by Erika Rhys
I seized my pile of clothes, left the master suite, returned to my room, and closed the door behind me, before dropping the clothes on the ottoman and slumping onto my daybed, my “bed of nails” as Ronan called it.
Bed of nails indeed. When I’d signed the contract with him, I’d believed that I was signing on to marry a nice guy to whom I was mildly attracted. Nothing special, just the whiff of lust that any red-blooded woman would feel toward such a good-looking man.
The last thing I needed was a case of the hots for my soon-to-be fake husband. Beyond his history as a confirmed man-whore, the two of us simply didn’t get along. While Ronan was more than capable of turning on the charm, he could also be abrasive and difficult.
Was what I’d felt in the dressing room no more than the consequence of years of celibacy and a sudden, unexpected confrontation with a hotter-than-hell, half-naked man?
With all my heart, I hoped that it was.
12
RONAN
After stepping into the elevator of the building where I lived, I pressed the button for the twelfth floor and girded myself for the evening to come. It was time to move forward with announcing my engagement to my father, and before I made that phone call, I needed to go over this next step with Ava.
Over the past week, the time I’d spent with her had brought me to a few conclusions. On one level, I’d chosen the perfect fake wife. She was bright; she looked and dressed the part; and for a woman, she wasn’t high-maintenance. She and Cara had made a fuss over setting up Ava’s room, but they had done the work themselves, without attempting to drag me into it. When they finished, the room did look better, and since Ava’s move-in four days ago, she’d spent most of her time at her business or in her room. I wasn’t crazy about her habit of positioning vases of flowers around the apartment, but flowers were her thing, and I wasn’t about to pick a fight over anything so trivial.
Especially when so many of our interactions hadn’t ended well. My first impression of Ava’s fiery temperament had proven true—and once her temper was up, the sky was the limit. My lips curved at the memory of how she’d responded when I’d caught her checking out my junk. Men and women checked each other out all the time, and I hadn’t read anything more into Ava’s look, but I couldn’t resist teasing her about it, not after catching her midstare.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t looked her over too—of course I had. I was just better at not getting caught. Despite her slender build, Ava had a banging body. If we’d met under different circumstances, I would have seduced her by now, but since we lived in the same apartment, sex would muddy the already murky waters that I had hurled myself into with our fake-marriage arrangement. No matter how blue my balls got over the next two years, sex with my wife-to-be wasn’t an option.
As the elevator slowed, I reached into my jacket pocket, touched the box containing the engagement ring that I’d picked up at Harry Winston, and focused on my plan for the evening.
I’d open the discussion by presenting Ava with the ring, which should please her, given her stinging comment about not cheaping out on it when we’d signed our contract. Not that her comment had anything to do with the six figures I’d dropped on her ring—it was an investment in the successful launch of our fake marriage.
After growing up around my stepmother and her circle of Botoxed harpies, I knew damned well that when Veronica and her friends set eyes on that ring, its carat count and designer name would guide their initial impression of Ava. There was no way to protect Ava completely from the gauntlet she was about to run, but I intended to give her as much armor as I could. Tonight, that meant giving her the ring and going over the wedding arrangements I planned to make for us.
When the elevator opened, I stepped out, walked to my door, opened it, and stepped into the darkened foyer. Light glimmered from the living area beyond, and when I reached it, Ava was in the kitchen, getting herself a glass of water. Her green zip-front sweater hugged her curves; dark, fitted yoga pants showed off her long, slender legs; and with her back turned to me, her nicely rounded ass was on full view.
“Hi, Ronan,” she said, turning to me. “How was your day?”
“Mostly routine,” I said. “Do you have time to talk—maybe over a glass of wine?”
“Sure,” she said.
I put down my briefcase and loosened my tie, before crossing the kitchen to the wine rack and pulling out a bottle of Barolo, which I opened, while Ava took out two wineglasses. After I filled the glasses and handed one to her, we headed for the living room, where I sat down in my favorite armchair.
Ava sat on the couch opposite me and tucked her bare feet beneath her thighs. “I imagine we need to talk about announcing our engagement,” she said.
“We do,” I said, lifting my glass toward her. “But before we go there, cheers.”
“Cheers,” she said, before taking a sip. “Mmmm…this is nice.”
“Barolo’s one of my favorite wines,” I said. With my free hand, I reached into my jacket pocket, withdrew the ring box, and held it out to her. “I picked up an engagement ring today.”
She put down her glass and took the dark-blue box from me. “Harry Winston,” she said. “I know I said not to cheap out, but you didn’t have to go this far.”
“Open the box and have a look,” I said.
When she did, her eyes widened. “It’s stunning, Ronan. It’s the most gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen! But you should return it. Something half its size would be impressive enough, and it must have been crazy expensive.”
I smiled at her. “It was—but it also sends the right message.”
“I suppose,” she said. “But you can’t possibly afford this right now. Not with your financial challenges, not to mention the money you’re paying me.”
