by Holly Rayner
Fake Fiancée, Bride Forever
Holly Rayner
Contents
Fake Fiancée, Bride Forever
1. Leah
2. Leah
3. Leah
4. Leah
5. Magnus
6. Leah
7. Leah
8. Leah
9. Leah
10. Leah
11. Leah
12. Magnus
13. Magnus
14. Leah
15. Leah
16. Leah
17. Leah
18. Magnus
19. Leah
20. Leah
21. Magnus
22. Leah
23. Leah
Epilogue
Stay in touch
Married by Mistake
Introduction
Chapter 1
More Series by Holly Rayner
Fake Fiancée, Bride Forever
Copyright 2019 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Leah
Spring 2014
From the moment I step off the plane at LAX, everything around me feels like a dream.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, my life has felt like a dream for weeks now. Ever since the letter arrived from the production company, SnakePit Media, I’ve felt as though reality has been suspended.
Congratulations, Leah Simmonds! You have been invited to pitch your project to the Vipers!
The Vipers… My mind reels at the thought of standing in the same room with them. The Vipers are a group of businessmen—all men—who made their names and fortunes in the tech industry when they were my age. “Vipers” is the name they gave themselves when they came together to produce their TV special, through which they plan to identify and back a promising new talent.
The Vipers’ Nest project has gotten no small share of publicity on the developer message boards I frequent, with hundreds of people posting about their own current projects and their plans to apply for the show. It was mostly the excitement of everyone else talking about it that led me to apply. I never took it seriously because I didn’t think I had a real chance. After all, each of the Vipers is a household name, famous for creating a product used across America. Around the world. My software is a pet project I’ve been working on in my spare time. It’s still in beta. Honestly, I figured that fact alone would disqualify me.
And now I’m here.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of shopping and packing. My wardrobe is perfect for the climate of Seattle where I live—cloudy and rainy and never quite warm enough. But in LA, where the show is being filmed, it’s sunny and warm. Hence the recent spate of new purchases which now fill my suitcase.
I step out of the airport terminal to a sky that is vast and unbelievably clear. As the taxi driver loads my suitcase into the trunk, I put on my new sunglasses and get in the vehicle, ready for an adventure.
We pull up to the hotel where my fellow contestants and I will be staying. It’s a beautiful tower, the outer architecture hinting at what I’m sure will be a well-appointed and spacious interior. I grab my bag and make my way to the reservation desk to check in.
“You’re here for Vipers’ Nest?” the man behind the counter says, looking me up and down with a critical eye.
I can imagine what he’s thinking. After all, Vipers’ Nest is first and foremost a reality TV program, and here I am, all of twenty-four years old with a face that looks annoyingly younger. I’m blond and female and, thanks to my day of travel, not wearing a power suit. In short, I know what I look like, and it’s not a brilliant tech genius. I look like the contestant who was picked to entertain the audience as flaky eye candy before flaming out in spectacular and humiliating fashion.
I’m determined not to do that.
I’ve got my work cut out for me if I want to be taken seriously among this crowd. Even on my message boards, where no one can see my face, it’s hard to get people to overlook the fact that I’m a woman in a field dominated by men. I have to present myself in the most businesslike way as possible at all times. That way there will be no confusion about what I came here for and whether or not I’m up for the challenge.
“That’s right,” I tell the man, chin held high. “Leah Simmonds.”
Eyebrow raised, he checks his list. He can’t argue with my name being there in black and white.
“Okay,” he says, and hands me a folder. “Here’s your itinerary. Your name badge is in the folder, too.” He slides a key card across the counter to me. “You’re in room 305.”
My room is light and airy, with enormous plush pillows and comfortable white bed linens. I unpack my suits and hang them in the closet, pleased to see that they haven’t wrinkled—I’m not as handy as my grandmother with an iron—then I cross to the heavy curtains and pull them open.
The view is magnificent. I’m on the back side of the hotel, facing away from the street and overlooking a beautiful beach. I’m used to the beaches of Washington, cold and rocky with dark water, but here the ocean is a clear sparkling blue and the sand looks comfortable enough to sleep on. For just a moment, I wish I was here for leisure instead of business. A few days on that beach would be so relaxing, and God knows I could use the downtime away from my data processing job.
Maybe I’ll find time to visit the beach while I’m here.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and open the folder that contains my itinerary, hoping to see a nice open time slot one afternoon. The schedule is packed so tightly that I can’t see how I’m going to fit everything in, even without detours.
