by Erika Rhys
Table of Contents
Also by Erika Rhys
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Afterword
Heir of the Hamptons
A Fake Marriage Romance
Erika Rhys
For Christina Ross. Thank you for being a fabulous, generous, hilarious friend, and for having my back throughout the process of writing this book.
Copyright and Legal Notice:
This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.
First ebook edition © 2017.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Copyright © 2017 Erika Rhys. All rights reserved worldwide.
Contents
Also by Erika Rhys
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Afterword
Also by Erika Rhys
Heir of the Hamptons
The Gentlemen’s Club, vol. 1
The Gentlemen’s Club, vol. 2
The Gentlemen’s Club, vol. 3
Over the Edge, vol. 1
Over the Edge, vol. 2
On the Brink, vol. 1
On the Brink, vol. 2
On the Brink, vol. 3
1
RONAN
New York City
“Why don’t you just get married?” my sister Cara said.
“You can’t be serious.” I picked up my water glass and downed half of it, hoping that its icy contents would stimulate my brain into sparking a fresh idea. In the aftermath of my latest loan rejection from Bank of America, I needed a new plan to save my company, Kingsley Technologies, and I needed it fast. Either that, or I’d be forced to lay off most of my employees, which was a betrayal I wasn’t ready to contemplate.
Not that I expected Cara to solve my problems over lunch at Bar Six, a mellow West Village bistro that I hit up regularly for its savory croque-monsieur sandwiches. I adored my outspoken younger sister, but her art degree and career as an aspiring painter hadn’t given her a lick of business sense. Still, she was the only one in my family who was always on my side, which was why I had just told her about my financial dilemma. Cara’s unwavering support gave me strength, which was exactly what I needed right now.
Cara flicked a strand of her long, straight blond hair away from her face and fixed me with her bright-blue gaze.
“Your share of Grandfather’s trust is around fifty million,” she said. “Isn’t that enough to solve your problems?”
“It’s more than enough,” I said. “But there’s no way to tap that money until I’m thirty-five.”
“Think creatively,” she said. “Under the terms of the trust, we get unrestricted access to our money when we turn thirty-five or when our father dies or when we marry—whichever happens first.”
“I’m two years away from thirty-five, our father is in perfect health, and marriage is out of the question,” I said. “When it comes to monogamy, I’m my father’s son. You know that about me.”
“You’re nothing like our father,” she said, dipping her fork into her arugula-and-parmesan salad. “He’s a chronic liar and cheater—you’re neither.”
“I know who I am,” I said. “Like our father, I’m not a one-woman man. Unlike him, I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Cara said. “Not if your marriage was purely a business arrangement.”
I stared at her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Ronan. I can’t believe you haven’t thought of this yourself. You’ve only dated half the women in New York—there must be one of them who would be willing to take a big fat check to marry you.”
“It would never work,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“There’s no point in even discussing it,” I said.
“Then consider this a theoretical discussion,” Cara said. “I’m curious. Why are you so sure my idea couldn’t work?”
“Two words,” I said. “Job qualifications. No woman in her right mind would sign on to be my fake wife. Any woman crazy enough to take it on would lack the brains to carry off the amount of acting involved.”
“I get that your fake wife couldn’t be just anyone,” Cara said. “She’d have to look convincing to Dad and Veronica. She’d have to be trustworthy and intelligent.”
“Convincing our father and stepmother would only be scene one of the farce you’re proposing,” I said. “This imaginary fake wife would have to live with me for two years, pose as my wife in public, and not fall in love with me.”
Cara screwed up her face at me. “Ewww. I can’t believe you just said that.”
I shrugged. “Women like me—they a
lways have.”
It was no less than the truth. The genetic lottery had gifted me a handsome face and a muscular six-foot-two body, which I kept toned with regular workouts. And while no woman had ever tempted me to consider a long-term relationship, I had the short-term thing down. Be a nice guy, make the woman I was with feel beautiful, and attend to her pleasure as much as my own. I didn’t do commitments, I didn’t make promises, and three nights was my self-imposed limit—although in practice, I rarely took it beyond one. Manhattan was filled with gorgeous single women, which made it the perfect playground for a guy like me.
