Faking It (Single Dad Fake Marriage Box Set#1-5)

by J. J. Bella

  “Please be careful about your language in my offices,” Mr. Jennings said then. “I’m a Christian man and won’t stand for it.”

  Brittany forced herself to take a long, easy breath. Still, anxiety fueled her, causing her fingers to quiver, her feet to clack together beneath the chair. “What does this mean?”

  “Well,” Mr. Jennings said, eyeing her darkly. “This means that if you don’t find another way to get your tuition paid, you’re going to have to stop going to class.”

  “But we’ve only just started the summer semester,” Brittany all but whispered, her voice raspy.

  “And you’d better stop wasting your time,” he boomed back.

  Despondent, her heart aching, Brittany excused herself from the offices, walking past the front desk with her head hung low. Reaching the exterior, she felt the sunbeam across her face, making her eyes glimmer with tears. Unsure of where else to go, who else to turn to, she found her steps tracing back toward the coffee shop—the one and only place she belonged, now. As she peered in through the window, she realized, with a lurch, that the coffee shop was in the midst of its after-work rush, a time she often had to stay late for, despite the ending of her shift, if only to help Sarah fulfill all the orders.

  And today, in her place, stood Ian: wrangling lattes, cappuccinos, and flat whites, with flailing arms and a constant frown. Bolting through the crowd, Brittany found herself leaping over the counter and taking over at the espresso machine. Tears and sweat began to mix across her cheeks as she worked, fulfilling orders and listening to Ian’s commands: “Almond milk with this.” “Cappuccino.” “Americano, no milk.” “Soy. Come on, Brittany. Can’t you go any faster?”

  Until, all at once, the crowd had depleted, leaving only their empty cups and plates and gleaming forks at the various booths and tables—and three exhausted, gasping people behind the counter, their knees wobbling and their skin reeking of coffee grounds.

  “Wow. Good thing you got here when you did,” Sarah said, beaming toward Brittany. “Because I don’t think Ian and I could have clambered through that without you. Huh, Ian?”

  Ian glowered down at Brittany. With two firm fists on either side of his waist, he cleared his throat. “And why on earth did you leave in the first place? You know you usually have to stay to help with the rush. You always do. Brittany, this was out of line.”

  Brittany felt her lips part with confusion. After the conversation with Mr. Jennings at design school, she felt punched, smacked, still reeling.

  “I’m sorry…” she whispered, her eyes hunting for something to latch onto. She couldn’t peer into his angry ones. Not now. “It was an emergency.”

  “It can’t have been more of an emergency than the one here, at the shop,” Ian boomed. “If I can’t trust you, Brittany, then I think we have to do something about that.”

  “Ian, you can trust me,” she stammered. “I’m not even going to school anymore. You won’t have to work around my schedule. It’s—it’s what you always wanted…”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. You, abandoning Blue Line like you did. It’s irresponsible. There are loads of other little, adorable girls like you out there, looking for a job like this. Working with artisanal coffee is their dream.”

  Brittany held her eyes completely still, trying to ensure she didn’t roll them. As she hunted for the proper words to say—words that affirmed her greater love for artisanal coffee—she felt the tension release in the room around her. Her shoulders slumped forward. Oxygen became void in her lungs.

  “I just don’t think this is working out anymore,” Ian said, speaking words like a former boyfriend. “I think you should hang up your apron and leave Blue Line for good.”

  Aghast, Brittany stumbled forward, unlacing her apron from her waist and tossing it toward the corner. Glancing toward Sarah, who held her hands over her mouth, she gave a brief shrug, then tossed herself from the back of the counter, toward the door. Easing into the outdoors, she took a deep, horrible breath, realizing she was about to face her future alone, jobless, without an education. And she wasn’t entirely sure what it would look like.

  But just across the street, a bar seemed to beckon. And so, barely checking both ways before, she crossed and hunted for the only thing that would give her solace: alcohol.