With my decision to always present myself professionally at the forefront of my mind, I dress for the first event on my itinerary. It’s a photo shoot, to be held in one of the hotel conference rooms, followed by an optional cocktail social which I fully plan to attend. I can’t miss even one opportunity to network while I’m here; some of the brightest minds in the industry are involved in this production, and doors could be opened for me this weekend. But that’s only going to happen if I put myself out there.
The outfit I choose is a black pantsuit, tailored to fit. It’s my interview suit, the one I wore when I was applying for jobs, and it’s always been lucky for me. I feel powerful in this suit, but attractive at the same time. To soften the look a bit, I leave my hair down, natural thick waves falling just below my shoulder blades. I complete my look with a pair of red pumps.
I’m nervous as I make my way down to the conference room, ID badge hanging around my neck, but no one even looks up as I pull open the heavy wooden door and step inside. I feel like a little kid who’s snuck into a room where she doesn’t belong. A strident woman with a clipboard is shouting orders, and several men and women in jeans are fiddling with cameras, lights, and power cords.
Then I see the other contestants.
I was exactly right to think this would be a male-dominated group. I know from my information packet that there are twenty Vipers’ Nest contestants, and as I look at the group of chattering men, some with easy smiles on their faces, others with
a look of sheer panic, it’s hard to see where I’m going to fit in. My gaze stops on the face of a woman—thank God, I’m not the only one—but she freezes me with an icy stare before turning to talk to the man next to her. I’m blindsided by her cold treatment of me. What did I ever do to offend her?
Before I can worry too much about it, a voice chirps in my ear. “Hi! Are you a contestant, too?”
I turn, relieved, toward the friendly voice. The speaker is a woman of about my own age. She’s dressed in a gray wool skirt that falls to the middle of her calves, a loose-fitting tank top, and a bright pink cardigan. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun.
She smiles and holds out her hand. “I’m Megan.”
“Leah,” I say, glad to have finally met someone who seems happy to see me. “Yes, I’m a contestant.”
“Good,” Megan says, one hand moving to clutch my elbow. “It seems like there aren’t any girls here, and the ones who are seem scary.” She shoots a meaningful look toward the woman who glared at me a moment ago. “This is my first time in LA. I was so excited when I got my letter that I thought I was going to die! What about you?”
“I’ve never been here before either,” I say. “I flew down from Washington this morning.”
“Wow! Washington.”
Megan keeps up a steady stream of chatter in my ear, standing next to me as the photographer poses us and snaps a series of pictures for the title credits of the show. The unpleasant-looking woman, I notice, seems to come to life when the camera is on her, her face relaxing into a charming smile that goes all the way to her eyes. But as soon as the photo shoot is finished, she’s back to her old self.
The men fall into three main groups. Half the younger men, in their twenties, are boisterous and playful, reminding me of fraternity members from my college days. They seem completely unaware of the volume of their conversation as we move the gathering from the conference room to the hotel bar, and I overhear more than one of them bragging about the functionality of their software and their plans to wow the Vipers during their pitch. They all seem so confident, sure that they belong here. I wonder what it would be like to have their confidence.
The other half of the young men are quiet, nervous, and keeping their voices low. I guess you could say stereotypical tech nerds. These are the ones who likely have advanced technical concepts as part of their project. They’ll pitch their project on the merits of the software, without a flashy presentation.
Then there are the older men. They keep to the fringes of the group, on the outside looking in, but unlike the women, they don’t look out of place or unsure. Instead, they have knowing smiles on their faces, as if they understand something the rest of us don’t about the scene that’s playing out before us. As I accept my drink from the bartender and pan my gaze across the room, I notice something else they all have in common—expensive suits. The young men are well dressed, certainly, but the older men are immaculate.
It’s not until one of them snags the seat next to me that I register the fact that Megan has drifted away into the crowd.
“Hi,” he says, flashing a hundred-watt smile. “I’m Greg. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m holding a drink,” I point out, feeling awkward.
“But you’ll want a second one, won’t you?” he persists.
“You’ve got to try a Moscow mule,” another voice chimes in, and I look to my right. One of the younger men is there, his tie loosened. “You’ve never had anything like it. Hey, bartender!”
I’ve had a Moscow mule before, but before I can correct the man’s assumption, the first man is on his feet.
“I was talking to the lady.”
“No reason we can’t both talk to her,” the second man says.
I wish there were more women here. Anything to take this excessive attention off of me.
As I look around, hoping to catch Megan’s eye and manufacture some kind of escape, I see that several other men in the bar are watching me with interest. In fact, the majority of the faces around me are turned toward me, and I know it’s not because they’re scoping out their competition. Even my businesslike pantsuit doesn’t seem to have the effect I was hoping for. No one here is looking at me as anything but a sex object.
