by Lisa Scott
She clasped her hands and sucked in a breath. “Really? What’s she like?”
I paused for a moment. If Samantha could create her own dream guy checklist for me to follow, I’d do the same. How would my mother know? She’d never meet her. “She’s great. She’s a cute blonde, funny, friendly.” I didn’t mention her killer curves and sexy pout. She was on the short side, around five foot four, which was perfect for me. For some reason, I was drawn to shorter women.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. What does she do, dear?”
Huh. I hadn’t even asked. Well, this is my dream girl we were creating; she could be whatever I wanted her to be. “She’s an art teacher.” That surprised me. Normally, I’d think of a swimsuit model or an actress. No, that was more of a hookup dream girl. This was the fake girlfriend you’d want to bring home to Mom that I was creating.
But an art teacher? Yeah, Samantha seemed like she could be an art teacher. And something about that appealed to me—a woman with creativity and passion that was bound to show up in bed. Plus, good with little kids, getting home in time for when our children got out of school. Wow. That set off alarm bells. Good with kids? It sounded like something my mother would say.
Mom cleared the dirty bowls off the table. “She sounds wonderful. I’d love to meet her.”
I coughed, trying to cover up the strangled feeling in my throat. “We just met. Let’s not rush things.”
“Of course, dear. But you know, I’m not getting any younger and we never know when this cancer could come back.”
“Stop. It’s not coming back.” It just couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to see her battle the rounds of chemo again, losing her hair and her appetite, unable to eat no matter what I made her. Not to mention the insane medical bills. She’d been too sick to handle the piles of paperwork coming in from the doctors, so I took over paying off the bills. She gave me access to her checking account, but it wasn’t enough. She had no idea I’d spent a good chunk of my money paying them off, too. She’d be livid, but what was I supposed to do? Let her go bankrupt trying to stay alive?
Mom rinsed out the bowls and stood in front of the sink, staring out the window, pulling her cardigan tight. The top button was missing. “You’re right. I should be more positive. I have a doctor’s appointment next month. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
I kissed her head and grabbed a bowl to dry. “You’ll be okay.”
“I have to be. I have to live to see you married. I’m not so sure I want to come back as a ghost.”
I sighed. If my mother had beer in her fridge, I’d be grabbing a few right about now.
***
I stood in the bathroom, inspecting my hair while polishing off a chocolate bar—dark chocolate, so at least I could pretend I was eating it for its health benefits. At this rate, I’d pack on ten pounds trying to cope with this damn wedding.
“Sam, are you really going through with this?” Micki asked, as I got ready to meet up with Justin to create our backstory. I’d tried on five different outfits since a google search didn’t turn up any wardrobe suggestions for a meeting with a fake fiancé.
I hesitated and leaned out of the bathroom to look at her lounging on the couch. “Sure. Why not?”
She tossed her magazine aside. “You’re not a very good liar.”
This was true. Back in high school, when I turned in a fake excuse to get out of school for senior skip day, I confessed on the spot and got two days detention. “I have a very good incentive for lying this time. It’ll be fine.” I doused my ‘do with hairspray again, like that might somehow help firm up the fib.
With the wedding now a week away, I had work to do: dress shopping, a hair appointment, and a meeting with the man I was supposedly going to marry. In all my childhood wedding fantasies—sometimes solo at the beach, sometimes in a big royal-worthy ceremony—paying someone to pretend he was going to marry me was never part of the deal.
Hiring him wasn’t that strange, was it? Because if you think about it, were I in fear for my life—like if I’d witnessed a mob hit—I’d be totally justified hiring a bodyguard to accompany me to the wedding. And truthfully, I was afraid; I was terrified for my emotional well-being by going to Carrie LaMont’s wedding. I might lose it. Why karma hadn’t ridden a bus over that girl a time or two is beyond me. She didn’t deserve this good luck. Especially when I’d had so much bad luck. So Justin really was more like a self-esteem guard than an escort, I told myself. Not a far leap from a bodyguard at all.