  Chapter Six

  The age-old romantic comedy on the wide screen of the Brooklyn bar was heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, romantic, leaving Paul scoffing at the bar counter, his third drink in his hand. Gesturing, he spoke to the bartender—a balding, 30-something man who seemed like he’d inhaled more than his fair share of cigarettes: “This love. This on-screen adoration. It doesn’t exist, not in real life. But maybe love existed like that back in the ‘40s? Maybe it’s all dried up, now. Dead, in the age of Internet and porn.”

  The bartender, who’d introduced himself as Clyde, slipped his wrinkled hand over his forehead. “Not so sure about that, champ,” he said, his eyes flashing. “You know, the actor and actress in this movie—they play folks who have an arranged marriage, who fall in love, yada yada. You already know that. Everyone does. But did you know that they were forced into these roles by their agents—and then they ended up falling in love and having two children of their own? Romance was the same back then as it is today. It’s just a bit more clunky today, is all. People aren’t open to it in the same way. Kind of a tragedy.”

  “That’s what you’re blaming your sad love life on, Clyde?” another person at the bar, a 50-something gambling addict named Marvin, asked.

  “Marvin, we’ve all got our own problems. Mine’s that I like to live alone,” Clyde said, shrugging.

  “And the halitosis you’ve got. That can’t be helping,” Marvin said.

  Clyde pointed at him, smirking. “You keep this up, I won’t give you that fifth round you’ve been demanding. Can’t have you slumped over the bar before eight p.m. again. Doesn’t bode well for the other Brooklyn customers.”

  “All these pretty 20-somethings,” Marvin said, shaking his head. “Don’t they know what Brooklyn used to be?” His eyes flashed toward Paul, who was growing progressively drunk. “These rich assholes.”

  But Paul was lost in the chaos of his own mind. Still seething from the conference meeting with his parents and the rest of the board, he found himself guzzling whiskey too quickly, knocking them back and bringing a buzz to the back of his brain. Interrupting the conversation between a slumped Marvin and a wrinkled Clyde, he pointed at the screen, looking scruffy and wild, despite the expensiveness of his suit.

  “An arrange marriage just might be the solution to my problem, Clyde-o,” he said. “Think of it. They don’t give two shits who I marry, as long as I do it. That was the stipulation.”

  “Sure…” Clyde said, trailing off. He knocked several peanuts into a small, glass bowl and passed it to Paul, urging him to eat.

  Stabbing a few peanuts into his mouth, Paul watched as the main characters kissed at the top of the Eiffel Tower, their bodies wrapping close and all thoughts of their “arrangement” falling out the window, leaving room for love.

  “Howdy,” Clyde said, addressing a new arrival at the bar. Smacking a drink coaster on the wood, he leaned closer to the pretty, short-haired blonde, addressing her. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Just a wine, please,” the girl said, her voice soft.

  With a quick glance, Paul immediately recognized her as the barista from across the street. Gorgeous, tinier and finer-boned than he remembered, she peered up at the black and white movie, allowing tears to course down her cheeks.

  Yearning for a bit of distraction, Paul gestured toward her, tilting his head. “Hasn’t even reached the dramatic part yet, and you’re already crying.”

  Shocked, the girl’s eyes grew wide—making her look akin to a deer in the forest. Drawing her hair behind her ears, she flashed a small smile, recognizing him from earlier. But of course she recognized him. Everyone did.

  “I just really n
eed a drink,” the girl said. “Looks like you’re in the same boat as me.”

  “Something happen?”

  “Fired.”

  “No. You’re the best thing that stupid, hip coffee shop has going for it.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Knocking his knuckles against the counter, Paul’s eyes danced toward Clyde. “We’re going to need a few rounds of tequila shots, I think,” he said. “To cheer up the girl. Nothing says screw your boss like a round of tequila.”

  Slipping a few seats toward her, he gazed into her eyes, feeling a rise of passion within him. She held such fire within her, an essence that made his groin stir. He didn’t generally feel this way about the models that thrust themselves toward him at nightclubs, wanting to become the next on his “list.” They were all similar: in form and in function, with brains that seemed to take on the same patterns of thought.

