The Decoy Bride

by Lizzie Shane

  THE DECOY BRIDE

  by Lizzie Shane

  A Bouquet Catchers Novel

  Copyright © 2018 Lizzie Shane

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights reserved under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Decoy Bride

  What’s the hottest movie star in the world to do when she wants privacy for her wedding day? Pay someone else to stage a fake wedding half a world away, of course.

  Struggling artist Bree has been the great Maggie Tate’s decoy for a while now, but when the movie star asks her to impersonate her for three weeks to distract the paparazzi from her real wedding she has no idea what she’s getting herself into. Especially when she realizes she’s going to be isolated in one of the world’s most romantic settings with the bodyguard she can’t stop drooling over.

  Retired football star Cross has always been driven to be the best at everything he does–whether that’s professional sports or personal protection. He doesn’t make mistakes. Ever. But when the sexy little decoy and her complete lack of impulse control start throwing him off his game, he’s about to discover that there are some things in life he can’t control. Like the irrepressible decoy… and his heart.

  Some books write themselves. Others…don’t. This was definitely one of the latter, and I have to dedicate it to my Isle of Palms ladies, who got me through the sticky parts. Thank you. You know what you did.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “May I be honest with you?”

  Bree kept her face carefully blank as she swallowed down the dread roiling in her stomach. Somehow she didn’t think the owner of the premiere gallery in Santa Monica was going to follow up that question with I think you’re brilliant and would love nothing more than to launch you into the art world—but in her eleven years in LA, she’d never once puked on a gallery owner and she was not going to start with Olivia Hwang.

  Bree folded her hands as if they were discussing any old piece of art and not the magnum opus she’d spent the last six months slaving over. “Please.”

  Olivia cocked her elegant head, studying the fifteen-foot collage that took up the entire showroom wall. “It’s beautiful,” she said, like someone else might say it’s blue, as if it was a fact, and not a particularly interesting one.

  Bree was tempted to leave it at that—just say thank you, gather up her things and go, holding onto the illusion of the compliment. Olivia Hwang had called her work beautiful. She could dine out on that for months.

  But she would know it was an illusion. And she’d never been good at leaving society’s pretty illusions intact. She’d always had to push, slave to a compulsion to find the truth beneath. “And?” she prompted.

  “And boring.”

  She couldn’t contain her flinch, though Olivia was too engaged in studying the collage to notice. Stupid compulsion. “Boring,” she echoed, voice empty, ears ringing.

  “It’s the sort of piece you would expect to see in an airport. Universal in a sort of bland, inoffensive way. Like something a computer could produce.”

  Another surge of nausea sloshed in her stomach, but Bree forced her voice to remain steady as she pointed out, “I did it all by hand.”

  Two thousand photos. Each painstakingly developed and carefully crafted into a larger piece until the pictures taken all over Los Angeles came together to form a giant wave crashing on the shore.

  “I can see that,” Olivia said, still speaking in that matter-of-fact, almost clinical way. She reached out as if she would touch the piece, but stopped short, her hand hovering in the air over the lines. “The technique is lovely. Composition, form—you have a good eye. It just lacks perspective. Soul. Obviously it’s beautiful, but what’s it saying?”

  “Does beauty have to say something?”

  “If it wants to be art it does.” Her tone was dry, this tall, thin woman in a skirt suit designed by a man who outfitted First Ladies. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t the first thing anyone noticed about her. Her composure, her exquisite poise, outshone everything else.

  Bree knew who she was, of course, but she’d still Googled Olivia Hwang as soon as Alan told her he’d managed to get her a meeting with the Hwang Gallery. The billionaire philanthropist’s wife had started the gallery over a decade ago and quickly become one of the most influential voices in the California art community, launching careers with a single sentence. She didn’t look like a woman on the far side of fifty—but even without the help of a skilled plastic surgeon, money could work miracles on the fountain-of-youth front. The lowlights in Olivia Hwang’s elegant updo probably cost more than a month’s rent for Bree’s apartment.

  “Art is only as meaningful as the emotion it inspires,” Olivia went on, taking a step back to take in the scope of the piece. “This? It’s pleasant. It doesn’t hit you in the gut. Do you want to be pleasant?”

  Well, I was raised in Minnesota. Bree bit her tongue on the urge to snark at the preeminent gallery owner in southern California. She smoothed sweaty hands down her Walmart skirt, and angled her body toward the photos resting at the foot of the adjacent wall. “What about the prints?”

  They weren’t on the same scale as the wave collage, but if Olivia Hwang saw something in them it would still change her life.

  “Pedestrian.”

  Bree flinched at the casual indictment.

  “Lovely,” Olivia qualified, “but generic. The sort of art you could buy at a farmer’s market.”

  I do sell them at farmer’s markets. Bree swallowed back another tide of nausea.

  “That isn’t really what we do at the Hwang Gallery.” The gallery’s owner waved a long-fingered hand at the prints lined up along the wall, somehow both praising them and dismissing them with the gesture. “You’re a talented photographer—obviously. I wouldn’t have agreed to look at your work if I hadn’t seen potential in the piece Alan showed me—but I don’t see you in any of this. Where’s your voice? Your point of view? What makes this a Bree Davies photograph?”

