Marry Me, Right Now : (Marriage of Convenience Romance, Toronto)

by Haley Travis

  My mother, my older brother George and I had been dealing with the eccentricities of Uncle Geoffrey’s will and estate for the past year. He was an extremely strange man, and the term “weird old geezer” had frequently been used by his staff.

  He was my mother’s much older brother, who never married, so most of his larger assets went to my brother and I. Our family lawyer had assured us that given the strange requests, we had to try to carry them out, but were not obligated to put in Herculean effort.

  Uncle Geoffrey wanted a huge chest of old wooden children’s toys sent to an orphanage in Russia. He had no ties with anyone there and didn’t specify a particular organization. The amount it would have cost to ship it was ten times what the toys were worth, but we were prepared to do it, except that nobody wanted them. The one woman my Russian speaking friend dealt with sounded convinced that it might be some sort of Trojan horse of viruses.

  So we donated it to the local Pioneer Village, who were incredibly grateful. They hosted school tours, and assured us that the antique toys would be enjoyed by children on both a recreational and educational level.

  When it was time to divide his main assets, the paperwork became more clear, yet more confusing. Uncle Geoffrey had always tried to teach us that the devil was in the details, and that documents always had to be examined extremely carefully.

  I remember when I was seven, he gave me a birthday card. After I read it and thanked him, he had given me a pointed stare. “Did you fine-tooth comb it?” he had asked, the odd expression one of his funniest mannerisms.

  Sure enough, when I looked again, some of the letters were bolder than the rest, thickened with a marker. If only the bold letters of “Happy Birthday to my Precious Nephew,” were read, it actually said, “BIRD PEN.” Running to the hallway outside of my mother’s bedroom where there was an antique gilt birdcage, I found a huge wrapped box containing ten brand new race cars.

  I remember my mother laughing. “Geoffrey, you sneak. What would you have done if he hadn’t figured it out?”

  “I’d have given it to George. These boys need to learn to look out for tricks. Paperwork is important.”

  When it came down to dividing Uncle’s prized cars, I let George have the first pick, because I knew he was a car buff. He selected the classic sixties sportster, and crashed it two weeks later, causing thousands of dollars of damage. He had never learned how to take care of his toys. When he whined loudly enough, someone had always just bought him a new one to shut him up. He never learned.

  As luck would have it, I had purchased a new everyday car just a few weeks before his passing, so my second round selection was this classic high end silver sports car for special occasions, and when I felt like driving around to think things through.

  It was coming in handy right now. I certainly needed to think after the information the lawyer just shared with me, that George had conveniently forgotten to mention.

  The most important things that Uncle Geoffrey left us were huge amounts of money to donate, our inheritances, and his house.

  It was clearly stated that we were each to receive eight million dollars when we turned thirty. That much I knew. But I hadn’t been informed that we actually received the money on our thirtieth birthday or when we got married, whichever came first. I’m sure Geoffrey was certain George wouldn’t be getting married anytime soon, so perhaps he added that clause just in case I suddenly found the woman of my dreams.

  However, the money was being kept in a basic savings account that was earning a lowly two percent interest.

  As a bit of a financial guru, this almost caused me physical pain. The potential of that amount was being wasted. Invested conservatively outside of Canada, it could be making at least six percent. In some of my funds, parts of it could easily be earning nearly ten, as I shuffled it around.

  As much as it was annoying, I did understand Uncle’s decision of our thirtieth birthdays. George has always behaved in a somewhat childish manner, spoiled and selfish. He was basically still a teenager when he was twenty-five. But the past few years he had been improving slightly, and a few years ago when Uncle realized he was sick and redid his will, he may have taken a chance that George would be able to handle the responsibility at thirty.

  Even though I was the younger brother, I was much older in many ways. I’ve always possessed a level headed calm that impressed adults, and made me appear immediately trustworthy.

  I had truly hoped that my Uncle would take this into consideration when deciding who would get his incredible mansion. George naturally wanted it because it was extremely expensive, and had always believed that the price was the only measure of quality. He truly believed that rich friends and valuable possessions were the building blocks of happiness.

  I wanted it because I’ve always loved that strange old house. It was modern enough to be comfortable, yet had so many old fashioned touches it was charming. The house had a quiet feeling that I couldn’t describe. It was like being away at a cottage while practically in the middle of the city.

  The Bridle Path was a very exclusive neighborhood inhabited only by the ridiculously wealthy. I would likely be the poorest guy on the street. But with the houses spread so far apart, and the large properties separated by rows of trees, the level of privacy was amazing for somewhere just a twenty-minute drive to downtown Toronto.

  Uncle Geoffrey knew how much I adored his house. He knew that I wanted to raise a family there, and go on adventures in the ravine with my own children, as I had with him when I was little.