  Counting back from three, Paul instructed them into first one, then three rounds of tequila shots, watching as the girl’s cheeks took on an alert redness. Her eyes dancing toward him, she began to giggle softly. The noise jingled like music in his ears.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  “You can fix that.”

  “It’s Brittany. Brittany Haverford. And you’re Paul. Paul Le Montaigne.”

  “Has been all day, unfortunately,” Paul affirmed. “Tell me more about what happened with you back at the café. Seems an unfortunate turn of events. You were really wonderful this morning. I’m sure if I went back in there and demanded it—“

  Brittany stretched her palms in front of her face, looking mortified. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”

  But as she was already generously tipsy, she began to flutter through conversation of what had happened to her that day: the call from the scholarship office, the realization that she wouldn’t be able to go to school for a while, perhaps ever again, then the subsequent firing, from a boss who wouldn’t stop using the word “artisanal” without irony. The story was heartbreaking; emitted from such gorgeous, pink lips, with her red cheeks lined with tears.

  Paul couldn’t help considering that this girl’s problems and his could be linked, inextricably. That they could tie them together, much like the people in the black and white movie, and solve one another’s issues. Peering at her, almost incredulously, he recognized she was one of the most gorgeous, interesting women he’d been around in a long time—and that, almost more importantly, she probably seemed “simplistic” and “common” in his parents’ eyes.

  After all: when you spent the majority of your time in a chateau in the south of France, almost everyone looked relatively “common.” All the heiresses they’d introduced him to over the years—from places like Tokyo to London to Los Angeles—had been tight-lipped and pale, with bones sticking out at their waists and hollow cheeks. They’d held not a glimmer of warmth, not the way Brittany the barista did.

  He could get back at his parents. And he could help this girl dive through the stressors of her common, horrible life.

  And when it was all over, he could see his daughter again.

  In his mind, as he knocked back the fourth shot, he couldn’t imagine a better course of events.

  He just had to find a way to present them to Brittany in a way that seemed feasible. He had to layer on the charm.

  Chapter Seven

  Manhattan stretched across the horizon across the East River as Paul and Brittany walked, their hands falling to their sides and their arms occasionally brushing. The romantic tension between them seemed taut, electric, with Brittany occasionally glancing up at him with hopeful eyes. Slipping her thin arm through his, her drunkenness her excuse, she sighed evenly, saying:

  “You really knew how to turn this day upside down for me.”

  Paul chuckled lightly, slipping his hand against the small of her back. The darkness had ascended over their shoulders, allowing the Manhattan lights to twinkle above their heads, giving everything a fantastical appearance. With Brittany’s background, growing up far from the rev of the city, she felt completely enamored, as if the world was opening its secrets to her, giving her all she needed to survive.

  “You know, I have a predicament of my own,” Paul began then, gazing down at her. “A bit more complicated, admittedly, than your scholarship and work situation. But in essence, my parents have decided that I don’t deserve to be a part of the Le Montaigne company, nor that I should receive my inheritance unless I’m married off.”

  Brittany halted, blinking up at him with laughter in her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Isn’t that the storyline of every storybook prince or princess?”

  “It’s a bit romantic, isn’t it?” Paul said. “At least, on paper. But in the real world, with the weight of this on my shoulders, I know I have to make strides to marry. I don’t have much time. And I can’t imagine that love for someone will just fall into my lap, so to speak.”

  “It’s a lot to ask your heart to do,” Brittany whispered. She halted, gazing into his eyes, sensing the air changing around them. Shifting, she removed her arm from his and stood, like an island, waiting for a call from shore.

