Practice Makes Perfect: A Fake Fiancée Romance

by Morgan Rae

  Everyone’s eyes turn to me, even little Maggie’s. “You’ll…what?” Martin stammers.

  “Your reality show gig.” I lift my hand and drop it in surrender. “I’ll do it.”

  Martin looks floored and it’s honestly almost worth it to see the shock on his baby face. “That’s great news, really great.” He starts to manically flutter around his desk like he’s working against the clock in case I change my mind. “I’ll make some calls.”

  Randall Ray gives my leg a solid pat and grins. “Right on, man. Let’s go find you a fiancée.”

  “Yeah,” I say, the least excited man in the room. What the hell did I just sign myself up for?

  CHAPTER FOUR: NANCY

  When I explain the show premise to my boss, he rakes his fingers through his impeccable hair and looks lost.

  “So it’s like The Bachelor?” he asks.

  I exhale a tight breath and reach under my wire-rimmed glasses to rub the bridge of my nose. Patience isn’t my strong suit. Then again, Jack Raleigh didn’t always used to be this thick. We both worked the streets, once upon a time. Then, one Christmas bonus season, Jack Raleigh got promoted to big cheese of TXR Media. Meanwhile, I got a free oil change in my stocking. The comfort of his mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows, and reclining leather chair made him soft. He’s long since forgotten what it’s like to sit in the car for hours on end with nothing but the tabloids to entertain you.

  “No,” I explain, “it’s not like The Bachelor. Okay, Destination: Desire works like this, four engaged couples enter the island, right? All in love, gooey-eyed, the whole shebang. Now, their challenge is to remain on the island, no Internet, no connection to the outside world, and truly test their relationship. Those that don’t make it are kicked off the island. At the end, the couples that do make it out together get an all-expenses paid wedding.”

  Jack shrugs. “And? I’m missing the wow factor.”

  “Everyone on the show is a celebrity.” I press my lips together to hold back my grin, but it comes through anyway. “Including…wait for it…Damien Blaze.”

  “Damien Blaze.” Jack looks at me like I’ve lost it. “He’s not engaged. Notoriously so.”

  “Not yet.” And the kill shot, “The producers have put out a casting call for his fiancée-to-be. They’re trying to turn him into a good boy.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Now he gets it and a smile cuts across his mouth. There is something terribly charming about his smile that it makes my mouth water. I spin back and forth in my chair to distract myself from the inappropriate thought of my boss taking me on his desk. “They’re trying to cover up his bad boy antics and make him out to be some kind of gentleman, aren’t they? The rock-n-roll boy next door?”

  “Ding, ding,” I lift my pen.

  “Holy shit.” He paces and rakes his fingers though his short hair. I bite my lip at the thought of running my fingers through his hair. “It’s going to be a train wreck. We need eyes behind enemy lines to get the heart of the story. We can blow the top off this.”

  “So let’s start naming names,” I say.

  Jack thinks. His eyes find the wall and go out of focus for a moment, losing himself in his thoughts. “Angela Kmerski,” he says, as though hypnotized. “The Valley reporter. She’s blond, charismatic. She could fit the bill.”

  “And twenty years younger than Damien Blaze,” I remind him. “They’re trying to mature him, remember?”

  “Okay. Kristin Meyers in our editing department. She’s, what, five years younger than him? That makes them the same age Hollywood time.”

  “Agreed,” I lift my pen, “but there’s mature and then there’s school teacher. She’s way too stiff for him, he’ll never fall for it.”

  “What about…” Jack snaps his fingers, “what’s-her-name. The intern with a great body, Southern chick.”

  I don’t mean to, but I laugh out loud. “Daisy Anne? He performed in the Global Peace tour in ‘03. Plus, every year, he donates a third of his paycheck to the local animal rescue in LA. She’s a self-proclaimed gold digger who doesn’t recycle and thinks dogs are only good as accessories.” I click my pen and shake my head. “He’s smarter than he looks. Look, I know he looks like a ranch hand on a bad day, but he graduated with honors. Trust me, I’ve done my research on this guy. He’ll see right through Daisy Anne. Next.”