  Mother had assured me that he was not playing favorites when he gave the house to George. It was a family tradition, passed down for generations. The largest asset must go to the oldest child, even if it wasn’t your own child.

  Even though in this case, the oldest child was talking about the keggers he was going to throw. George wanted to put in a hot tub in the backyard, and rip out the antiques to install a hyper-modern kitchen and living room. He wanted to knock down hundred-year-old walls and install LED mood lighting.

  I’ve had mixed feelings about my brother for my entire life, but this angered me on a level that actually shocked me. As I drove around the last corner, I tried to watch my speed, turning into the garage under my building.

  George didn’t get the house until he turned thirty though, and even though that was only a month away, I half-heartedly hoped that he would get distracted with his eight million dollar inheritance and travel the world instead of destroying the beloved mansion.

  If there was a way I could get my inheritance early, there was a chance that I could buy the house from him. It was a solid investment, but I’d have to do it before he ruined everything.

  Marriages of convenience were commonplace among my mother’s circle of people. Corporations merged more smoothly, families were joined as allies. It seemed a bit medieval and creeped me out on some level.

  But what if I did it? What if I got married, got the money two years early, and paid George six million dollars for the house? That was a little more than it was likely worth, if you removed the value of sentimentality, and would leave me enough money to keep it up, especially if I sold my condo.

  This idea had been rambling around my mind for weeks, but I couldn’t think of a girl who I could stand living with for at least a year, to make it seem like an official marriage. I’d need someone smart, focussed, who could make playing the part of my wife her full-time job, at least for a few months.

  As I took the elevator up to the top floor and opened my front door, I wracked my mind one more time for a girl who might be able to play the part. Dropping my shoulder bag in the kitchen, I looked around the airy space. Suddenly I recalled Mia on the cafe patio, bravely saying that she could make do with a tiny basement apartment.

  She seemed so desperate for a home, and the thought of a sweet, beautiful girl like that living in a bug-infested dank basement actually turned my stomach.

  What if she stood in as my wife? Could she be that op
en minded? I’d gladly give her a cut of the money, and her troubles would be taken care of for over a year.

  Was it too outrageous? I’d been a fairly straightforward guy my entire life. Nobody would ever suspect it wasn’t real. I’d never done anything crazy, or taken a chance. I wasn’t the gambling sort.

  Could I risk everything on a woman I’d barely met?

  M I A

  <<< 3 >>>

  POTENTIAL NEW JOB

  Lucille’s Cafe was pretty slow all day long, so I barely made any tips. Not only would I be making the long walk back to Stacy’s, but I also couldn’t afford dinner.

  Thank goodness my manager let us take the leftover food at the end of the day. No sense throwing it out, when you can spoil the staff a little. I certainly needed something to boost my spirits after my phone had not rung once today, even though I’d left dozens of messages to potential landlords. Even the dank little basement where I’m sure I saw bugs skittering in the kitchen didn’t call me back. I was so terrified that I would be in a homeless shelter in a few days that my shoulders were clenched and starting to cause pain up the back of my neck.

  After I wrapped up a couple of buns and a cheese sandwich in napkins and stuffed it in my purse, I went out the front door and stopped in my tracks.

  Jacob the CEO was standing in front of the shop, wearing a dark suit and looking like he was about to jet off to Milan.

  “Hi,” I said, not quite believing he was there. “Are you here to see me?”

  “Yes,” he said, coming closer. “I promise I’m not a stalker. I just had an idea about how we could solve both of our problems.”

  “How can I solve your family business... Whatever?” I asked, sounding like an idiot but I was still gobsmacked that he was there.

  “The really short version is that I need a nice girl to help me with a business project, and you need a home. We can help each other out if we’re open-minded.”

  Normally, that might sound sketchy as hell. But he had such open, honest body language. I was recalling every single psych book I’ve ever read, which was a lot, and there was nothing suspicious about him whatsoever.

  “How could I help you?” I looked down at my black jeans, black long-sleeved t-shirt, purple leather cuffs, and clunky boots. I looked like an artsy freak, whereas he looked like he was about to pluck a supermodel from the nearest runway.

  “In improv theatre you’re supposed to say, ‘yes, and...’ to everything, right?”

  “Yes… and?”

  “Yes, and we’d have to do a lot of that, but it would get you an amazing home. And quite a bit of money as well.”

  “This sounds really dodgy.”

  “It’s not, I swear. Totally legal, but unusual. I just need to explain it to you, and you can tell me if you think it’s worth discussing more.”

  He sounded a little nutty, but also intriguing. It was disturbing to me that part of my decision was based on the fact that I desperately needed to stare into those strange blue eyes a bit longer. “I’m not saying yes. But, I guess I could at least hear your plan.”