Cara sighed. “I love you, Ronan—but you’re a pig.”
I flashed her a grin. “Maybe I am—but at least I know who I am. Not every man is cut out for marriage, and those of us who aren’t should be honest about it. That’s my philosophy.”
“Philosophy won’t save your business.”
“Neither will a fake wife. Veronica’s a bitch, but she’s not stupid. She’d spot a fake in a minute, and when she did, she’d convince Dad to block my access to the trust.”
“Can he still control your trust?” Cara said. “Even if you get married?”
I leaned back in my chair, looked at my sister, and a wave of affection for her swept through me. While her fake marriage idea was crazy, her desire to help meant everything to me. Life hadn’t been easy for Cara, but she had the biggest heart of anyone I knew.
At twenty-seven, my little sister had grown into a beautiful woman with a strong resemblance to our mother, who had died when Cara was born. At least I’d had our mother for the first six years of my life. All Cara got was her name—Caroline—and a photo album.
“Dad’s the primary trustee,” I said. “If he filed a lawsuit claiming that I’d faked a marriage to gain access to the trust, the money would be frozen until the lawsuit was resolved. And if I’d already put some of the trust money into Kingsley Tech, my company could be dragged into court as well.”
“To recoup the money?” Cara asked.
“Exactly.”
“I guess that makes sense,” she said. “And lawsuits can go on forever.”
“Now you’re seeing the big picture,” I said. “Until we turn thirty-five, our father controls the trust. Neither of us can touch it or borrow against it without his approval, which, thanks to Veronica, we’ll never get. Remember when I wanted to borrow against my share of the trust to start Kingsley Tech?”
“How could I forget?” Cara said. “Veronica shut that down in a heartbeat.”
“She’s got Dad under her thumb—in every area but one.”
“Don’t remind me,” Cara said with a shudder. “I’m almost certain he’s screwing his new secretary, who’s totally younger than I am. If Veronica wasn’t such a bitch, I might actually feel bad for her.”
“Don’t,” I said. “She married our father for his money and lifestyle. The estate in the Hamptons. The house in Aspen. The townhouse on Sutton Place.”
Cara leveled me with a look. “True—but enough about Veronica. Aside from getting married, do you have any other ideas that could save you from laying off your employees?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll think of something. I always do.”
2
AVA
Brooklyn, New York
One week later
There was no ignoring the ugly reality that stared at me from the Excel spreadsheet on the screen of my laptop. Unless I won the lottery in the next two months, found a business partner, or landed the mother of all clients, I’d have to shut down Oasis Floral Design.
I slumped in my desk chair and looked beyond the laptop into the eight-hundred square foot space that I’d rented just over a year ago, with so much hope and so many dreams. When I’d first set foot in this space, I’d been beside myself with excitement. The brick walls and scarred wood floors had been dusty, the large-paned windows grimy, and the tin ceiling covered with cobwebs, but the potential for beauty was there. And the location—on the ground floor of a brick warehouse in the heart of Brooklyn’s artsy Dumbo neighborhood—was ideal for an up-and-coming floral designer like me.
The hard truth was that no matter how much I wanted to be up-and-coming, right now, down-and-almost-out was a more accurate description. As I gazed over the workspace that I would soon be forced to give up, the air-conditioning unit for the floral cooler switched on, emitting a dull hum that echoed my despondent state of mind.
My chest tightened, and a lump rose into my throat. Running my own business had been my dream, ever since I completed my art degree and stumbled into my first floral-design job. Flowers were beautiful, and beyond the pleasure that I took in arranging them, I loved creating work that enhanced meaningful moments in my client’s lives.
Just then, the door at the far end of the space opened, and my neighbor Mimi’s cheerful face and mop of curly red hair appeared in the doorway.