  Besides the fact that I took it? Bree stared at the print. She’d been proud of it twenty minutes ago. It had been one of her favorites when she was picking which pieces to load into the car to bring to the meeting with the great Olivia Hwang. Back when she’d been dreaming of words like big break and turning point. Now all she could see was Olivia’s words in neon letters across the vivid bridge scene.

  Pedestrian. Generic.

  At her continued silence, Olivia added, her voice gentle, “There are thousands of truly excellent photographers who don’t have anything to say. And the world needs them as well. There’s no shame in commercial photography. We can’t all be artists.”

  The words echoed against another voice from another time, that one harsh and deep. You can’t just decide to be an artist. That isn’t how it works, Bree.

  Her stomach gurgled and Bree pressed a hand to it, determined not to lose her breakfast burrito all over Olivia Hwang’s three thousand dollar shoes. “Thank you so much for your time,” she said hurriedly, hunched over like Quasimodo as she collected her prints, sliding them back into the plastic crate.

  Olivia stepped back, the corners of her mouth tugging down with sympathy. “I’d be happy to see your work again,” she offered. “If you find your voice.”

  B
ree nodded her thanks, pressing her lips together to contain the emotion that was suddenly pushing against her from the inside out. She’d been so worried about throwing up on one of the most powerful gallery owners in southern California, she’d completely missed the very real threat that she might burst into tears in front of her.

  She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her suddenly blurry vision on the prints beneath her hands. Olivia must have sensed what an edge she was on, because she murmured, “Justin will help you if you require any assistance. Best of luck, Miss Davies,” and retreated with a soft click of expensive heels, leaving Bree alone with her disappointment.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t had disappointments before. Rejections were easy to come by in this business and she’d learned early on that she would need a thick skin to survive. But this time had felt different. She’d let herself get her hopes up.

  Two weeks ago, her friend Alan had thrown the art equivalent of an open mic night in his tiny little gallery in Venice. It was a monthly ritual and one that Bree participated in more out of habit than any real sense that it might lead to her big break. But that night a miracle had occurred. Olivia Hwang herself had dropped by, perusing the art with pursed lips and the occasional encouraging twitch of an eyebrow. And she’d stopped in front of Bree’s piece—a double exposed photo that had given the eerie impression of a hidden self. She’d been experimenting—the effect more accident than art.

  We can’t all be artists.

  Bree sniffed hard and climbed the step stool to release the clips holding her magnum opus in place. The collage sagged, one end sinking toward the floor as the other stayed clipped up—would Olivia have been impressed by her vision if she’d seen it like this? The city of LA as a wave, half crumpled in on itself. Would she have been saying something then?

  The other side released, slithering to the floor, and Bree looked up to see Olivia’s assistant guiding it gently down. “It’s a beautiful piece,” he said—and she forced herself to smile even though the last thing she wanted was his pity.

  “Thank you.” She bent and began to briskly roll it—taking much less care than she had an hour ago in her studio when she’d oh-so-gently packed her pièce de resistance for transport to the illustrious Hwang Gallery. But the world had looked different then. Olivia Hwang had singled her out, asking to see more of her work. Everything was hope and technicolor fireworks in that moment.

  But now…back to beige.

  We can’t all be artists.

  Justin helped her carry the collage out to her car and brought out the crate of prints while she was maneuvering it into the hatchback. She’d bought the used Honda Fit off a surfer three years ago. He’d bragged that he could fit three surfboards into the tiny car and she’d discovered it fit easels and tripods just as well. Not to mention massive—bland—collages.

  Her phone buzzed as she was jockeying the rolled collage to make room for the crate. She balanced the crate on the edge of her bumper as she fished in her pocket for the phone, the face lit with a text alert.

  MT: I need you! 911!

  Bree snorted. Since nothing in Maggie Tate’s life was ever a 911 emergency—at least nothing that she would be texting Bree about—she pocketed her phone to finish shimmying the crate into place before acknowledging the text.

  But since she also needed the job with Maggie more than ever, she texted back On my way before slamming the hatch closed and climbing into the driver’s seat. Driving away from the Hwang Gallery and leaving all her stupid, overly optimistic hopes behind.

  Maggie’s Hidden Valley estate wasn’t far, by LA standards—the ten miles inland would probably only take a half hour if the traffic stayed bearable. Bree pointed her car toward the familiar destination and let instinct take over, not bothering with GPS.

  There was something oddly soothing about the stop-and-go Thursday morning traffic. It let her shut off her brain and try to forget the words that kept echoing inside her mind.

  Banal. Generic. Pedestrian.

  Her phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth and Bree reached to connect the call, grateful for the distraction. “Hello?”

  She’d expected Maggie—the star wasn’t known for her patience—but instead an all-too-familiar voice came through the speakers. “Bree?”