I blinked at myself in the mirror. Damn, I’m good at justifying things. Too bad there isn’t a job where that skill comes in handy. I guess it might help lawyers, but I’d rather gnaw off my big toe than be a lawyer. I really didn’t know what my dream job was, but I knew it wasn’t my receptionist gig. I could feel my heart crumbling as I assessed my life, and felt perfectly justified hiring a fake fiancé. My self-esteem depended on it. I grabbed my purse and headed for the bar.
Boy, I hope this guy doesn’t think I’m a nutcase. I snatched another candy bar from the emergency stash for the ride over.
***
I walked into the hotel bar with a thundering heart and chocolate-scented breath. Guys like chocolate, right? It was a Friday night and Justin was finishing up his shift after working a banquet. He slipped off his bowtie and loosened the top button on his shirt as he walked up to me. “I’ve been thinking about you all week, Sam.”
I felt my eyelashes flutter and my hand landed on top of my breasts. Oh, my God. He’d been thinking about me?
Then he grimaced and said, “Sorry, I meant, I’ve been thinking about you all week, Sam,” delivered in a perfect Australian accent.
Embarrassed that I’d been swept away by the ruse, I forced a big laugh. “That was great. Really convincing.”
He gestured to a table where we could sit down. “Let me grab us drinks. White Russian again?”
I nodded, and did some deep breathing before he came back. He was more charming than I’d remembered. That damn Carrie LaMont would probably try to steal him away from me at her very own wedding.
He slid our drinks on the table and sat across from me, folded his arms on the table and smiled. “This is different.”
“This could be a whole new job for you: the fake date. You could help women out all over New England. Probably some guys, too.” I puckered my lips around the straw for a long sip.
He laughed. “Let’s see if we can pull this off next week first.”
“Oh, we have to pull it off. My entire emotional health depends on it.” I tried to sound sarcastic.
He rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get to work and figure out how we met, what I do that drives you crazy—in and out of bed—and the sickeningly sweet way I proposed to you.”
I lost my breath again, but remembered how to nod. I wondered how fictional the bedroom details were going to be. I found myself leaning across the table toward him, biting my lip, while my eyelids slid to half-mast, all the while wondering if I should throw a clause into our contract about mandatory kissing.
Then I snapped out of it, sat up straight in my chair and thought about my inbox at work. And the national debt. And puppy mills.
“So, did we meet through work? What do you do?” he asked.
I frowned. “I’m just a receptionist. Kind of fell into it when my English degree got me nowhere. I can quote Shakespeare, but employers never seem too impressed by that. Guess we need to come up with a better story for me, too.”
“Something that’s not easy to check.” He studied the ceiling for a few moments, then snapped his fingers. “Say you work for yourself. Maybe a writer, with your English degree?”
I shook my head. “I’m more of a reader than a writer. Plus, she’d go looking for my books.”
“Good point. You’re an artist.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. I did have a lot of coloring books as a kid. And I always loved playdough. “Okay. I’m a sculptor.”
“Who on
ly works on commission, just in case Carrie wants to know where your stuff is on display.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, liking how this was coming together. “And you hired me to design something for your office.”
“Very good. Now, why do you love me?” A smile split his face.
I blinked at him. Carrie could take one look at Justin and get a good idea why I loved him. Theoretically loved him, that is.
His grin disappeared, and his leg started bouncing under the table. “It can’t be that difficult to pick a reason or two.”
I forced a laugh and tried to remember my dream guy checklist. “Because you’re successful and driven, and wild in bed.”
He wagged a finger at me. “No, no. You’re the wild one. I can hardly keep up. I’ve never met anyone like you. I dumped two of the Patriot’s cheerleaders for you. Twins. And remember that time on my boat with those thigh high boots?”
I reached for my glass and took a long drink. “Ahoy captain, you’re an excellent seaman,” I finally said.
