Buying the Bride

by Penny Wylder

  He slides the folder toward me. I pick it up and thumb through the pages. He watches me carefully as I skim through the details. This is going to be harder than I thought. Everything in here is exotic and so beyond my life experience that I wouldn’t know the first steps in how to play the part of this girl he wants me to be.

  As I turn the pages I see words like Cabo San Lucas, Carmel (not to be mistaken for caramel, which I’m very familiar with), Venice, and all these other places I’ve heard of but have never been to. I catch a glimpse of a page mentioning a Tiffany necklace he had made as a gift for me, and how we went scuba diving in the archipelagos of Con Son, Vietnam, and how he proposed to me on a fucking glacier near Juneau, Alaska. WTF is this life?

  I feel like I might puke. According to this we met in Belize at a five-star restaurant I don’t know how to pronounce. We looked at each other and it was love at first sight. The very night we met, he whisked me off on his private jet to Quebec, Canada where we ate strange, exotic food and made love every night. I’m really hoping that is just part of this story and not something I’m supposed to tell his family. There’s no way I’m talking about my sex life with anyone’s parents, even if it is a fake sex life.

  Says here I’m an assistant to a major fashion designer (he has a friend who will vouch for this if questions are asked) and enjoy the finer things in life. Only problem with that is I don’t even know what the finer things in life are to him. I know what that means to me: splurging on a lipstick at Sephora once in a while instead of Walgreens where I usually buy my makeup, and celebrating at Trujillo’s on special occasions with a $12 margarita. I have a feeling our definition of ‘finer things’ are worlds apart. I’m a simple girl from a simple town in Northern California where my family raised sheep on a farm and I spent my childhood barefoot in treehouses.

  Regretfully, I put the folder down. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do this job, I’m sorry.”

  His eyes narrow. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know how to be this girl.” I point to the folder. “I’ve never even been out of California.”

  He leans forward, clasping his hands together. God, he’s beautiful. It’s almost uncomfortable being this close to him. I feel the same way in museums and art galleries, like I might taint a painting’s perfection by standing to close to it.

  “It will be impossible for me to find another girl on short notice. I’m a business man, I know how to negotiate. So let’s come up with a story together that we can both be satisfied with. How do you think our first date might have gone?”

  For me to even pretend to marry someone, our backstory would have to be romantic. It wasn’t with my first husband. We were thrown together by mutual friends on a blind date and we had a few things in common. I didn’t think he was all that handsome when I first met him—definitely not love at first sight, or even, hmm, he’s kind of cute at first sight. In reality, I didn’t like the way he looked. He was a couple inches shorter than me. He chewed tobacco, so his teeth were stained and his gums were receding so it made his teeth look way too long. There was something false about his smile, the way it never reached his eyes. I should’ve known something was up with his personality during our first date when he kept complaining about his food and sending it back to the kitchen. How he talked down to our waitress, then left only a penny for a tip after threatening to not pay the bill.

  Back then I thought he was a perfectionist, and that a man like that gets things done. I thought a man like that would be a good provider. I was wrong. In the short year that we were married, he’d been fired from three jobs and developed a bit of a drinking problem.

  “Well,” I say, trying to think of a scenario that was both plausible and romantic, “I suppose your job is stressful, so one day you decide to take a walk in the park to unwind.” He leans back in his chair, arms folded in front of him as he listens.

  I continue. “And I was in the park too. I’d been house sitting for a friend and was walking her unruly dogs when one of them got loose. You, seeing someone in distress, managed to wrangle the cocker spaniel and bring him back to me. I pay back your kindness by buying you a hotdog at a cart, and we end up talking all night under the stars.”

  I can hear the whimsy in my voice. Even though marriage is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, I’m not immune to romance.

  Heath smiles, and when he does, it changes everything about his face. It’s bright and warm, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His stiff demeanor starts to crumble and there’s actually a human under there somewhere. My neck grows warm and I’m sure I’m blushing. I wonder if he has any idea the kind of power that smile possesses. I’m sure he does. I imagine a man like him probably has his fair share of lovers.

  Suddenly I’m picturing myself as one of them, sprawled out naked on some ridiculously expensive bed, letting him have his way with me. I picture those nice full lips against mine, that hard body pressed against me …

  I shake my head to clear those thoughts. Is the heater running in here? I’m starting to sweat. I need to stay focused. This is a job, not Match.com.

  This guy is borderline perfect. Why does he need to hire someone? The whole thing is a mystery to me and makes me want to get to know him better.

  “There are a few holes in that story,” he says.

  “Really, like what?”

  “To start, I would never eat food from a cart.”

  “What?” I say aghast. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a hotdog from a cart. What else?”

  “Nor would I chase dogs, or be in the park at all. While, yes, my job can be stressful, everyone knows I thrive on a challenge and I never let anything get to me.”

  “Surly you like fresh air.”

  He nods. “I do.”

  “Then you went out for fresh air. And I have a feeling if you saw someone in distress you would help them. Even if it involved chasing dogs.”