  She barely managed to keep her groan internal. “Hi, Mom.” Her mother was psychic. It was the only possible explanation for how she always knew exactly when to call when Bree’s doubts were loudest in her ears.

  “Are you all right? Your voice sounds strange.”

  “I’m driving,” she offered as an excuse, silently hoping her mother would take the hint and let her go lest she become another distracted driving statistic.

  “I won’t keep you,” her mother said—then proved the words a lie in the next breath. “I just had a job opportunity fall into my lap for you and I wanted to let you know before someone else snapped it up.”

  Bree sighed wearily. “I have a job, Mom.” Too many jobs. Nothing but freaking jobs and no career.

  Was it time to face facts and admit the dream was never going to come true? That she was never going to make it as an artist?

  We can’t all be artists.

  “Not like this,” her mother went on, plowing over her objections as always. “Graphic design! You’d be doing something artistic. Wouldn’t that be better than scooping ice cream?”

  “It’s soft serve. We don’t actually scoop it.”

  She’d never told her mother about the job with Maggie Tate. There was probably a parental loophole in the non-disclosure agreements she’d signed, but she’d never wanted to tell her parents about her side gig—or admit that it had been the only thing keeping a roof over her head for the last three years.

  The job had been fun at first—and perfect in that it gave her some extra cash but never took her focus away from her real goals.

  “You know what I mean,” her mother said with a familiar flicker of impatience. “You’d be making a good living and doing something with your artistic talents at the same time. Most artists have to have a day job to keep the lights on.”

  “I take it this graphic design job is in Clement?” Her mother was a small business and financial advisor in the town where Bree had grown up—and where she’d never fit.

  “You can still take photos in Minnesota. Cameras do work here.”

  Bree tightened her grip on the steering wheel, only resisting the weary urge to close her eyes because she was driving. “I wouldn’t grow as an artist in Clement, Mom.”

  “Why not? Lots of artists never got out into the world. Look at Monet. He spent years at that Giverny place your father and I visited when we were in France last year.”

  “Monet grew up in Paris. I somehow doubt he was lacking cultural stimulation.”

  A minute pause. “Aaron Cooper just moved back to town.”

  “Are you trying to say Aaron Cooper counts as cultural stimulation in Clement?”

  “He’s single.”

  Bree groaned. “He’s, like, seven years younger than me. You really want me to move home and date Andi’s baby brother?”

  “I know you remember him when he was a kid, but the age difference doesn’t matter so much when you’re older. He’s a very attractive young man.”

  “Mom.”

  “I’m just saying. When was the last time you had a date?”

  “I have other priorities, Mom.” A car horn blasted in the lane next to hers and Bree jumped at the excuse to get off the phone. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Traffic. I’ll call you later.”

  “No, you won’t.” Her mother sighed heavily into the phone. “You don’t have to ignore us, Breanne. We just want you to be happy.”

  “I am. I’m happy right where I am,” Bree insisted—though right this moment, as she pulled off the main road and up to the gatehouse guarding Maggie Tate’s exclusive neighborhood, the words felt a lot like a lie. “I’ll call you later.”

  She disconnected the call and pulled out her
ID to be scanned into the neighborhood. Five minutes later she was driving past the house Jennifer Lawrence had bought from Jessica Simpson a few years back. Or rather the gate for the house. Known as one of the few neighborhoods in LA that was completely paparazzi proof, Hidden Valley was its own world. Each of the mansions in the posh guarded community was tucked behind a long, gated drive of its own—for those who were rich enough to buy their privacy in twenty acre plots in Beverly Hills.

  Bree pulled up to the gate at Maggie’s place and scanned her ID again, waiting as the massive metal gates swung ponderously open before continuing up the curving drive. Lush landscaping encroached on either side and she drove down the middle of the cobblestone driveway to avoid brushing the sides of her car on her way to the six-thousand square foot “cottage” that Maggie Tate called home.

  The stone façade and vines tumbling from the eaves gave the home a vaguely European feel, an effect which Bree knew carried on inside where the designer had gushed, “I see French Country” in every room. It was a far cry from the stucco-and-sand design aesthetic of Bree’s Mar Vista apartment—which only emphasized the feeling of entering a different world. And Maggie’s world was definitely different.

  In the wide, cobbled parking area in front of the garages, a silver Lexus crouched like a panther.

  A new toy? Maggie wasn’t one of those celebrities who collected sports cars, preferring to be chauffeured in luxury SUVs, but if she was going to start a sports car collection, the Lexus looked like a good place to start.

  Bree wasn’t usually a fancy car person—they always seemed excessive when she could literally live for three years on what something like that cost. But for a car like that—all muscle, chrome and sex—a girl could almost make an exception.

  Maybe she’d get to drive it.

  She parked her slightly dented Honda Fit alongside the unfamiliar car, eyeing its liquid lines. There were worse things in the world than being Maggie Tate.

  Tearing her eyes off the sexy beast, Bree climbed the steps to the front door, which opened before she reached it, revealing Maggie’s business manager Mel.