“And the chocolate body paint. There’s just no stopping you.”
I blinked at him. Justin and chocolate would be a memorable combination.
He reached across the table and patted my hand. “See? We’re coming up with an awesome scenario.”
I was relieved when he pulled his hand away. Note to self: touch this man as little as possible. May lead to spontaneous combustion, and no way will that be pretty at Carrie LaMont’s country club wedding.
An hour later, we’d decided on a perfect back story: he’d seen some of my work, hired me to sculpt something for his lobby, flew me to his office in Australia to oversee the installation and it was love at first sight. I stayed with him for two weeks and then he decided to spend some time in his Boston office, and commute there from Springfield. On his private jet. He proposed to me with an ad on a billboard he’d created and installed on the Mass Pike, and now we were just deciding which office he’d work from after the wedding.
“Sound good?” he asked, after rehearsing our spiel one more time.
“It sounds like a dream.” Well, the kind of dream that would make Carrie jealous. I’d die if someone proposed to me in such a public way. And an ad exec with worldwide offices certainly wouldn’t have time to go for long walks in the park or even notice what the thread count was on our sheets. He’d never be home. But it didn’t matter what I wanted. What mattered was what I thought Carrie wanted.
I stood up. “Thanks. I better head home. Gotta spend tomorrow picking over the scraps on the wedding registry.” Hopefully, something under two hundred bucks was still left.
“Let me walk you to your car.” He led me out of the bar, held the door for me, and walked me to my five-year-old Accord.
“Hey, what kind of car do I drive?” he asked.
“A Mercedes?” I suggested.
He laughed. “Then we better not valet park next Saturday, just in case anyone gets a glimpse of my old VW Beetle.”
I laughed. “Can’t wait to see it.” And I meant it. I’d always loved punch buggies, imagining kids in backseats slugging each other whenever one drove past.
He was closer to me than felt comfortable, so I stepped back even though I was dying to feel his lips against mine. It was possible we might have to kiss at the wedding, just to make it authentic, but I already looked desperate enough hiring him to be my future husband. I wasn’t going to humiliate myself and move in for an unwanted make-out session. I certainly didn’t have enough chocolate in stock if he protested.
He must have sensed my reluctance because he moved back and smiled. “See you next week, my dear wife.”
***
I redid my tie for the third time, and finally was happy with the knot. Wish I could get rid of the damn knots in my stomach. What the hell? I never got nervous before performances, and this was nothing more than that—a performance. Maybe because I didn’t want to screw it up. Sam was counting on me and I didn’t want to let her down.
Or maybe it was because she was hot—and I was nothing like the man she wanted. I looked at myself I the mirror and shrugged. “It’s just a job,” I said to myself. “So play the part.”
My phone rang as I was leaving, and I pulled my cell out of my pocket. It was my mother. “Justin, are you bringing your new girl to my birthday party next week?”
“Uh, hmmm. I hadn’t thought about it. She might be busy.” More knots tied up my stomach.
“Oh. I ordered an ice cream cake and everything. I just really wanted to meet her. It’s been so long since you’ve gone out with anyone…” Her voice trailed off and her disappointment almost killed me. Or was she playing me?
I got into the car and bounced my head against the seat. Maybe if I told Sam she didn’t have to pay me, she’d help me out and return the favor. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Excellent. I’ve got the menu all planned.”
“Dinner, too? Not just cake?”
“Yep. I’ve already gone shopping. This is a special occasion. It’s not every day I meet a new girlfriend.”
I hung up. Oh, yeah. I was being played.
***
I was debating over which shoes to wear, when Micki flew through the door.
“You’re back! Did he dump her at the last minute?” I grabbed her arm. “Please tell me a pregnant girlfriend showed up. A sex tape surfaced on the internet?” This wedding was making me whacko; normally, I’m a fairly nice person.