  The taut skin around his eyes softens and he lets out an amused breath, but doesn’t confirm nor deny it. I know I’m right. Even through his stiff demeanor, his eyes are gentle. There’s something kind about him. Eyes don’t lie. It’s everything else in a man that does. That’s the one thing my ex never had: kind eyes. Sometimes his words were as sweet as cookie dough, but there was always something malicious about the way he looked at me, even when we were at our best.

  “Are you busy?” I ask Heath.

  “Yes, we’re having a meeting.”

  “Can this meeting be moved outside?” I ask.

  He hesitates but seems too curious to say no. “I suppose that would be all right.”

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  To my surprise he follows me. He seems like the kind of guy who never deviates from a schedule, but here we are.

  As we walk by different offices and desks, people crane their heads to look at us and seem very curious about my presence. Though I’m sure he gets plenty of action—I mean, look at him, he’s beyond beautiful! —maybe he keeps that part of his life private from the people who work below him and that’s why they seem surprised to see him with a woman.

  Walking next to him, he seems even taller than he did in his office. He seems bigger than life. A big fish in a tiny world made just for him. The jealous way women look at me as we walk by gives me a sense of pride, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like Heath and I are actually a couple. I guess being next to him makes me feel like an actual fish when normally I’m a flake of algae just trying to make it in a world too big for me.

  “What are we doing?” he keeps asking. He changes the wording when I don’t give him the answer that he wants, but it’s all the same question.

  Once we’re outside, I finally give him an answer he can chew on. “Falling in love,” I say.

  He looks at me as though I’ve just struck him with a bat. I laugh. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head, the skeptical look on his face growing more concerned as we head furth
er away from his office building. It’s a beautiful day out, overcast, and a slight cool breeze. Perfect day to walk the dogs if there were any around, but since I don’t have dogs at my disposal, I’ll just have to make do with what I have—or don’t have, I should say.

  We head into the park and I watch the moment when realization starts to dawn on him. “I see,” he says. “I thought you were luring me away to knock me over the head and take my wallet.”

  “And you followed me anyway?”

  He gives me a dismissive glance. “I’ve got a hundred pounds on you, I’m sure I could take you in a fight.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. Is this stuffed business suit actually being adorable right now? I wasn’t sure he was capable of it. Maybe this job won’t be so difficult after all.

  “Fighting isn’t always about brawn. There are other ways for a woman to overpower a man,” I say.

  I stop abruptly and turn to face him. I put my hand against his chest, touching the smooth buttons of his jacket, running my fingers along the stiff fabric. Even through his jacket I can tell there’s nothing soft about this man’s body. I start to wonder what he looks like without the suit. It starts out innocent enough. I’m just imagining him in other clothes. Normal clothes that an everyday man would wear on the street: t-shirt and jeans. It’s a difficult image to hold onto because he seems made of this suit, like he was born wearing it. Then my thoughts start to steer slightly toward the gutter. This is where my imagination likes to run wild. Now I’m thinking about him being naked, my hands and lips exploring his impeccable body. I have a feeling his skin is soft, but nothing else about him is.

  Heath stiffens beneath my touch and my mind comes back into focus. He’s watching me, his eyes burning. My hand moves to his stomach. More hard body beneath. When I reach out with my other hand and bring it up to his neck, to his jaw, feeling the shadow of stubble, and rub my thumb against those impossibly soft lips, his entire body shudders. He starts to reach out to touch me too, but I abruptly step out of his reach. His eyes are wide, confused, and his breathing comes out in short bursts.

  “What was that?” he asks huskily.

  “Just proving I don’t need a bunch of muscle to take you down,” I say breezily and fall into step beside him like nothing ever happened.

  He lets out a long breath, then a chuckle follows. “Remind me not to follow you into the woods.”

  I laugh and take his hand, leading him to the other side of the park. His skin is warm, his large hand envelopes mine. He smells amazing, and without even knowing the brand, I know whatever cologne he wears is expensive. It’s not offensive like the cheap stuff; it’s subtle.

  “Where are we going now?” he asks.

  I point at the hotdog cart in the distance. “Lunch.”

  “No, I’m not eating—”

  “Live a little,” I tell him.

  I’m dragging him now, and I’m laughing because he’s being such a child about it, like trying to force-feed a toddler spinach.

  “I would never dream of taking a date to a hotdog cart for our first meal,” he says.

  “It’s not a date. This is me thanking you for saving my friend’s dogs, and me from having to tell her I lost them. Don’t be so stubborn.”

  He rolls his eyes, but eventually relents. “Two hotdogs, please,” I tell the vendor.

  Heath reaches for the wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket, but I stop him. “I’m treating you, remember.”

  Letting me pay seems to be the hardest part of this task for him, but eventually I convince him to put his wallet away.

  “Man, do women usually have to put this much effort into wooing you?” I ask.

  He chuckles at the word ‘wooing.’ I do too. It’s a dumb word, but we both know what I’m getting at.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t date,” he says.

  Of course he doesn’t. If he did, he might actually have found love instead of paying for a fake bride. Sucks for all the women out there. I’m sure there are plenty who would love to get their acrylic nails into a man of his stature.