  Jack laughs. “Keep it up, Nan, and I’ll start thinking you have a crush on this guy.”

  I shrug. “I just do my homework. You’re not going to find anyone who knows these guys better than I do.”

  Jack stops and stares at me with a peculiar light in his eyes.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Just stop talking. Just for a second.” Jack takes a step towards me and crouches down. He’s suddenly close, incredibly close, and I can smell the minty-freshness of the breath-mints he pops to get rid of his coffee breath. He grins like a maniac as he reaches forward, pinches the bridge of my glasses, and drags them off my face.

  “There she is,” he announces triumphantly.

  Okay, now this is just getting weird.

  “Are you having a stroke?” I ask. “Should I call someone?”

  “No stroke,” he grins. “Call the casting director. Tell them we’ve found Damien Blaze’s fiancée.”

  A bad feeling creeps up the back of my neck. “Which is…”

  His eyes don’t leave mine. “You, Nan. It’s going to be you.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re having a stroke,” I say as I straighten up, palms out to deflect Jack. “We both know what a mistake that would be. I’m not reality TV material.”

  “So we spruce you up,” he says. “You said it yourself, no one knows him better than you do. You’re the best reporter we’ve got here. If anyone’s going to get under his skin, it’s you.”

  I’m at a loss for words. My heart is beating out of control and I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack. “Jack, this is insane,” I plead. “I haven’t even been on a date in years, let alone pretend to be engaged to the guy—”

  “You know what I’ve always liked about you, Nan?” Jack clasps his hand on my shoulder, interrupting me. My skin tingles and it’s not all panic. “You do whatever it takes to get the story, even if it means getting Damien Blaze to fall in love with you. Picture it, you’d have the exclusive insider story to the whole thing. The show, the couples, Damien Blaze, all of it. This could be the story of the year. You get that, don’t you? You get that right, you could have whatever you want.”

  Whatever I want. I think about my demands for a moment before I come out with, “I want out of the truck.”

  Jack smiles. “Done.”

  “And an office. With a window.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Your office,” I challenge.

  Jack’s eyebrows twist together for a beat.

  “I mean it, Jack,” I say intensely. “If I do this, I want to be partner. You said it yourself, I’m the best journalist you’ve got. So, get me off the streets and put me in a chair where I can actually affect change around here.”

  The corners of Jack’s eyes crinkle, and he extends a hand. “Make Damien Blaze fall in love with you,” he says, “and I will personally etch your name onto the door.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” I shake his hand. “One problem, though. They’re going to make me sign an NDA. Don’t you think they’ll get a little suspicious when they see a TXR reporter walk through the door?”

  “About that,” he grins. “Nan Harper is going bye-bye for a while.”

  CHAPTER FIVE: NANCY

  Jack wasn’t joking.

  Here’s the dark, dirty secret about my line of work, female reporters don’t do well at TXR. Specifically, female reporters over twenty-five. God help you if you hit thirty-seven, like me. We fall under two categories: 1. Could apply for a job at Hooter’s tomorrow or 2. Rolls with the guys. I, obviously, fell into the second category. I dr
ess like the boys, drink like the boys, and control a room just as well as one of the boys. As the only daughter in a three-sibling household, I learned pretty fast how to be the alpha bitch in a room full of men.

  The transformation wasn’t a cakewalk and involved much more than just taking off my glasses. Jack and his team set me up with a beauty expert and a wardrobe designer. We’re basically on top of each other in my tiny apartment as they painfully wax every bit of hair from my skin. The hair they did leave is teased until it feels like it might fry off. Just when I think they’re done, they poke and prod at my body until I fit into the outfits they consider TV worthy. The whole thing is a nightmare and I’m aching, stinging, and emotionally drained by the end of the day. Rome wasn’t built in a day and they sure as hell can’t turn this tomboy into a beauty queen in an afternoon.

  And then, finally, there was the name change. Too many celebrities and shows blacklisted me for being the dirty, no holds barred reporter that I am. So, Jack scrubs Nancy Harper off the map.

