The Decoy Bride

by Lizzie Shane

  She rushed in. She always rushed in. She let the energy beneath her skin drive her to recklessness. She always had.

  It had made her parents crazy when she was a toddler—running straight toward danger, giggling all the way—and then it had made them even crazier as a teen—breaking curfew and then sneaking out when she was grounded for breaking curfew. It wasn’t that she didn’t like rules. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand what they were there for. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try to be good. She knew when she was disappointing people and she hated disappointing them, but all of her efforts to be the good daughter, the good anything, always ended the same way. With restlessness. Impulse. And a mistake.

  This thing with Cross. This wild, reckless, wonderful thing with Cross. It was a mistake. She could feel it. But she couldn’t regret it. Yet.

  Though she was freaking out a little.

  Okay, a lot.

  The sex was great. No complaints there. They had the kind of physical connection she’d always thought was exaggerated for effect in books and movies—but that was no guarantee this was never going to hurt.

  She was falling for him. And scared shitless that it was a one way street.

  She still hadn’t shown him her real eyes. She knew he wanted to see her without the contacts. He’d seen her without the make-up designed to make her look like Maggie—but that was in the shower, when he’d had other things distracting him.

  If she took away that last layer of illusion between them. If he really saw her, and then walked away…She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection. That was the thing when you stripped away the illusions. You couldn’t pretend they weren’t rejecting you.

  They knew one another now. She knew he wanted to be seen as more than a jock. He’d confessed to her, during their quiet talks in between bouts of sexual Olympics, that he’d decided to continue the interview process for the new job at EP, though he still worried that all anyone saw when they looked at him was the dumb jock.

  She’d been forced to realize how important his job was to him—which she’d known before, but now she knew why and that knowledge drove home with more force why he felt he needed to succeed. This was his identity. His self. And if it came down to a choice between her and his work, she was pretty sure she knew which one of them would lose—and it wouldn’t be the respect he’d been striving for his entire life.

  A couple days after that moment in the theatre room when everything started to feel too real, Cross was called away in the middle of the afternoon to deal with some security issue.

  It had started to rain that morning—apparently mirroring the weather in Fiji where Maggie and Demarco were still unmarried at last report—and the weather made Bree restless and edgy. At least she chose to believe it was the weather. She refused to consider it might be anything else. Like Cross’s absence. Or her own nerves that she was falling for a man who would never love her back.

  She descended the stairs, looking for distraction, and found Mel in the living room with Cecil Two—and, surprisingly, three of the maids who took care of the house, who had been incredibly stealthy up to now.

  “Maggie!” Mel smiled, standing up as Cecil scampered over to yip at her ankles until she scratched him. “Just the woman I was hoping to see. I have some scripts for you to look over—”

  She knew that code. The “scripts” were really scene ideas Mel had drawn up for Bree and Cross to act out. Hyper-romantic set-ups designed to make it look like they were deeply in love. Forcing them to gaze soulfully into one another’s eyes over moonlight, candlelight, any kind of romantic lighting Mel could find—

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” Mel asked, drawing herself up at the hard tone in Bree’s voice. One of the maids went still in the doorway, but Bree didn’t soften. She couldn’t play anymore. She couldn’t pretend. Not when the feelings were starting to feel entirely too real.

  “I don’t want to see any more of those scripts. I’m done. I need a break.”

  Mel blinked, visibly surprised to see her in diva mode—but she shouldn’t have been. Bree should have been doing this all along. Maggie wasn’t easy. She wasn’t biddable. Bree had been too obedient. But she couldn’t be obedient now.

  She bent, scooping up Cecil, and plucked Mel’s tablet off the end table next to the couch. “I’m taking a break,” she announced, head high, and marched out of the room—straight to the fitness studio where the door sealed behind her with a satisfying click.

  She could have gone to the theatre center, but her recent memories of that giant couch were too tied up in Cross right now. She wanted someplace she could be alone. Someplace she could be Bree.

  Nudging an inflated exercise ball out of the corner, she sank down onto the mats in its place, tucking herself against the wall. Cecil wriggled in her arms to get comfortable, licking her chin with fast, frantic licks before tucking his little head against her neck, his weight warm against her chest.

  She propped the tablet on her knees, flicking through the screens, knowing exactly what she was looking for.

  Every day, Maggie’s LA-based publicist had an assistant compile every media mention of the star into a single file—talk shows, internet articles, all of it—and emailed them to Maggie for her to look at or ignore at her discretion.

  Bree huddled in the corner, and brought up the file, tapping the link to run the video feed. The screen lit, a familiar entertainment news anchor’s face appearing.

  “Tonight! Is it true love for Maggie Tate and her new squeeze, former-NFL heartthrob Aaron Cross? Or is this just a rebound from sexy baller Demarco Whitten? Our panel weighs in!” The clip cut instantly to the panel discussion and Bree found herself watching with bated breath as they began to argue about her relationship. Of the five panelists, it quickly became evident that there were two on the side of true love, two on the rebound sex train, and one who thought it was pure down and dirty boot-knocking.