Ava’s concern surprised me. She’d been nothing if not hard-nosed about the financial aspects of our arrangement, and I wasn’t used to anyone other than Cara or Jack worrying about me. “Don’t worry about the money,” I said. “Once we’re married, and I get access to my trust, I’ll have more than I need. Now, try it on.”
She shook her head. “I’ll wear it when you introduce me to your father and stepmother, of course. But it’s too valuable to wear around the house.”
I put down my wineglass, leaned forward, and reached for her left hand. Like her, her hands were elegant, with long, slender fingers. For a second I wondered what those hands would feel like wrapped around my cock, until my internal censor kicked in and slapped a big red X on that image.
“It’s insured,” I said as I took the ring from its box and slid it onto her ring finger. “You need to get used to wearing it.”
Ava held up her hand and turned it back and forth for a moment, admiring the glittering stones. Then she picked up her glass and looked at me. “Tell me your plans for announcing our engagement.”
“I’ll call my father tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll tell him about our engagement. I’ll also tell him that we want to get married at the Southampton estate in early May. Once I drop that bomb, you and I need to be ready to answer questions about our wedding plans.”
“The first question everyone will ask is how we met,” Ava said. “Fortunately, our backstory doesn’t need to deviate all that far from the truth.”
“I agree. You’re Cara’s former college roommate, and she introduced us. We just need to backdate that introduction by a few months.”
“It’s March now, so why don’t we say that we met at Cara’s New Year’s party?” Ava suggested. “I was at that party, and well over a hundred people must have come and gone over the course of the evening—who’s to say you weren’t one of them?”
I smiled at her. “Actually, I was. I got there really late, when almost everyone had gone home.”
“I stayed pretty late myself,” she said. “We must have just missed each other.”
“It’s best to keep the story simple and easy to remember,” I said. “We met on New Year’s Eve, we fell for each other fas
t and hard, I proposed last week, and you accepted.”
“Too simple,” Ava said. “Our story needs to sound like a whirlwind romance, not a business summary. We should brainstorm the details together.”
“What kind of details?” I asked.
“The kind of things people remember about meeting the love of their life.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you asking me to come up with sappy shit? Because if so, you’re talking to the wrong guy.”
“It doesn’t have to be sappy,” she said. “The details that make our backstory sound real could be funny, or personal. What do you remember about major turning points in your life, like the day you graduated from college, or the day you started your business?”
I shrugged. “Not much. I’m not a details man.”
“How about this?” she said. “We met at Cara’s party. We got into a conversation about our favorite movies, and although we’d just met, we felt as if we’d known each other forever. At the end of the evening, when it was time for me to leave, you asked me to have dinner with you at Blacktail the following night, and I agreed.”
“Of course you did,” I said. “According to your story, I’d just spent the evening charming your panties off.”
She gave me an exasperated look. “Put your oversized ego on hold and let me finish. The next day—New Year’s Day—felt like the longest day ever, because we were both counting the minutes until eight o’clock, when we would see each other again. When we met at Blacktail, we both ordered steak and shared a plate of fries. You had a glass of Scotch, and I had a martini.”
“I get where you’re going,” I said. “You’re basing the story on our actual dinner.”
“It’s easier to remember if we stay close to the truth,” she said. “Over dinner, the hours flew by. We talked about everything under the sun, neither of us wanting the evening to end, until the restaurant was about to close for the night. After we left Blacktail, you walked me to the subway. It was a mild night, and a few scattered snowflakes were drifting in the air around us when you kissed me for the first time, just outside the Broad Street station.”
“Are you done?”
“I am,” she said. “What do you think of my story?”
“It sounds like a chick flick.”
She rolled her eyes. “It sounds romantic, which is more believable than your slam-bam version of how we supposedly fell in love.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go with your version. Now that we’ve resolved that, let’s move on to the wedding plans. Getting married at the Southampton estate means that we won’t have to search for a venue, and my father will be pleased that we want to be married there. However, Southampton also means that we have to deal with Veronica.”
Ava nodded. “Cara’s told me how difficult your stepmother can be. We definitely need to make sure we’re on the same page before talking wedding plans with her.”
“I’ve thought it through,” I said. “We should keep the ceremony simple.”
“I agree. Cara will be my maid of honor, and I assume Jack will be your best man. We can use whoever your family would prefer as a reverend or priest; we don’t need a full bridal party, and I don’t need anyone to walk me down the aisle.”
I picked up my wineglass, relaxed against my chair, and sipped the Barolo. So far, this discussion was going well. Aside from her embellishments to our backstory, Ava had agreed with everything I’d suggested.
“Back to Veronica,” I said. “The best way to deal with my stepmother is to let her have her way whenever it doesn’t interfere with what we want.”
Ava’s eyes twinkled with humor. “A good recipe for dealing with anyone.”
“I expect Veronica to push for a large bridal party,” I said.
“Then we’ll push back.”