  Tomlin Murray, it’s the name he comes up with for me. I feel like a damn porn star.

  There’s only one last thing to do before the day is out. I need to make an audition video to send to the casting director so they consider me for the role of Damien Blaze’s fiancée. For this part, I shoo away the harem of people around me and shove Jack out the door. I need some private time, I need to think.

  My apartment is small, cramped, and barely more than a closet, but it’s my own place to get away from the bustle of LA. I move to my desk, clear off a mug of cold coffee, and open my laptop. I turn on the video recording function and a screen pops up with my face in it.

  Good god, I barely recognize myself. My long dark hair, normally stick-straight, is teased into wild curls. They’ve plumped out my lips with a dark shade of lipstick and squeezed me into a dress that accentuates the voluptuousness of my curves.

  This is crazy, but for all my glitz and glam, it’s worth nothing if I can’t sell it. I take a deep breath, hit record, and smile as wide as I can without cracking my makeup.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Stop recording. Delete. Try again.

  “Hi!”

  Too peppy. Stop. Delete. Redo.

  I twist my head and crack my neck. Game face, Nan.

  I smile. “Tomlin Murray here for your consideration. First, thank you for taking the time to watch my video. This is just…the opportunity of a lifetime. For a little bit about me, I’m a born and raised LA girl.“ True. “I have an older brother who still calls me up to tease me every now and then.” True. “I developed a passion for film at a young age. I was the one always filming family gatherings instead of participating in them. I went to college for photography and I now take pictures professionally.” No lies there, I am a photographer, they just don’t need to know of what…or whom.

  Okay, time to make this personal. “I’m a big supporter of Damien Blaze’s work, I think he’s an incredibly talented artist. I’ve been following him for years and I’d love the opportunity to get to know him a little better. We’re both creative, out-of-the-box thinkers and I know we’d be a very smart match for each other.”

  “And, uh…” What’s missing? I’ve got intelligent, successful, and mature to boot, but I don’t have sexy. A show like this needs sex appeal. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth briefly and say, “I know I can make Damien Blaze a very happy man.”

  Oh, god, what the heck was that? Maybe this porn star name is getting to my head. I quickly end the recording and drop my head back with a groan.

  Nan Harper, what have you gotten yourself into?

  No use in second guessing myself. This was my idea, my set up. If anyone’s going to pull it off, it’s going to be me.

  I pull up my email with the casting director’s address, attach the file, and hit send. Here goes nothing.

  CHAPTER SIX: NANCY

  I’m in a deep sleep under a pile of unwashed clothes when my phone buzzes. It’s the first good sleep I’ve gotten in days and my fingers fumble on my bedside table, pushing aside my Nikon camera to get to my phone. I pull the phone under the blankets and answer groggily, “Hello?”

  “Pack your bags, Tomlin Murray.” I can hear the grin in Jack’s voice. “They accepted your application. You’re going to Hawaii.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN: NANCY

  I don’t get star struck easily. When celebrities curse at you, push you, and spit on you, some of the shine on their Grammy’s starts to fade just a little. More often than not, they’re short tempered, entitled, adult children in need of a short leash and a little hand holding.

  So why am I sweating?

  It doesn’t help that I’m completely out of my field on this one. I’m crossing my legs, trying to remember how to properly sit in a dress. I pick at the edges to press it further down my knees, my legs feel impossibly smooth against my hand. As much as I miss the comfort of my hoodie and sweatpants, I admit there is something nice about showing off my legs again.

  “Room for one more?”

  I’m still wiggling in my chair in an effort to flatten my dress down when I hear the rumbling voice. I stop fidgeting and walk my gaze up a very well-toned body and find myself staring at the one-and-only Damien Blaze.

  Like I said, I don’t get star struck easily. Damien Blaze is like everyone other celebrity I’ve watched through the safety of my camera lens. He gets dressed every morning one leg at a time, just like the rest of us. There’s nothing inherently magical or godlike about him, he just happened to know the right people at the right time to get the right record deal.

  But holy hell, if he isn’t easy on the eyes.