  “Look at the way he looks at her!” Panelist Number Five exclaimed. “That is lust, boys and girls. A textbook case. Whatever she might be feeling, he’s just in it for the sex.”

  “Are you kidding?” Another panelist argued. “Look at that intensity! Look at that focus! He’s not just trying to figure out when he can get her naked again. He’s listening to her.”

  “A man can listen if he thinks he’s about to get laid.”

  “It’s not about how he looks at her,” another insisted. “It’s about how she looks at him. And she doesn’t look at him like she looked at Demarco.”

  A photo popped up on the screen—one of the few pictures of Maggie and Demarco together, laughing together, Maggie ducking her head and flicking a gaze at him beneath her lashes. “She’s twitterpated,” the panelist declared. “But with this new guy…”

  Another picture replaced the first. Bree and Cross. On the beach. Holding hands. But she wasn’t looking at him directly. Scared to look in his eyes—like gazing straight into the sun—

  “She’s holding back!” the panelist insisted. “Total rebound. Mark my words, Maggie Tate is still in love with Demarco.”

  When that segment finished, the screen flickered and the argument continued on another network—different panel, same arguments, but different pictures. Bree’s stomach clenched when this particular show flashed both pictures up as a split-screen. For a moment she panicked, sure someone would see the differences between her and Maggie, but they were too busy analyzing her sex life to notice the shape of her upper lip.

  The third clip didn’t focus so much on the love triangle aspect, taking more of a Who is this Aaron Cross anyway? angle—and asking whether the former football star was using her to try to reclaim his own fifteen minutes of fame. Her stomach—already clenched nervously—began to ache as she listened to the debate.

  Especially when a photo of his first wife popped up on screen.

  Gorgeous. Poised. Tall. With cleavage that made Maggie’s look paltry. Her long blonde hair flowed over her s
houlders. She looked like someone who belonged with a star athlete.

  The commentators discussed his illustrious career. How he had been on his way to becoming a household name when an injury ended his career. How he could have written his own ticket as a broadcaster if he’d wanted to when he retired. How the world was Aaron Cross’s oyster…

  And every time they said his full name, Aaron Cross, as if they didn’t know he liked to be called Cross. As if they didn’t know she was the only one who got to call him Aaron and then only in bed…

  The door opened and she looked up, tapping pause on the clip reel as Cross stepped into the fitness studio. “There you are. Mel said you seemed upset.”

  “Did she?” The words came out harsher than she expected and Cross’s eyebrows slid upward.

  “You okay?”

  Cecil, belatedly realizing his best friend had arrived, began to wriggle in her arms, his tiny nails scratching the skin of her arms until she guided him to the floor so he could run to greet his hero. Cross bent to pet the dog, but his gaze stayed on Bree.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, though she felt like ants were crawling beneath her skin. “Just seeing what they’re saying about us.” She turned the tablet screen to show him—only realizing it was frozen on a picture of him with his wife when his expression went stony.

  “I guess I should have expected them to dig up Lauren.” He straightened, crossing the distance between them to sink down on a weight bench across from her, Cecil wriggling for attention at his feet. He absently reached down to stroke the dog. “What’s she saying?”

  “They’re just talking about her at this point.”

  He nodded. “Probably only a matter of time before they get her in there for an interview. She’s probably negotiating for the best deal. She always knew how to work things to her advantage.”

  Bree studied his face, the tension in his jaw as he continued to frown at the tablet screen. She turned it away, pressing a button to make it go black and setting it in her lap. “Are you worried about what she’s going to say?”

  “I haven’t talked to her in years, but I’m sure whatever she says will make her look good. That was always one of her skills.”

  “I’m sorry your personal life is getting sucked into this.”

  He grimaced, shrugging. “Maybe she’ll keep pushing for more money until the truth comes out and everyone realizes I’m not really with Maggie. There would be a sort of poetic justice in that, if she stalled to extort them and it bit her on the ass.”

  “Does she have a story worth extortion?”

  “Maybe. I don’t pretend to understand what’s newsworthy these days. Though if she’s honest she can’t say that much against me. Just that I never loved her, probably. And that she doesn’t think I’m capable of loving another human being.”

  “Cross…You know that isn’t true.” Bree rose awkwardly to her knees and crawled across the distance separating them, stopping when she was kneeling in front of him, with Cecil excitedly trying to climb her to get closer to Cross. She placed her hands on his knees, staring up into his eyes.

  “It’s not false. I didn’t really love her. I was just good at going through the motions.” He continued to look in her eyes, but the look in his made her stomach clench. “I like you, Bree. I really like you, and I don’t want to hurt you. But you should know, I’m not that guy. I don’t do love. I don’t know if I can.” He grimaced. “I’m sure some psychotherapist would have all kinds of theories about my mom and my dad and all my baggage about love and marriage, but the truth was I married Lauren because I thought I was supposed to. I wanted to be the good guy who was faithful and stuck by the girl who stuck by him. We’d been dating all through college and I always liked her, but the hearts and flowers, this is the one bullshit that everyone writes songs and sappy love poems about? That wasn’t us. That isn’t me. I don’t have that in me.”