“She’ll want to oversee the guest list and the reception,” I said. “The easiest way through all of it is to let her take charge.”
“That may be the easiest way,” Ava said. “But not the best.”
“Why not?”
She scrunched up her face at me. “Appearances, of course.”
“My stepmother’s the queen of appearances. She’ll invite her socialite friends; she’ll jump at the opportunity to impress them, and to that end, she’ll make sure the reception is stunning and the food excellent.”
“That’s not what I meant by appearances,” Ava said.
“Then what the hell did you mean?”
She leveled me with a look. “Think like a woman, Ronan—you’ve certainly slept with enough of them. Consider the symbolism of what you’ve just proposed.”
“What I’ve proposed makes perfect sense,” I said. “A simple wedding that won’t require a ton of time to set up.”
“What you’ve proposed is a one-way street to disaster. We need to be involved—”
Annoyed by her resistance, I cut her off. “I have a multimillion-dollar business to run. Maybe your busy schedule allows time to taste twenty kinds of cake, but mine doesn’t.”
Her delicate nostrils flared. “Then you’ll have to make time.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“I was about to, when you interrupted me.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Enlighten me.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Although I doubt that shining light on the testosterone-laced rock you call your brain can produce anything resembling enlightenment.”
My irritation grew. “Try logic. Although that’s clearly an alien concept to you, and every other woman on the planet.”
She glared at me. “Women are every bit as logical as men.”
“I disagree.”
“You would. Because you’re a male chauvinist pig. A species that only thinks in straight lines. Women can juggle multiple thoughts at once. We think holistically.”
“That’s new-age bullshit.”
“Actually, it’s science. Google it.”
With effort, I contained my temper. “I have better things to do with my time. Tell me why you don’t want to let Veronica have her way with the reception.”
“Letting your stepmother take control will only raise her suspicions,” Ava said. “If we don’t show interest and involvement in planning every detail of what’s supposed to be our big day, we might as well paint ‘fake marriage’ across our foreheads.”
My gut twisted. How could I not have seen this coming? I’d been so focused on the logistics of pulling a wedding together in six weeks, I hadn’t stopped to consider how my attempts to streamline that process might appear to others—especially Veronica, who would leap at any opportunity to question my motives. As much as I hated to admit it, Ava was right.
“I see your point,” I said.
Ava sipped her wine. “I hope you do. Allowing Veronica to manage our wedding is like waving a large red flag at a bull that’s already planted its horns in your ass.”
Fuck my life.
I slumped back in my chair and resigned myself to spending the next six weeks tasting cakes, faking interest in floral arrangements, and dealing with my bitch of a stepmother. What did it even matter? To save my company, I’d already signed away my sex life and committed to two years of living with a woman I barely knew. At this point, my life could hardly get worse.
“Bring on the wedding bullshit,” I said. “I’ll do my best to play the part.”
Surprise flashed across Ava’s face. “Are you agreeing with me?”
“I am. I’d hoped to spare you from battling with Veronica over the wedding arrangements, but after the points you raised, I don’t see any way of dodging that fight. There’s too much on the line to risk fucking this up.”
Ava’s expression softened. “I appreciate that you were trying to make things easier for me.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I said. “Depending on the day, coping with my stepmother can be anywhere between hellish and suicidal.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ve dealt with my share of d
ifficult people. If we work together, we can get through this. In any case, there’s no avoiding Veronica.”
“No,” I said. “Unfortunately, there isn’t.”
13
RONAN
That weekend, I woke at ten o’clock on Saturday morning with a sense of well-being that had been absent from my life in recent months. The previous night, I had told my father about my engagement and secured his permission to get married on the Southampton estate, and after that conversation ended, I’d decided to give myself a day off. With my marriage plans on schedule, and my finances on track toward a successful resolution, I deserved a break.
I sat up in bed, swung my feet to the floor, and headed for the bathroom. As I emptied my bladder, splashed water on my face, and brushed my teeth, I anticipated the laid-back day that stretched before me.
I’d fix myself a king-sized breakfast and watch the news. Then I’d play my favorite video game for an hour or two. In the afternoon, I’d work out and maybe give Jack a call to see if he wanted to meet for drinks later tonight. I might have signed away my sex life, but I could still look—and drink a Scotch or two with my best friend.
After leaving the bathroom, I put on sweat pants and a T-shirt and headed toward the kitchen. When I reached the living room, Ava was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee in her hand, watching CNN. Casually dressed in dark jeans and a white blouse, her face was free of makeup, but she still looked good. Most women couldn’t pull off the bare-faced look, but with her full lips, delicate features, and dark, long-lashed eyes, Ava was one of the few who could.
When she saw me, she reached for the remote and muted the television. “Good morning,” she said. “There’s fresh coffee if you want it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take you up on that.”
I stepped into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, and added a splash of half-and-half before I joined Ava in the living room. Breakfast could wait until I updated her on last night’s conversation with my father.
