Mister Fake Fiance

by Lee, Nadia

  “Yeah.” Bitch is about the nicest thing I can say about her now.

  “You should just tell Mom the whole story,” Derek says for the hundredth time.

  I huff out a breath. It’s the same ol’ thing Derek’s been pushing ever since I told him about Shelly cheating on me. “She and Mrs. Morris are too tight.”

  “So? Shelly’s being a bitch because she knows you’re too chickenshit to do the right thing.”

  “It’s called being considerate,” I shoot back, rankled. “You don’t know what it was like when Mom had no friends when she first moved to Virginia. I do.” Mom loves to socialize and hang out. No one is more outgoing. But it was hard for her to make friends back then. I was too young to remember all the details, but I vividly recall how unhappy she was at being isolated and alone, and how much I hated seeing her feeling down. And I wished I could do something about it.

  “But now she has lots of friends,” Derek says.

  “How many are genuine, though? You know some of them only decided to be her friend because Grandma got rich.” Some might say it’s the family that made its fortune with the app, but I don’t feel that’s quite right. The company was Grandma’s idea, her baby. Without her drive and vision, none of us would be enjoying what we have now. “Mrs. Morris wasn’t like that. She’s one of Mom’s earliest friends. Besides, if I tell Mom, she’s going to either get into an argument with Mrs. Morris or end their friendship. Remember what happened with Fred Leaper?”

  Fred was an older kid in our neighborhood who decided it would be fun to pick on me. One day I’d had enough and punched him in the face. That was satisfying, but then we got into it, and during the ensuing fight he caught me on the upper lip, which I couldn’t hide.

  When Mom found out what had been going on, she was furious. Had a chat with Fred’s mom. I thought they’d resolve it amicably—they were friends, after all—but nope. Mom came home, called Fred’s mom “that bitch” in an extra-cold voice—I don’t think she knew I was listening—and never spoke to her again. And it was terrible until Fred’s family moved to New York because Fred’s mother was on every damn committee at my school and in the neighborhood, and she had lots of friends in the area. She did her best to snub Mom every chance she got…and there were a lot of chances.

  “And it’s Shelly who’s the bitch, not her mom,” I add. “Mrs. Morris is fine. I just don’t want to be responsible for Mom’s relationship going sour.” Mrs. Morris is also on tons of volunteer groups and other social stuff that Mom is involved in. She has scores of friends, many of them mutual with Mom. I don’t think Mrs. Morris would snub anyone…but then, I didn’t think that about Fred’s mom, either.

  “Yeah, but keeping secrets like this isn’t good. It’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

  “Stop worrying. Go do something productive instead.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Derek trails off and grows quiet. Must be getting alerts on his phone. He gets distracted easily by social media. It’s a trait he shares with the youngest of us, Trent.

  “The blonde’s your assistant?” Derek says suddenly.

  Uh-oh. “How did you know? Did Jan tell you?”

  “It’s all over the gossip sites.”

  What the hell? I sit up straight, dread settling over me. No fucking way this is possible. I wouldn’t have recognized Erin from that photo myself if I hadn’t been there. “How did they find out?”

  “An anonymous source. So Erin is the girl.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what’s important.” I think fast. None of the people at the auction is the type to tell, calling themselves an “anonymous source.”

  Fordham?

  But…no. If he wanted everyone to know, he would’ve made his move the moment the picture came out, instead of sending those ridiculous roses. I mean, what kind of boring idiot sends red roses? Everyone buys those.

  “They also linked her to you,” Derek adds. “They know she works for you.”

  Shit.

  A conversation I had with Dane a while back fleets through my brain. We were talking about being famous. He said it was overrated because his Hollywood superstar cousin Ryder Reed never gets any peace, since reporters—the term was uttered with a cynicism only Dane can muster—constantly want a piece of him. “They show up on location, at his home, stalk him in his car…” Dane said with cold contempt.