  “But you took care of her. You take care of people. That’s how you show you love them.”

  “I took care of her because she was my responsibility, because I thought I should. That isn’t love.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe love isn’t the same for everyone. Maybe you shouldn’t judge how you feel based on how other people tell you it’s supposed to feel.”

  His eyes darkened. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up—”

  Hot, ugly embarrassment seared through her at his words and she couldn’t let him finish, pushing off his legs and standing, suddenly restless. “I’m not saying I want you to love me. This isn’t about me. This is about you. You can love someone if you want to. You can do anything you want.”

  She stalked to the other side of the fitness center and back, pacing around the heavy equipment, her arms tight around her middle. He could do anything he wanted. That was Cross’s whole schtick. Super achiever. The perfect human specimen. The kind of man who belonged with the Maggie Tates of the world.

  Whereas she…

  She was happiest with her life when she didn’t have to hold it up against anyone else’s standards of success. She had goals that gave her purpose. But when she looked at her life alongside his, she was embarrassed by the scale of it.

  Her beat up old car—because she couldn’t afford a new one. The apartment she couldn’t really afford on her own. Her total lack of savings. Lack of a retirement plan. Lack of a job with a future or a 401(k).

  She’d been working for a decade and all she had to show for it was a non-starter of an art career. Was it time to face reality? Was it time to think about what she could do with her life to be a contributing member of society and support herself like a grown up? Her life, her choices, they looked irresponsible alongside his. What would she bring to a relationship with a guy like him?

  Don’t get your hopes up.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, her voice coming out sharper than she’d intended, almost shrill.

  Cross frowned in confusion, still sitting on the weight bench, petting the damn dog. “What do you mean?”

  Her nerves were tight. She didn’t trust easily, but she had trusted him from the beginning—and that scared the shit out of her. Suddenly everything felt too real and she was out there with her feelings exposed, all by herself in the cold and he was telling her not to get her hopes up. “The whole world thinks you’re with Maggie Tate. And they believe it. You’re that kind of guy.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not any kind of guy.”

  “You aren’t a millionaire?”

  His cheekbones flushed, as if the talk of money embarrassed him. “I had a few good years.”

  “So you are. You’re rich.”

  “What does it matter?” he argued, his eyes darkening. “It’s not a competition.”

  “This from the man for whom everything is a competition?”

  “What you do, without needing to win at it, knowing that it’s meaningful—that matters. I admire that. I admire your success,” he said.

  But she wasn’t successful. And the only reason he thought she was, the only reason he saw her as an equal was because he still saw Maggie when he looked at her. He saw this luxurious villa. He’d never seen her apartment. He saw the helicopter rides. He’d never seen her car. He didn’t see. Not the starving artist. Only the movie star.

  “That isn’t me, that success. That’s her. You still see her.” All he had ever seen when he looked at her was Maggie.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “You’re nothing like Maggie.”

  She flinched at the words, freezing in place at the rough tone. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  But she’d gone and fallen in love with a man from Maggie’s world. Who couldn’t be farther from hers. A man who didn’t want her to get her hopes up.

  She was moving toward the door, fleeing before her brain even caught up with the impulse. “I think this was a mistake.”

  “Bree!” he called behind her, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn. She was already through the door, leav
ing him swearing behind her as it closed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cross swore under his breath, collecting the tablet and trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. They were good this morning when he left her in bed. He’d been called away to do his job, but that had happened before and he’d never come back to this. What had changed?

  He pulled up the video she’d been watching, resetting it to the beginning and studying it for some clue as to what could have upset her—but all he saw was that the plan was working. People were discussing the relationship, the possibility of love. People weren’t calling Maggie names anymore. Mission accomplished.

  So what the fuck was Bree’s problem? What the hell had made her pick a fight with him? Because he’d felt that shift in the room. She’d been spoiling for a fight. Did she really think he couldn’t see how different she was from Maggie? Did she honestly think she was just a place-filler for the movie star?

  When he exited the fitness studio onto the main floor, the maids were gone—as was Mel who had directed him toward the fitness studio when he asked where Maggie was, warning him that she might not want company. Maybe he should have listened—and maybe he should give her time to cool off now—but instead he took the stairs up to the master suite two at a time.

  He raised his fist to knock—with no idea what he was going to say when she answered, but he was good at figuring things out on the fly. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. But before his knuckles could land on the wood, he heard her cell phone ring inside the bedroom and a breathless, “Andy? Hang on.”

  His hearing sharpened at the man’s name—but all he heard was the interior bathroom door shutting and the sound of running water. Bree wanted privacy to talk to Andy. Whoever the hell that was.

  Not that he was jealous. The strange man’s name simply drove home the truth of how little he really knew about Bree’s day to day life. Andy could be a coworker—an agent, a fellow artist, an art dealer.

  Somehow in the last week and a half they’d gotten to know one another on a startlingly deep level, but the basic, everyday stuff had been skipped. It was disorienting. Making him feel like everything was more intense than it was. They were stuck on an island together, sharing the most intimate details of their lives with one another, but he didn’t even know where she lived.