of the dark, empty restaurant. I was breathless and scared, but excited. The look in your eyes held so much more than I could understand. I couldn’t say no.”

  “You sound like you’ve thought about this for a while.” I pick up my glass of wine and take a sip.

  She laughs. “No, I’ve just read a lot of romance novels.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re the weirdest woman I’ve ever met.”

  Her jaw drops. “How? You’ve met El, haven’t you?”

  “You talk to your cat like it’s a person, you throw things when you get woken up, you put away more food than any man I’ve ever met, you don’t seem to give a damn about what people think of you, and I bet you have your dream wedding all planned out thanks to those romance novels.” I list off the things.

  “No way. I’m never getting married.” Her face is serious as she look at me, lifting her fork to her mouth.

  “Really? Children?”

  She snorts. “Fuck no. I’m enough of a mess on my own. If you think I could take care of a child, you’re seriously overestimating me.”

  “Seems like we have a lot in common.” I pick up my glass and raise it in the air. “To us, the only two people in the world who are happier being alone.”

  She raises her glass. “Here, here.”

  We both tilt our glasses to our lips.

  Chapter Seven

  Samantha

  After lunch, I excuse myself to go put my things away. I walk back into my room and fall onto the bed in a fit of giggles. I know most girls would be trying to think of a way to make this a little more permanent, but I’m just happy to be out of my tiny apartment that doesn’t have power. As much as Cameron is a known man-whore, he does have his redeeming qualities, and to be honest, I half-expected him to try to get in my pants already.

  This place, Cam’s house, is like a five-star hotel. It has everything I could ever need, along with a full household staff. I’ll never have to do laundry again. I don’t even have to pick up after myself if I don’t want to. And by never, I mean a few weeks. Tops.

  Cocoa jumps up on the bed and meows. I roll over and pull her to my chest, petting her thick black fur. “What do you think of our temporary home, Cocoa?”

  She purrs as she curls herself into a ball against me.

  “I like it too,” I agree.

  Someone knocks on the door and I sit up. “Come in!” I call out.

  Cameron opens the door and steps inside. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m bringing in your new things to put away.” He motions toward the room and three men carry in all the bags, setting them on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “Thank you,” I tell them with a smile before looking back at Cameron, who’s still standing by the door.

  “I’ll leave you to your things,” he says, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

  When I’m alone, I stand and start pulling everything out of the bags and putting each item in its rightful place. Cam—well, actually, I’m sure it was his assistant—bought me tons and tons of makeup and skincare products. I take three bags to the bathroom and assemble my new skincare and makeup regimen before hanging up the rest of the clothes.

  After three hours of putting things away, I step into the bathroom to shower. I want to look pretty for him tonight, and show him that I can clean up and look like one of the women he usually entertains. I take a long, hot bubble bath, using my new luxury shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. When I get out, I sit at the vanity and apply my new makeup and style my hair. My skin feels like butter thanks to all the new products. I flip over a bottle of skin primer and see a hundred-dollar price tag. My mouth drops open. Who in their right mind would pay a hundred dollars for a bottle of facial spray? I could eat off that for a month!

  After my makeup is applied beautifully and my hair is ironed smooth, I step back into my room to find something nice to wear to dinner. I don’t want to look too fancy, like I’m trying to impress him, but I want him to see that I’m putting some effort into this agreement and that I’m not here to half-ass it and just get the money. I pull on a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and a blush pink sweater that’s so soft, it feels like pajamas. I slip on a pair of designer flats that are new to my wardrobe, and head down the stairs.

  “You look nice,” he says when he steps out of the living room and into the foyer where I am, still wearing his suit from earlier.

  “Thank you. I wanted to show you that I can clean up when needed.” I cringe as the words leave my mouth. I don’t know why I felt the need to say that out loud.

  He seems to be fighting off a small smile. “That you can.” He holds out his elbow. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

  I slide my arm through his. “I’d love to.”

  He leads me into the dining room and even pulls out my chair for me. When he sits across from me, I say, “Tell me about your past, Cameron.”

  “Excuse me?” he asks, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip.

  “Well, real couples know things about each other. I don’t know much of anything other than the fact that you’re a lawyer. Where’d you grow up? What are your parents like? What’d they do? Where’d you go to school?”

  It looks like he chokes down his wine. “Well, I grew up here in Chicago. My mother was a homemaker and my father was a lawyer, which is how I got started. It was mandatory for me to go to law school, and when I graduated, I was hired on at my dad’s firm. I left it when I was twenty-two, when I went into business with the two partners I have now.”

  “Wow, so you took the job your dad gave you, then left to open your own law office?”

  He nods. “Yep, he wasn’t too happy about that. He wanted me to carry on his legacy and run the firm he opened.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I ask, taking a sip.

  He shrugs. “I knew I couldn’t start from scratch if I stayed. I mean, everyone in Chicago knows my name. They automatically link it to my father, and I wanted to start something for myself. I didn’t want anyone to say, ‘He’s only here because of who his father is.’ So I left and started over, all the way at the bottom.”

  “Did he eventually get over it?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not quite. He passed away last year, and I hadn’t talked to him since the day I left his office. He was pissed that I’d walked out on everything he’d built, plus he claimed he did it all for me.”

  “How sad. You hadn’t talked to your father in years and then he died out of nowhere?”

  I see him swallow and his eyes fall to his plate. “I knew he was sick. It wasn’t unexpected.”

  “And you didn’t try to make amends?” I’m almost shocked.

  “What can I say? I’m an asshole, as well as an ungrateful son, according to him. Either way, he died, and left his firm to my mother. She sold it, because let’s face it, she had no idea what to do with it, and I started my own firm. Styles, Schmidt & Fitz is now the top law office in Chicago.”

  “Do you regret it?” I ask in a whisper, almost afraid to meet his eyes.

  “Every day,” he admits, and that makes me jerk my head up to see the guilty look on his face.

  “When I found out
he was sick, I waited to see if he’d reach out, but he was a stubborn, sick old man. I thought, ‘If he can’t be bothered, then why should I?’ So I pushed everything and everyone away.”

  “Do you still talk to your mom?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “No, after my dad died, she slowly went downhill. She moved in with my sister, who now takes care of her and her health issues.”

  “Health issues?”

  He nods. “She’s got dementia. She doesn’t even know me anymore. And to be honest, it’s easier that way. If she doesn’t see me or remember me, then she can’t remember the way I disappointed them both.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “But enough about me. Why don’t you tell me something about you? Where are you from?”

  I swallow down the thick tension that’s forming in my throat. I didn’t mean for things to take such a serious turn. No wonder he is the way he is. He keeps everyone at arm’s length, not in fear of being hurt, but in fear of hurting them.

  I clear my throat. “I, um,” I shake the sadness from my mind, “I’m from down south. Carbondale, Illinois. After my dad passed away when I was two, my mom moved us up here where her family was.”

  “How’d your dad die?” he asks, bluntly.

  “Cancer,” I reply.

  “Well, it’s good you at least have family here.”

  I nod. “My mom is here, plus my aunt and a few cousins. Most of our family has moved, and my grandparents passed away years ago.”

  “How do you like your dinner?” he asks, and I feel like it’s his way of changing the subject.

  “It’s good.” I nod and take another bite of chicken.

  “What do you do for fun?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I’m not sure anymore. When El moved out, it kind of left me in a tough position. At first it was fine, but then I had some unexpected dental issues, the transmission went out on my nine-year-old Jetta, and Cocoa got sick, so I couldn’t afford to do anything. I could barely afford to eat. That’s why I didn’t turn a light on when you were there. The power had been shut off. This job offer came just in time.”