“Have time for a break?” she asked, holding up a white paper bag. “I’ve brought coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls.”
I pulled myself together, closed my laptop, and returned her smile. “Sounds good to me,” I said. Mimi owned the custom jewelry business next door to my workspace. When I’d first moved into the building, we’d quickly become friends, and coffee together had become a near- daily ritual.
Mimi crossed the room to my desk, handed me a cup of coffee, and sat down in the red bucket chair that faced my desk, a spot she’d long since claimed as her own. Then she set her own coffee cup on the desk, reached into the cinnamon-scented bag she’d brought with her, and pulled out a roll, before passing the bag to me.
“Nothing on earth is more fabulous than hot, fresh pastry,” she said as she tore off a small piece of the roll and slipped it into her mouth. She winked at me. “Except maybe a hot, fresh man.”
At forty-seven, Mimi was twenty years older than me, but no one would have guessed her to be a day over thirty-five. Her quirky personality and love of life made her seem ageless, and daily yoga sessions kept her curvaceous body in great shape. While she’d never married, she was a woman who both loved men and attracted them with ease, and her active sex life was one of her favorite topics.
“I’ll take the pastry,” I said. “Just as good—and far less complicated.”
“Sex isn’t complicated,” Mimi said. “Although relationships can be. Take my relationship with pastry. I adore it. I lust after it. Sometimes I even dream about it. But it goes straight to my hips, which creates no end of complications.”
I laughed. “You’re not fat.”
“I could be,” she said. “You should see my siblings. My family’s a trifecta of food obsession, cooking talent, and fat genes. Moving beyond that unfortunate legacy, smoking weed may keep me chill, but it also gives me the munchies. And while yoga does well by me, there are limits to its superpowers. At this point, I’m fine with my looks, but when I was a teenager? My greatest dream was to wake up one morning, look in the mirror, and discover that I’d suddenly become tall, dark, and slender—like you. But enough about me and my adolescent fantasy life. How are things going? Landed any new clients?”
“I just signed a contract for another corporate event, but it’s not until fall.”
She met my gaze. “So it’s still about surviving the summer months.”
“It is,” I said. “I’ve talked to every floral designer I know about picking up part-time work, but I’ve got just enough events scheduled to make me unattractive as a hire.”
“Too many dates blocked off?” she asked.
“Exactly. In an emergency, they might offer me a day or two of work, but a handful of last-minute gigs won’t pay the bills.”
Mimi furrowed her brow. “You can’t lose this space,” she said. “Not after all the work and money you’ve put into it. It was a hole when you moved in, but you’ve transformed it into a lovely workspace. You even built a walk-in cooler, which amazes me.”
“Most of the renovation was scrubbing and painting,” I s
aid. “The shelving and worktables were thrift-store scavenge, and the cooler’s just an insulated room with shelves and a cheap AC unit—building that room was way less expensive than buying floral refrigerators. The frustrating thing is that with my fall bookings and the weddings I’ve got scheduled next spring and summer, Oasis is on the verge of making it—if I can squeak through the summer.”
“Did you apply for the small business loan we talked about?” Mimi asked.
“I did, but the bank turned me down because I have no assets.”
“And you don’t have any family who might help?”
I shook my head. “Not since my grandparents died.”
“If you’re free the first week of August, I can pay you to work my booth with me at the craft expo,” Mimi said. “I know it’s not much—”
I reached across the desk and put my hand over hers. “I’d love to work your booth. And your support means the world to me.”
She squeezed my hand, before releasing it to reach for her coffee. “That’s what friends are for, Ava. I only wish I could do more.”
Just then, my iPhone dinged to announce the arrival of a text. I picked up the phone from my desk and glanced at its cracked screen, which in my current financial situation, I couldn’t afford to replace.
“It’s from Cara,” I said, scanning the text. “She wants me to meet her at Blacktail at seven to discuss a potential job.”