  Neither Erin nor Fordham nor I are as high-profile as Ryder Reed. Nowhere close, really. But right now, news is slow, and these so-called journalists are always looking for clickbait. The more outrageous the story, the better. And based on what Matt said, Warren Fordham is interesting enough. Throw in a woman and a possible rival…click, click, baby.

  “I gotta go,” I say, and hang up immediately to try Erin’s number. She doesn’t pick up. I try security, praying everything’s business as usual.

  “Security desk.”

  “This is David Darling. Is everything okay down there?”

  “Inside the building, yeah. But there’s a group of media vultures outside. Some lady just went out, and she’s getting mobbed.”

  Jesus. Cold fear clutches my heart, and my pulse leaps. I know it’s Erin. Has to be. She left only minutes ago.

  “Was she carrying flowers?”

  “Yeah, a huge red bouquet. They’re scattered all over the pavement now, though.”

  The fear turns into terror. Those assholes can make a Black Friday stampede look civilized. A bitter tang coats my mouth.

  “We’re calling the police,” the man says.

  He couldn’t have done that sooner? “Can you do something now?”

  “I can’t leave the desk, and my partner can’t fight them by himself. This wasn’t in the contract.”

  Useless pussies!

  Furious that these assholes are worried about a fucking contract, I sprint out. Both elevators are on the first floor, and it’s going to take forever.

  Argh! I charge down the stairs, leaping three, four steps each time, one hand on the rail for balance.

  It feels like an eternity before I hit the lobby, even though I know it only takes a few moments. But it’s a few moments during which Erin’s surrounded, probably getting terrorized by an aggressive throng of crazy reporters.

  I spot the crowd immediately, but don’t see Erin. A moment later I locate her squeezed against a dark frosted-glass wall. She only needs to move two steps to make it to the door and escape into the building, but there are too many of them around her.

  Hot rage erupts, my vision going hazy and red. I run toward the throng, arms pumping, and slam into the door with my shoulder.

  Several of assholes are close enough to get shoved out of the way. I make it to Erin, my feet crushing roses on the sidewalk, then shield her with my body as I pull her to her feet. Some of the men bump into me aggressively. Adrenaline spiking my veins, I push back. If I weren’t standing in front of Erin, she could get hurt. They’re purposely intimidating her to get her to say something. Dicks!

  “Get back or I’m pressing charges!” I yell.

  “We have a right to know!” one of the screams back.

  “You don’t get to hurt somebody to get a story!”

  “What’s your personal relationship?” one in the back yells.

  “Do you think you’re going to stay engaged to Congressman Fordham?”

  Stay engaged? What the hell?

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Is your fiancé okay with you working for David Darling after what happened over the weekend?”

  My control snaps. What’s with all the assumptions people are having about taking Erin away from me? Those geeks gulping candy. Joe Choi in San Mateo. And now these fucking reporters. She’s my damned assistant, and she was my date to the damned auction!

  “You’ve got it wrong. She’s mine!” I thunder.

  More flashes go off. “Are you having an affair?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Everyone back the fuck up!”
/>
  One arm wrapped around Erin, I push through the crowd and bring her into the building fast. They can’t enter since it’d be trespassing, and they know it. They glare at me balefully. I want to flip them the bird, but restrain myself. There is such a thing as bad publicity, and it wouldn’t look good to have that particular picture plastered everywhere.

  Now that we’re out of their grip, my priority is making sure Erin’s okay. She’s trembling all over. I put an arm around her and search her face. It’s bloodless, her eyes wide and slightly unfocused. Her teeth chatter. Everything about it makes my blood boil. She was smiling just moments ago when she left the office!

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Do we need to call 911?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m fine. I’m just…a little shook up.” She looks up at me, confusion and disbelief still etched in every line of her pretty face. “What was that about?”

