And I should be having fun right now. I am having fun, don’t get me wrong. Any guy would have fun doing what I’m doing right now, having these girls literally chasing me, even if it were staged.
But there’s a cloud over the day, because I can’t stop thinking about a discussion I had with my father over brunch earlier in the day.
“We’re coming up on 66th Street, boss,” Evan says, glancing down the jogging path we’re on. “You want to call it quits? Sidewalk’s coming up.”
The exit of the park is fast approaching, just past a little bend in the road and beyond a police barricade separating the street from the jogging path. I check behind me, and I’m expecting the girls to look tired, but they don’t. They still all look amazing. They’re all smiling. And I’m enjoying this little run with them.
“Nah,” I say to Evan, clapping my hands a few times, “let’s keep going.”
We approach the sidewalk and Evan honks as we hook a right uptown. It’s a bright day and the early spring sun is warm and feels so good on my face, and as we proceed on our path on the sidewalk next to the park, tourists turn their heads and point, and locals scoff and hold their coats closer to their chests - I think I actually saw an elegant older woman literally clutching her pearls.
And I’m not gonna lie. It feels good to have all eyes on me.
The Upper East Side is my turf. It’s my home. It’s my playground.
But I don’t want it to be my whole world. I never wanted to be this sheltered rich daddy’s boy with a silver spoon in his mouth and a golden watch on his wrist. You know, there’s that old story of a man putting in years - a lifetime - of work for a company and then getting a gold watch when he retires. But I was born with the gold watch. I didn’t have to do anything to earn it. Just my name and my pedigree and my family line in the gilded world of New York royalty gave me everything I’ve ever wanted.
But it wasn’t enough. It’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough.
So I’m running. Running away from something, or running toward something, I’m not sure. But I’m restless.
Enter web 2.0. I can get online and get content out to my followers in seconds. In some ways it has the capacity to make our world smaller. In some ways it has the capacity to make our world bigger. I use it to make my world big and wide open. To let people in. To stretch my arms out farther than I was ever able to before, and I’m not just talking about my ability to hop on my family’s private plane and go to some island where we have a vacation home. No, I mean meeting people in my very own city that I probably wouldn’t have before.
So this little photo op, it’s all for them.
I check behind me to see the girls.
And I keep running, feeling my feet bounce off the pavement, and feeling a smile stretch across my face.
But it’s tempered. I keep going back to the conversation with my father.
I can’t get it out of my head. Truth is, I shouldn’t want to. This damn problem is too big for me to ignore. It’s something I should be turning over in my head and trying to find a solution to, starting two hours ago. Dad would say how I’ve chosen to spend today is part of my problem. That I’m not taking my role in the family seriously. That I’m shirking my responsibilities.
Maybe I am. Maybe the worst part is that I agree with my dad on things more than I want to admit to myself.
So for now, I’m running. The park is flying past me on my left and shops and tourists are flying past me on my right, and behind me is a group of very gorgeous women, and up ahead is...well, I can’t see that far ahead yet. And whether I’m running toward something or away from something - yeah that part’s not so clear either.
All I know is that I make it look damn good. And everyone wants to see me doing it.
Whether it’s real or not.
Anna
The girl who’s appointment it is looks just like me.
Except she doesn’t.
We’re both the same size. I’m here because I’m the same size as her. We have similar measurements. The same dark brown hair and brown eyes. Similar complexions. We’re about the same age. We might even be wearing the same exact shade of lipstick.
But that’s where the similarities end.
“This is okay, I guess,” the perfect girl next to me says, taking a sip of her champagne. “I guess I just think we could be doing more with the dress. It’s very nice, but it’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”
I swallow and purse my lips, but otherwise I stay perfectly still. I can feel Maggie trying to catch my glance in the mirror so she can roll her eyes at me, but I don’t want her to. I know there’s about a fifty percent chance I’ll start laughing at this rich girl and her idea of a twenty thousand dollar dress being boring if I see Maggie smirking and rolling her eyes.
“Mmm, mhm,” Maggie makes a noise with her mouth, but she’s not really saying anything. I know she is being sarcastic with her little nod and the way she brings one finger to her lips as she crosses one of her thin arms across her stomach and places her hand in the crook of her elbow. “I see what you mean. Yes, you’re right. There should be some more luxurious details on the dress. What do we think of the silhouette, though?”
“Oh, I love the silhouette,” rich girl says, smoothing her hand against the skirt. “It’s beautiful. But I think the lace on top is just not my style. There should be more sparkle on it.”
I like sparkle too, so I can’t fault her for that.
“The back,” she adds, walking around me, taking my body in from every angle, “the back looks fabulous. This would actually look great on me. In fact, I’d like to try this one on. The skirt and the back are just too pretty, even if the top would need some alterations.”
“Oh, fabulous,” Maggie says, shooting me a smirk in the mirror as our eyes meet. She walks over to me and starts to help me down off the little platform. “I thought you’d like the overall look of the dress. And we can add a belt or something to make it a little more blinged-out. Or a necklace.”