“No! I’m wearing the wrong dress. This is for the wedding I’ve got in two weeks. Carrie almost threw up when she saw me in this. And she’s pissed I didn’t get rid of the blue streak in my hair.” She unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. “Help me change! Grab the slate gown in my closet while I get out of this.”
I ran to her room and looked at all the dresses hanging in her closet. “What color is slate? Silvery gray or blue-gray?”
“Blue-gray with one strap and the Swarovski crystals.”
I should have known the outrageous one was for Carrie’s wedding. I dashed out to Micki with it and sighed. “Am I entirely pathetic bringing a fake date to the wedding?” I still had time to back out of this.
She grabbed the dress from me and tossed me the green one. “Not entirely,” she said, shimmying into the gown. “Someone entirely pathetic wouldn’t have the capacity to realize it. Don’t worry. Everything should be fine.” Then she flew out the door.
“What do you mean by ‘should?’” I called after her. But she was long gone. I looked at the crumpled dress on the floor and picked it up. Carrie LaMont probably would have left it there. Like I said, I’m usually a nice person.
I still had to put on my fake eyelashes, when my doorbell rang. “Shit! I’m not ready.” I ran to the door and felt my knees wobble a little when I saw Justin standing there.
His eyes swept over me. “There’s my girl. You look great, love.”
I wandered over to the couch so I could sit for a moment after hearing that accent again. How had I never dated a guy with an accent? Instant lust.
“You ready to go?”
I squeezed my knees and stared at my hands, taking a deep breath. You can do this, you can do this. Then I screamed. “I forgot to get a fake engagement ring!” I screamed again.
He walked over and held out his hand. “Come on. We’ve got time to stop at a store. Where were you planning to get one?”
I threw up my hands. “I wasn’t. I totally forgot about it.” I bit my lip and tried not to cry as my plan unraveled. I popped up and started pacing the room.
Justin slid a big hand over my elbow. “We’ll work this out. I’ve got an idea.”
He walked me to his bug, and as we pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered how late we were going to be. Fashionably late would be good. Make it look like I didn’t care that much. That her wedding was an afterthought I could squeeze in. After my tennis lessons. Yeah, that’s it.
“Where exactly are you going to get me an engagement ring?�
� I asked.
He took a deep breath. “My mother. She’s divorced, but I know she still has the ring. It was this beautiful antique passed down through the family. Should do the trick.”
“And she’s just going to let you walk off with it.” I shook my head, a tendril from my updo grazing my cheek. “What are you going to tell her?”
“That it’s for my girlfriend.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Man, should have cleared that up sooner.
He paused and looked out his window. “No, but she thinks I do.”
I had a bad feeling in my stomach. “And who is this pretend woman?”
He turned to me. “You.”
I blinked at him.
“I told her about you.”
He told her about me? I was worthy to be his fake girlfriend? That set my heart fluttering. “Really? Why?”
He sighed. “She’s been pestering me about not having a girlfriend for quite a while, and when you asked me to fake it for you, I thought I could fake it, too—for her sake. She’ll be thrilled to give me the ring. Of course, I’ll give it back when we break up.”
I nodded. “Of course. What if it doesn’t fit?”
“Let’s just take a chance and see. It’s our best bet right now.”
Justin seemed as nervous as me and I was touched by the lengths he was going to help me out. Do you add gratuity on for a job like this? Is he going to expect me to put out? Not that I’d mind…
***
Sam stayed in the car while I went in to talk to my mother. I had to pull this off quickly. I knocked on the door, and she was surprised to see me. “Hi, honey. Is everything okay?” Concern lined her eyes. My mother was always expecting bad news to slink into her life. She had good reason to believe so.
“Everything’s great. I have something important to ask you.” I took a deep breath. Even though the whole thing was a setup, I felt nervous. My mom was going to be on cloud nine about this news, and then I was going to pull the plug in a few weeks. I hoped she’d be able to get over the disappointment.