  His eyes lit up. “The fact that you’re open to discussing this is amazing. Are you free right now? Come to my place. I’ll make us some dinner, and we can talk everything through.”

  I stared down at my hands for a moment, as if they held the answers. I really was hungry, and the little sandwich in my purse was pretty small.

  “Oh,” he said quickly, giving his head a shake. “Here.” He handed me his business card. “Do you want to check me out online to make sure I’m not an ax murderer?” He flashed a grin. “I swear I won’t be offended.”

  Why must all cute guys be so damn weird? But I guess there was no harm in checking him out, so I popped his name into my phone. Jacob Stoneburrowes. He’s currently the CEO of Stoneburrowes Investments, which he took over when his father passed away. He was only twenty-eight. A quick skim of his social media accounts showed that he had plenty of friends, most of them looking like the well to do country club sort. Then there were suddenly some photos of old fashioned china, in a few similar dark rose patterns.

  “What’s this about?” I asked, showing him the pics. “You’re looking to make some money on that antiques show?”

  “Oh, those are for my Great Aunt Nelda. She’s just been put in a home. Alzheimer’s.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks. She regresses sometimes, and the staff said that if there are a few familiar things around her, she’ll be more comfortable. So I keep bringing some of her old china, things she used every day. They said not to bring anything of value, so I keep my eyes open for similar pieces in second-hand stores.”

  “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “I don’t drink tea, but the whole morning ritual of sitting quietly with your teacup... It seems like something that would be grounding, right? So I keep supplying them, in the hopes that she’ll start every day in her right mind.”

  Anyone who cared for their aunt like that, taking notice of the details and matching china patterns, must be a good guy. Or at least, good enough to have dinner with.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  He led me down the sidewalk, past a few normal, medium-sized family cars, to a shiny silver sportster. Holding the door for me, I climbed inside, hoping that I didn’t get any part of the interior dirty.

  As we drove quickly down to the posh luxury condos by the lake, he said, “I’m so glad that you’re open-minded, Mia. I’ve known so many people who will never step out of their comfort zones, and I’m one of them too, sometimes. But that’s a boring way to live, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I need to move out of my friend’s apartment before next Friday, so I have to look at every single opportunity.”

  He glided into an underground parking garage, and we strolled into the fanciest building I’d ever been in. I’ve been in a few strange situations in my lifetime, but this one was one of the oddest of all. Walking through the lobby of Jacob’s condo, I actually wasn’t sure that I was dressed appropriately to visit his home.

  He nodded at the concierge, who practically bowed to him. Is this how rich people live? The chandelier in the lobby probably cost as much as my student debt.

  I tried to settle myself down as we got into the mirrored elevator. This made it much easier to check Jacob out from all angles. He had a very confident stance, and I could tell that he had played a variety of sports in his life. He sort of had that athletic grace. I tried not to stare too hard at his chest and shoulders, but it was difficult. Something about a broad chest just made me weak and girlish. I tried to finger comb my hair a bit when he looked away.

  He gave me a reassuring little smile, as he hit the button for forty-three. Of course it would be the penthouse, I thought to myself. Why not. Because ridiculously rich people notice me on patios all the time, bringing me home to their lavish condos.

  I tried not to shake my head at my reflection. This was bonkers. But at least I would get a free meal out of the deal, and I was so broke at the moment that it might hold me for a while. I’ve never been in an elevator this new and was a bit shocked at how quickly we were lifted into the sky.

  As the door slid open, Jacob shot me one of those amazing smiles. “Here we are,” he said, leading the way down the short hallway, into his grand front door.

  It looked like there were only two apartments on this entire floor. As I stepped into the foyer, it felt like stepping into a movie, or a dream. Everything was so bright, new, and utterly perfect. White and steel and open, with tiny pops of color in the form of extravagant abstract art, mostly greens and blues. I followed him toward the huge kitchen that was a section of the enormous living and dining area.

  As I walked along, I tried not to feel like a country bumpkin with her jaw hanging open. This place looked like it had come straight from the pages of an award-winning architectural magazine.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said casuall
y, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to the kitchen area. I followed suit, trying not to quite openly gawk at the space. The living room, dining room, kitchen took up probably a quarter of the building. The living room itself had a huge area with couches, and a smaller area in front of the window with cozy chairs.

  “What do you like to eat?”

  “Um, I like everything,” I said, my voice quieter in this grand space.

  “How about pasta with tomato sauce and sausage? There’s a fresh batch in the freezer, I could heat it up quickly.”

  “That sounds great. Can I help?”

  “You could pick us out some wine. It’s the narrow cupboard at the end if you want red, the fridge beside it for white.”

  This was unreal. I dropped my purse on a stool at the breakfast bar counter, and skimmed the reds. “Is it going to be spicy? Maybe a Shiraz?”