I can see the dollar signs swirling around Maggie’s head.
“Oh,” the bride-to-be says, “not this exact dress, right?”
An awkward silence descends over the three of us. I’ve had this happen to be before.
“Oh, well yes, this dress is your size, and we selected this one so it would be ready for you and you wouldn’t have to wait for us to pull anything.”
I groan inside my head and shoot Maggie a look.
Why’d she have to say the word size?
Maggie, we’ve been through this before! This is a code red! Danger! Proceed with extreme caution!
“Oh,” the girl says, a nervous laugh slipping from her lips and spilling out into the awkward air around us. “This isn’t my size. I’m a size six. This dress will be swimming on me!”
“Oh, Julietta,” Maggie says carefully, as though she’s finally catching onto what’s happening, “size doesn’t matter. It’s just a number. And I know how stressful wedding dress shopping can be. I work with brides every day. Plus, wedding dresses do run slightly differently than street clothing.”
“This isn’t stressful,” Julietta says, taking a sip of her champagne and sitting down carefully on the edge of one of the couches. “It’s just that we are clearly not the same size. No offense to you,” she adds, raising an eyebrow to me in the mirror.
I’ve heard this before. A bride who wants to be skinny and what she thinks is beautiful on her wedding day. Sometimes they have an interesting way of showing it. And I don’t let it hurt my feelings.
Oh, it’s hurt once or twice in the past. I’ve been called fat - not to my face, but I’ve overheard bridesmaids ask why they had a bigger girl trying on dresses for their friend - and that used to hurt, but now I let it just roll off my shoulders. Mostly.
What I don’t appreciate is when the brides make a scene. That’s the thing that really irks me. And I know Maggie doesn’t like it either.
“No offense taken,” I say back t
o her, smiling sweetly. “Everyone’s different.”
“But,” Maggie says carefully, “you two do have almost the same measurements. And Julietta, I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with, but you may want to try this dress. It might surprise you. Even with the same measurements, it may fit slightly differently.”
Julietta clears her throat and slides back on the couch, crossing her arms across her chest and taking a sip of her champagne. She should probably slow down because it’s barely past noon on a Saturday, but it’s certainly not my place to tell this woman I’m technically at the service of to have a glass of water, especially when she’s already pissed off at me.
“I have been on a diet for the last six weeks in preparation for this appointment,” she says, tensing her jaw. She’s so pretty, and naturally pretty at that, with full lips and perfect, slightly-thicker eyebrows, and thick brown hair, though she would look prettier if she just relaxed. “I have been eating vegetable soup every day for lunch and dinner, and boiled eggs for breakfast. Boiled eggs. Boiled eggs!”
“Okay,” Maggie breathes, clasping her hands together, “why don’t we just move on to a different dress? And I can have one of the alteration associates run another size to us while we look at a different dress.”
Julietta stands up. She’s not happy. She looks freaking livid, which is a bit of an overreaction. I know what she is going through, trying to eat only certain foods and do certain things and restrict your activity to get the body that you’re going for, but gosh, she is really taking this to another level.
Julietta starts walking toward me, putting one of her toned legs in front of the other carefully, and I can see that she is attempting to walk delicately in her white stilettos, but she’s more wobbly than she probably realizes.
And she gets closer. Does she want to hug me? Why’s she walking toward me like this?
“Julietta, um, why don’t we move on to another dress?” Maggie says, stepping toward us.
“You’re just so pretty,” Julietta says to me, her shoulders beginning to hunch over, “and you seem so confident. I know we’re the same size, it’s just that...I wish I liked how I look as much as you do.”
She’s going to start crying. I know she is going to start crying at any moment.
“No Julietta, you’re so pretty,” I say, putting my arms out to her as she gets closer. “I don’t love how I look every single day.”
And the rich chick throws her arms around my neck, puts her head in the crook of my neck, and starts bawling.
“Oh sweetie, don’t cry!” I say, patting her on the back.
Is this really happening? She is leaning on me for emotional support?
“I don’t feel confident every single day,” I say, “I don’t love how I look at all times. Hell, I almost never love how I look. I’m getting paid to stand up here and smile. Sweetie, don’t cry.”
I catch Maggie’s eye as she comes toward me with a bottle of water, and Julietta pulls away from me, sniffling, wiping beneath her eyes with her perfectly manicured fingers.
“Honey, why don’t you sit down and relax for a minute?” Maggie says, putting her hand softly on Julietta’s back. I know she doesn’t want mascara on the dress. “Here, have some water. Do you want anything else? A bag of nuts or a granola bar or anything?”
We bring Julietta over to the couch and she sits down, looking pretty even though she’s crying. She actually looks cute crying.
“I will run out and get you something,” I say, kneeling down in front of her. Her eyes are red and wet with slick tears, but she is trying her best to reign it back in.
“A pretzel?” she asks, her eyes peering down as she wipes her eyes again. “I could go for a soft pretzel.”
“My girl is getting a pretzel then,” I say, crossing the boutique to grab my purse from my cubby behind the counter. “One soft pretzel coming up.”