  He’s svelte as a panther. He’s fitted in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket, but he makes casual chic look as though he’s dressed to kill. Clean-shaven, with hazelnut hair that barely grazes his ears. It’s paired with intense eyebrows, an aquiline nose.

  I’m suddenly thirsty.

  It takes me a second to find my words. “Um. Yeah. Go for it.”

  Great first impression, Nan, er… Tomlin.

  He has a Marc Jacobs roller bag and he lifts the sizable suitcase up as though it’s stuffed with feathers and jams it away in the overheard. I’m keenly aware that I’m memorizing the way his biceps bulge in his tight band t-shirt. He’s wearing sunglasses and a beanie, as though that’ll do anything to hide his appearance, and settles in beside me. He clicks his seatbelt in place and tightens the strap over his slim hips.

  “Miss Murray, I presume,” he says, as though we’re in some kind of James Bond movie. The posh British accent helps. Not to mention, it’s a little startling, since his voice is so neutral when he sings.

  “Mr. Blaze, I presume,” I shoot back.

  “So you’re my fiancée for the next month, huh?” He takes off his sunglasses and his piercing blue eyes flicker over me. Is he checking me out? A grin slices across his face. “Not bad.”

  A blush crawls up my face and I inwardly scold myself. I’m a professional, not one of his flustered groupies. I smile back. “Leave the charm for the cameras,” I tell him.

  “Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be. I hear you’re a fan of cameras.” At my quizzical look, he adds, “They let me watch your submission video.”

  The blush comes back when I remember how I promised to make him very happy. I shrug, trying to seem unruffled about the whole situation. “I take pictures for a living, weddings, events mostly. I’m looking to get into camera work for movies.” I clear my throat. “I’ve never spent a lot of time on the other side of the camera, though. So, I might’ve seemed a little…uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah,” he nods. “You did. One of the reasons I picked you, actually.”

  My brain comes to a sudden halt. “You picked me?” I blurt out. Here, I assumed we’d gotten matched together by his agent and some bizarre rating experts.

  He laughs and my heart skips. It’s a genuine deep-throated sound
and I like it, really like it. “Yeah. I picked you. You seemed…I don’t know. Real.” He rubs his hand over his thigh once. He’s obviously as awkward talking about this as I am. It didn’t occur to me until now that I wouldn’t be the only one out of my element.

  “Hey,” he continues, changing the subject. “I got you something.”

  He reaches into the front pocket of his bag and pulls out a small box. He flips it open and holds it out to me, the sight inside makes my breath catch. Inside the box sits a gorgeous, princess cut diamond engagement ring. Nothing subtle about that, but Damien Blaze doesn’t strike me as a guy who half-asses anything.

  “Put it on,” he says after I sit there gawking at it. His eyes are sharp. It’s obvious Damien Blaze is a guy who is used to getting what he wants. Unfortunately for him, he’s about to spend the next three weeks with a woman who doesn’t give in that easily. I nip his egomania in the bud with a practiced smile as I snap the box closed and hand it back to him.

  “I’d rather wait until we land, if you don’t mind. Savor freedom a little longer.”

  “Whatever you need.” His lips smile, but it never reaches his eyes. He’s pissed. Good. Let him fume for now, before we have cameras on us.

  I bit my lip briefly. There’s a weird tension between us and I need to be frank with him. “Listen,” I start.

  “Damien Blaze?” A blonde appears out of nowhere and hovers above his seat. Her smile doesn’t quite fit her face, it’s that big. “Hi, I’m so sorry. I’m a big fan of your music.”

  Damien, to his credit, is all charm. He smiles back at her. “Thanks, darling. That’s very kind of you.”

  Over the speaker, the captain announces that it’s time for everyone to take their seats. The fan squeaks out a “thanks” then scurries back to her chair frantically. Damien turns his eyes back on me. “What were you saying?”

  “Uh…” My chair begins to shudder from the take-off. My fingers curl tightly on the armrests and the back of my throat feels thick with panic. I hate flying. I hate the feeling of being completely and utterly out of control.