  “Why not? You’re handsome, smart, tall, sexy as hell, a hard worker. Any woman would fall all over themselves to be with you.” I motion to the women around us. As if on cue, a woman jogging nearby is paying too much attention to Heath and not to the trail in front of her. She strips and stumbles forward, but manages to catch herself before she falls. I let out a really un-ladylike snort, and Heath bites his lip to keep from laughing. The girl jogs off, red-faced.

  “Poor thing, that’s so embarrassing,” I say. “But it just goes to prove my point. You can have any woman you want. So why don’t you date?”

  He’s still smiling when he looks at me, and I have to tuck my heart way, force it down deep inside to protect it. I could fall for a smile like that. He could snatch it right out of my chest and it would be his forever if I’m not careful.

  “I’ve dated once or twice, but it’s difficult for women to see beyond my money.”

  “Maybe because you don’t open yourself up. You’re so stiff.”

  The vendor hands us our hotdogs. I load mine up with a sloppy squiggle of mustard. Heath makes a perfectly straight line on his. I can’t help but giggle.

  “What?” he says.

  I point at the mess I’ve made, and to his straight line. “I feel like this might be a perfect representation of us.” I put my hotdog on top of his to mess up his mustard line, and now they are equally messy. “There, that’s better,” I say. “Now eat.”

  He stares at the hotdog like it’s going to bite him back. After some coaxing on my part, he finally takes a bite and his eyes literally roll in the back of his head. “Good, right?” I say.

  “This might actually be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he says.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never had a hotdog from a cart. Didn’t your dad ever take you to baseball games?”

  The delirious euphoria his taste buds had been experiencing is cut short by the mention of his dad. “No. He’s not exactly a baseball kind of man, or a spend-time-with-your-kid kind of man. You’ll understand when you finally meet him.”

  I press my lips together. “Great, can’t wait.”

  We continue to walk and he eagerly enjoys his hotdog in silence. I’ve barely taken a bite of mine. I’m too busy watching him. It’s weird, but I like watching him eat, the way his jaw flexes, the way he makes these contented little sighs. He glances at the uneaten hotdog in my hand.

  “You gonna eat that?” he asks.

  I hand it over and smile. “Have at it, buddy.”

  We continue to walk and our conversation comes surprisingly easy.

  “What kind of name is Sylph?” he asks.

  “A Sylph is a mythological spirit of the air.” I shrug. “My mom can get a little earthy sometimes. Probably comes from living on a farm where everything is organic.”

  He asks more questions about my family after that and is surprised to learn that my parents have been together nearly thirty years and are still madly in love with one another. He tells me his parents haven’t even slept in the same room together since he was in high school

  I learn more about him on our walk than I ever would have learned by reading his folder full of facts. He’s surprisingly funny and charming, and sarcastic. I keep giggling like an idiot. What is happening? I wasn’t supposed to like him. I’ve never been attracted to the wealthy and privileged. So why does being in his presence have my stomach tangled in knots? Where the hell did all these butterflies come from? This isn’t good.

  “My turn to ask questions,” I say.

  “Go for it.”

  “Is anything off limits?”

  He takes a moment to think about it. “No. I’m an open book. Ask whatever you want.”

  “What do you like in bed?” I ask boldly.

  His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead like a cartoon character. There’s something very gratifying about breaking the calm mask he wears.

&nbs
p; “If I’m to pretend to be married to you, these are the sorts of things I’m going to need to know,” I say matter-of-factly, keeping it very business-like.

  He bites back a smile. “I’m fairly certain none of my friends or family will ask you questions about our sex life.”

  “I would hope not, but we’re supposed to be getting married, which means we’ve more than likely been intimate—unless, of course, you’re an old fashioned guy who waits wants to wait until marriage.”

  “Definitely not,” he says.

  “Okay. People who have been intimate with each other carry themselves a certain way. They’re comfortable around each other. I should at least know what you like in bed. It’s hard to be uncomfortable and stiff around someone after they know all your bedroom secrets.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile and nods. “I guess that makes sense. Well, um, I’m a man, so being touched is usually good enough.” His laughter turns my insides to cotton candy. I love the sound of it. I like the sound of his voice too. No too high, not too deep. It’s just the most perfect, soothing sound to listen to. I would love to just hear him tell stories or talk about his day. “I really don’t have any preferences as to what I want a woman to do in bed, but I have to say I’m attracted to a confident girl, someone who’s not ashamed of her body or showing it to me in all of its glory.”

  I feel my neck growing warm. I bet I’m blushing.

  “What about you?” he asks. “What do you like in bed?”

  “I tend to like a little bit of everything. I like sweet and tender love-making, but I also like a good spanking now and then. And I like it when things get messy, don’t you?”

  He looks me square in the eye and says, “Messy is good.”

  Now know I’m blushing. I feel like my entire body has just been dipped into a hot tub. At least I’m not the only one turned on by this conversation. He tries to subtly adjust himself, but he’s not fooling me one bit.