“Just please be careful in the dress,” Maggie says, eyeing me up and down. “It might just be a sample, but we don’t want mustard on it.”
I grab a few bucks from my purse and start toward the door, and as I leave the shop, the soft bells over the door chime, mixing with the sounds of the busy street outside.
The day is perfect. It’s warm and fresh and mild, and I can smell springtime in the air.
And I really just needed to get out of that shop. I’ve seen so many brides break down like that, and even though I’ve never had one actually literally cry on my shoulder, I knew it would happen eventually.
And like I told her, I don’t always love how I look. I like how I look, usually, but I really am paid to stand there with a smile plastered on my face. I’m there to say yes. I’m there to agree with whatever is said to me. I’m not paid to have an opinion.
So if someone asks if a dress makes their ass look big, all I can do is laugh and shake my head. I can’t really say whether it does or not, because that’s not what I’m there for.
But Juliette is a sweet girl, and I do feel bad for her.
I make my way to the corner of the street, spotting a hot dog stand on the corner. It’s covered with a bright yellow umbrella, but the big trees lining the street make a natural canopy over the sidewalk.
“Hey,” I say when I get to the hot dog man. “Can I get two pretzels please? One with mustard.”
The man is short and has a baseball cap on, with wild white hair poking out from under the brim. He plucks two pieces of wax paper from a little box and retrieves two big, salty pretzels from a metal rack next to the pool of hot dogs swimming in water.
“Congratulations, young lady,” he says, handing me the pretzels. “For you, no charge.”
I look at him and feel my head cock to the side before I remember that I’m wearing a wedding gown.
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head and smiling, “I’m not getting married. I’m just wearing the dress for work. It’s not my wedding day or anything.”
He tilts his chin down and raises an eyebrow, looking at me skeptically.
“No charge,” he repeats. “Consider it an early wedding gift. You’re not married yet, are you? No ring.”
“No,” I say, “not yet. No ring.”
No ring. Not yet.
“Some day,” the man says.
“Some day,” I repeat, waving to him. “Hey, thanks so much for the pretzels.”
He waves back to me as I start to walk away.
I could just stay out here all day. Maybe go to the park, just sit on a bench. It’s a nice day to not even look at my phone.
I start to walk back to the shop, when I see something moving up in the distance. I hold a hand up, shielding the sun from my eyes.
That’s strange. It looks like a big group of people running. Just running. They aren’t even jogging or anything. And it looks like most of them are wearing, like, evening wear or something.
Damn, these people are really hauling butt.
And as they get closer, I can see that the leader of the pack is a guy. A man.
An absolutely gorgeous man.
He’s probably about a block away by now, and the features of his face and body are starting to become clearer. And unmistakably sexy.
I feel my breath catch in my throat, and I swallow thickly as I move over to the side of the sidewalk. And this man flashes the most sexy smile right at me, and I feel a strange sensation of heat flow through my body.
And he’s running straight toward me.
Liam
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, the only girl who’s even made my heart feel like it’s stopped inside my chest, is either recently married or about to get married.
Because she’s wearing a wedding dress.
It’s the most beautiful woman in the world’s wedding day, and she isn’t marrying me.
I see her from the side first. Her brown hair is slightly tousled, like she’s been running around all morning, and it falls in elegant waves down her back. I swallow hard and I feel my cock stiffen
when she turns, sees me, and presses her back to the window of a bridal boutique and bites down on the corner of her bottom lip.
Fuck, she is sexy.
I slow my jog down to a walk, and her eyes meet mine.
Her deep, dark brown eyes are swimming. They are crystal clear and bright and I feel like I am fucking floating toward her.
I feel the group of women behind me slowing down to meet my pace, and Evan zips his Vespa up onto the sidewalk, cutting the engine and taking his helmet off.
And this bride standing in front of me is still all I can see.
Her lips, her eyes, her face, her fucking body. She’s the most forbidden girl I’ve ever seen, and I’ve never wanted anyone like I want her in this moment.
So when I pass her, I’ll just keep walking.
She isn’t mine. She can never be mine.
She’s someone else’s.
And it’s a damn shame, isn’t it?
I walk past her, and when I get close to her, I can feel her breathing. It’s like I can feel her heart beating inside her chest.
But I just keep walking. I have a job to do. I’m here for this photo shoot. I’m here so I can have good, new content for my followers.
But when I turn my head back to the angel in the white gown, she’s still looking at me. She looks confused, almost, and why wouldn’t she be? I admit this looks a little ridiculous, how I have all these women following me.
“Excuse me,” I say, doubling back to talk to her. “I just wanted to say congratulations to you. Your husband is a very lucky man.”
She smiles and cocks her head slightly to the side, biting down on her lip. Her eyes are still bright and clear and they’re smiling, but she looks like I’ve told her she looks good in her roller derby outfit.
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Oh,” she finally says, shaking her head and looking down. She smooths one hand over the big skirt of her dress. “Right. I keep forgetting I’m wearing this thing.”
Insta-Hubby (A Billionaire Fake Relationship Romance) Page 2