Then I notice one man, off in the corner, who isn’t looking my way at all. He’s busy doing something with his phone, leaning against the wall and not socializing with anyone else in the bar. Why did he come, if he was only going to work? It’s strange. Wouldn’t he have been better able to focus back in his hotel room?
Perhaps, like me, he thought he should put in some face time networking with the other contestants. But if that’s what he’s doing here, he’s failing even more spectacularly than I am. In the minute or so since I noticed him, he hasn’t spoken to anyone or even looked up. All his attention is on the phone in his hands.
What surprises me even more is that he’s devastatingly handsome. His blond hair falls to a few inches above his shoulders, and his angular jaw is dusted with a single day’s stubble that only serves to make his features more rugged and attractive. Although his arms and legs are sheathed in a dark gray suit, I can see how the muscles strain the fabric.
I try to guess his age. He’s not very old—younger than the man to my left—but older than me, I think. And yet it’s impossible to picture him joining in the raucous antics of the other young men here. He seems apart from that somehow, too smart, too mature.
“Here you go, honey.”
I turn back to the bar, bristling at the unwanted term of endearment as the younger man beside me slides a drink in front of me.
He watches me eagerly. “You’ll really like this, I promise.”
I resist the temptation to tell him that I’m an adult, and I’ve known for years what I do and don’t like to drink. But I know it’s not a good idea to burn bridges before the competition has even started.
Instead, I stir the drink slowly, waiting for my irritation to settle before I take a sip so I can convincingly feign gratitude. Better for him to think of me as a silly girl and find out later down the line that he underestimated me.
Just as I’m thinking this, however, a most unlikely event occurs. A tiny drone, no bigger than the palm of my hand, soars through the air and settles to a smooth landing on the bar in front of me.
“What the hell?” the man who bought me the drink demands.
I pick up the drone and examine it. It looks very well made, its four tiny propellers in perfect balance. Taped to the top is a small rectangle of paper, and I pull this off and unfold it. It’s a note:
How would you like to get out of here for some more stimulating conversation?
I’ll be waiting by the exit.
Sincerely,
Magnus
I glance over, leaning back to see past the man who’s pushing drinks on me, to see who the apparently very confident sender of the note could be.
There, standing by the door is the gorgeous blond man I noticed before. He’s put his phone away now and is gazing intently in my direction.
The moment my eyes meet his, the rest of the bar fades to background noise. The men sitting beside me are still talking, but their voices are nothing more than a low drone. All I can see are his piercing blue eyes, pale as ice, yet warmed by a barely suppressed smile.
Magnus. Such an unusual name. Curiosity overtakes me in a sudden wave. I want to know more.
I reach behind me and grab my purse, slinging it over my shoulder and sliding off my chair in a single movement, the tiny drone still cupped in my hand. Behind me, someone calls after me, but I’m no longer paying attention. Those men don’t have anything to say that I want to hear.
Magnus watches me cross the floor to his side, not breaking eye contact. When I reach his side, I hold out the drone, and he takes it back from me.
“Did you build that?” I ask, impressed.
“I did,” he says.
“And that message…that was intended for me?”
&n
bsp; “It was indeed. May I ask your name?”
“Leah,” I say. “Leah Simmonds. And you’re Magnus?”
“Yes. I thought you might like to take a walk with me, Leah. The weather is so nice here.”
He has an accent I can’t quite place. It’s pleasant to listen to. I hear it most when he pronounces the letters R and O.
“It is nice,” I agree, hardly knowing what I’m saying.
Inexplicably, I find I do want to leave with him. It’ll be nice to be away from all these people staring at me, nice not to have to wonder if everyone who sees me is secretly wondering what I’m doing here.
And I can’t deny that I’m interested in Magnus. Where does that accent come from? If he’s a fellow contestant—and he must be, he’s wearing a name badge—then why wasn’t he networking like everyone else? What explanation can there be for his mysterious behavior?
And what made him decide that he wanted to get out of there with me?
Magnus pushes open the door that leads to the street, and I precede him out into the warm Los Angeles night.
This evening has taken an unexpected turn. Even though I know I’m supposed to be focusing on work—and I swore to myself I would keep my attention where it ought to be—I can’t help but let myself get caught up in the excitement of it.
Chapter 2
Leah
We walk for about a block without talking. My awareness of Magnus’ presence is magnified, though. As much as I try to face forward and not let my eyes dart toward him, I can’t help it.
I’m sure he’s over six feet tall—my head doesn’t even come up to his shoulder. And the thick muscles I noticed from across the bar are even more pronounced now that we’re outside. His clothes are well-tailored, and I can see how perfectly he fills them out.