  “Somehow they found out you were the woman in the picture.” I gesture at the reporters. “I guess they think you and Fordham are together.” Which is a ridiculous assumption. Nothing in the picture said they were in love or anything remotely close to it.

  “But I’m not.” She licks her lips. “Do you think Warren told people about me?”

  “Doubt it. He’s a national-level politician. He wants to look solid and stable, and this doesn’t help.” If I were in charge of his publicity, I wouldn’t want baseless rumors going around. And based on what Matt said, his people are too savvy to screw up like this.

  I lead her to a leather bench in the lobby and have her sit down. Her legs are too shaky for my liking. One of the security guys jogs over. “Are you okay?” From the voice, I can tell he isn’t the one who answered my call.

  “I don’t know. We only had to fight deranged reporters, and she dropped her flowers.” I look down and make sure she isn’t bleeding from a cut. Then I add, “She could’ve been hurt.”

  His florid face turns even redder. “The police will be here any second.”

  I jerk my chin in the direction of the throng. “Are they in the garage too?”

  “No. We checked with the security cameras and people down there.”

  Erin sighs, her shoulders sagging.

  I make a quick decision. “Okay. We need to get out of here. Let me go grab my things, Erin.” I’m torn between leaving her here and talking her with me, but she’s too shaky for me to drag upstairs. The lobby should be okay. There’s a huge column between her and the “reporters” to block their view of her, and they aren’t getting inside. “I’ll walk you to your car afterward.”

  “Okay.”

  I go to the elevator bank and push the button. God. That was damn close. Those assholes. No wonder Dane said fame is overrated.

  I sense something move in my peripheral vision. I turn and see Erin standing next to me.

  “Did you forget something?” I ask. “I can get it for you.”

  “No. I’m just… I don’t want to be down here.” Her gaze darts toward the main entrance as she hugs herself.

  The tabloid writers are pressed against the glass door like zombies desperate for brains. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. Okay.”

  An elevator comes, and we take it up the building. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I’m feeling slightly shaky myself, but my head is clearing.

  I know it wasn’t Fordham behind the leak. He’s probably regretting the photo from the auction as it is. Who stands to benefit from this?

  When we reach my office, I have Erin sit in one of the visitor’s chairs. She lets me take care of her—probably because she’s still in shock. I grab my laptop and pick my phone up off the desk. There’s a new text.

  –Unknown: OMG. I’ve been trying to get to your office, but it’s a madhouse. Are you okay?

  Sounds like it’s from somebody I should know, but I don’t recall seeing this number.

  –Me: Who is this?

  –Unknown: It’s me! Shelly!

  Ugh. I feel my face scrunch faster than when I ate Erin’s cookies last week. Shelly must’ve gotten the number from my mom, or maybe she saved it from her previous phone.

  –Me: You have the wrong number.

  I go to block her, then pause. It’s a little too convenient that she was planning on showing up just now…

  –Unknown: Isn’t this David?

  –Me: Did you leak Erin’s identity?

  –Unknown: I don’t know what you mean. It isn’t like people couldn’t figure it out. She wasn’t exactly hidden at the event.

  Riiiiiight.

  –Me: Except the press had no clue until now.

  –Unknown: Look. She’s into Warren Fordham. You saw that, right? Why else would she let him hold her like that? He had his hands all over her.

  –Me: You mean him grabbing her wrist?

  I still want to punch him in the mouth for that, but it’s not like they were making out.

  –Unknown: He could’ve done more when you weren’t looking. She probably liked it, too! I don’t know why you’d want to be with her when we could be together again.

  Disgusted, I block Shelly and shove the phone into my pocket. I used to find her weird non-logic amusing and indulge her. Now it’s just irritating.

  I turn and pause when I spot Erin with her face buried in her hands. Her entire body is literally drooping—like mental and physical exhaustion are weighing down on her, too heavy for her small frame.

  She lifts her head. “Did you get everything?”

  “Yeah. Are you all right? You look really pale.”