  After a dramatic pause, Paul leafed through his pocket and drew out a back box. Popping it open, he revealed a vintage engagement ring, its diamond large and its surrounding jewels twinkling in the bright city lights. Brittany brought her hands to her mouth, immediately enamored, yet with a pulsing doubt in the back of her mind: This wasn’t how she’d imagined her “marriage” going. She’d imagined love. She’d imagined a career, a job, a life alongside someone, rather than just picking up the pieces of a broken one and throwing them at a wall.

  “Brittany,” Paul said, not bothering to get down on one knee, probably not wanting to make a more ridiculous show out of this most ridiculous affair. “I know I only just met you. But I promise to cherish how much you’d help me, if you so choose to marry me. And I promise to pay for your schooling and any other expenses in the coming years. Because, if you agree to marry me, you’ll be saving my life.”

  The speech was passion-filled, earnest, leaving Brittany’s heart rattling around in her chest. Earlier that morning, as she’d brushed her teeth, wrapped eyeliner around her eyes, hummed along to the radio station, she hadn’t a clue that someone named Paul Le Montaigne existed. And now—she was going to agree to be his public fiancé? All in the name of money?

  “Don’t worry,” Paul said then, pushing through her hesitation. “I won’t ask you to fall in love with me, like the people in the film. That stuff doesn’t happen in the real world. Out here, it’s just bills and the crushing weight of our parents’ expectations.”

  Brittany sighed, bringing her hands forward to collect the box, in which the ring sat, filled with expectations and promise. The fire in Brittany’s belly still burned with lust for this man before her, the most gorgeous person she’d seen up close. The fact that he even wanted to spend an hour with her—let alone a fake eternity—made her feel electric, alive.

  She stuttered into it, hating how unsure she sounded. “Sure—yes.”

  With a flourish, Paul took the box back, bringing the band over her fourth finger and then lifting her hand to his mouth, kissing it with supple lips. His dark, penetrating eyes told her she’d just crossed a boundary she could never uncross; that her life had just altered, shifted for good.

  “I don’t think you’ll regret this. It’ll be the best decision of your life, linking up with the La Montaigne family. Just you wait,” he boomed.

  Leaving her at the banks of the river, he turned toward the skyline, lifting his phone and dialing his parents. With a bright, unnatural voice, he told them:

  “Dad. Mom. Oh, good. You’re both here. I wanted to tell you that I’ve given what you said a great deal of thought. You were right to pressure me into getting my life together. And for this reason, I’ve asked my new girlfriend, a gorgeous designer named Brittany, to b
e my wife. She’s said yes.”

  A long pause happened, then. Paul brought his hand to his waist, listening—his head tilted.

  “No. She’s not an heiress, Mom.”

  “And no. She doesn’t come from new money. Jesus, Dad.”

  “She’s just a marvelous woman. You’ll have to meet her. She’s going to be your daughter in law, for god’s sake. Merde. Alors…” He trailed off.

  After another dramatic hole in the conversation, during which Brittany’s ears filled with the chaos of the city around them, he hung up the phone. Spinning back toward her, he looked arrogant, bright eyed. He shrugged, giving her a simple smile.

  “And just like that, we’re getting married,” he said. “Better buckle your seatbelt, as they say. Things are about to get wild.”

  Chapter Eight

  Paul’s Williamsburg loft looked swept from the pages of a design magazine, utilizing all the interior design tactics Brittany had been trying to hone during her years of school. As she left the elevator, her thin form swallowed hole by the enormous space, she glanced around her, emitting a long, even sigh. Out the floor to ceiling windows, she saw a sweeping view of Manhattan, which made her bones ache. From her own Brooklyn apartment, she’d had a view of a brick wall, a reminder, constantly, that she was ramming her head into a metaphorical one.

  “This is insane,” Brittany whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, I suppose, it’s your home now,” Paul said, his voice becoming insistent, almost booming. It made Brittany’s drunken headache. Leading her down the hallway, he pointed toward the furthest door, stating: “That’s your room, there. I want you to make yourself comfortable. I’d texted ahead, had the maid put out a bunch of towels and other things for you. I’m not sure you’ll have time to go home and collect your things before our big day.”