  “I’m fine.” She says it with a wan smile, but I know she doesn’t mean it. She’s speaking like I’m a stranger who couldn’t care less about how she really feels.

  That hurts. And along with the hurt comes anger.

  Not at her, but at everything about the situation. I’m pissed that my resentment against Shelly made me do something as stupid as getting Erin involved. And furious that I can’t unpublish the picture or erase the damage Shelly has done. I should’ve known she wouldn’t accept that she and I were over, even if I produced a faux lover. She’d push, because she can’t stand being denied anything. I should’ve anticipated that she would see Erin as an obstacle to eliminate.

  “There’s something I need to let you know,” I say.

  Erin stares at me like she suddenly lost her English. Okay, revelations can wait.

  “Want something to eat?” Every time Cora feels bad, she seeks out sugar. She said there’s almost nothing sugar can’t improve. Maybe it’ll work the same with Erin.

  “Do I look that bad?” Erin asks finally. Then her gaze drops to my desk. “I’d like some of the cake, if you don’t mind.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Erin

  David gives me the strangest look. Then he gets up. “Um… Sure. Just a sec.”

  He walks out. Maybe he doesn’t have a fork… No, there’s a disposable utensil and napkin set wrapped in clear plastic on his desk. I should point out that he didn’t have to go hunt for them when he’s back.

  Maybe he and I can share the cake. That’s probably what he’s planning on doing.

  Then I wonder why I’m thinking about this sort of mundane thing when I have to deal with the picture and the reporters. I’m sure they’re going to publish my name…if they haven’t done so already.

  Dad will call again to demand answers. He might’ve already tried. Not that I’d know, now that my phone’s dead. Does it make me a bad person if I’m relieved that I can’t talk to him? I think back on what happened to my poor phone. Assuming anything’s left on the sidewalk after the reporters are gone, I doubt I’ll get anything off the crushed device. I doubt my contacts are backed up, too. I’ll have to ask the phone people when I replace it.

  The door opens again, and David returns with a bag of M&M’s he must’ve filched from the dev team’s candy stash. He told me they have the best selection and never, ever run out.

  “Here.” David hands me the chocolate.

&n
bsp; Then he drags a chair next to mine so he’s facing me. I realize by sitting like this, he’s blocking my view of the cake. The move makes me smile a little. He must really like it to not want to share. Normally he’s pretty generous.

  I open the bag and eat a few crunchy chocolates. I offer him some, but he shakes his head.

  He sighs. “Shelly told the media who you were.”

  I stop eating and stare at him. “She told you that?”

  “Yeah. She just texted me. I’m sure she’s also the one who said you and Warren are together to spite me for saying you were the love of my life.”

  “Wow.” She must’ve taken her first come, first served logic to the extreme to pair me with Warren. She must also think that by doing this, she can have David again. “Well, it isn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah, it is. I shouldn’t have asked you to come on Saturday. Shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’m really sorry.”

  I shrug. “You couldn’t have known all this was going to happen. Your ex doesn’t seem like the subtle type. Or, well…perceptive.”

  “No. She isn’t.” His phone beeps. He glances at the screen and swears.

  “What?”

  “It’s Trent.”

  “Your brother?” He works in Sweet Darlings, Inc.’s headquarters in Virginia, and I met him three or four times before David and I got transferred to L.A.

  “Yeah.” David flips the gadget around, showing me the text.

  –Trent: Bro, what’s going on? You’re engaged to a girl who’s engaged to Warren Fordham???

  “What is he talking about?” And more importantly, how in the world did he reach that outlandish conclusion?

  David makes a helpless gesture. “No idea.” David texts his brother.

  Another beep. David groans like Marion the office manager when the copier jams.

  “What?”

  “They totally twisted what I said. When I was pulling you away from those vultures”—he waves toward the window—“they kept screaming about you and Fordham being engaged, so I said you were mine.”