by Penny Wylder
4
Heath
The part of me that planned to keep Sylph at a distance has started to crumble. I wasn’t supposed to like her, let alone want to kiss her, and especially nothing more than that. She wasn’t at all what I was expecting.
When I think of a fake bride putting themselves out there for sale, I think of someone more expensive-looking—not more beautiful, of course. I don’t think there is anyone on this earth who is more naturally beautiful than Sylph. The type of expensive I’m talking about involves a lot of faux parts: sexy designer clothes, someone who indulges in surgery and too much makeup to keep themselves looking high-end, someone who flaunts her body and gives a man hungry eyes to get what she wants. Those sorts of tactics may work on some rich men, but not me. Most of those men don’t care. They know that if they didn’t have the appeal of money on their side, a woman who looked like that wouldn’t give them the time of day. And yet they don’t care. I’ve had women like that approach me many times in restaurants and bars. I know the type—that kind of girl just doesn’t happen to be my type.
I guess that’s why I wasn’t prepared for Sylph. She’s everything I could want in a girl. Nothing about her screams gold-digger to me. Though her clothes were clean and nice, and looked incredible on her, they were cheap and meant to look casual. Instead of an even spray tan, her skin had just a hint of color left over from summer on the high points of her forehead and nose, the way it occurs naturally. Also natural, were the streaks in her blonde hair, not something even the best beautician can reproduce in a salon. Her nails were short and painted a pastel green color, barely any makeup, but what she did have on was flattering. Jeans and a t-shirt are hardly the outfit a woman would wear if she were trying to get her hooks into a man for his money.
It’s almost as if she’d shown up on a whim. My friend who’d recommended her didn’t describe her this way. He said she could be Snow White: pale skin, black hair, big red lips, and giant breasts. He’d said this with a wolfish grin, but all I was concerned about was my family believing this could be a girl I would marry. Sylph is definitely not the girl my friend described to me. So who is she?
As I walk up the stairs and back to my office to finish my work, I’m having trouble focusing. My thoughts keep drifting back to Sylph. Her eyes were the softest pale blue, the color of shadow on snow. They were quite startling, actually. I’m not used to being taken off my guard simply from a glance. Not only that, but she was charming and real. Had I not known her services were being paid for, I truly would have believed she was falling for me. I guess that’s a good thing, because my family will need to believe it as well, and they aren’t nearly as easy to convince as I am. If anyone can get the job done, it’s Sylph.
5
Sylph
I know the date that happened between me and Heath yesterday was just part of the act, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there was something there. He was so gorgeous, nothing at all like I had imagined. He could have any woman in the world, so why would he possibly need to pay someone to pretend to be his bride? I’m glad he did, though. This is going to be the easiest job I’ve ever had, wrapped around the arm of a man who is handsome and surprisingly fun to talk to once you get past his rough, suspicious façade.
I find myself eager to see him again. I’ll have to tamp down those feelings, though; this is a job, not a real marriage. A real marriage will never happen, not after the horrible experience I had with my ex.
To get thoughts of Heath and our kiss out of my head for the moment, I decide to make myself a bowl of cereal and study the folder Heath gave me. I need to learn everything I can about his family and friends, the things I’ll need to know if this engagement is going to be believable. His family lives overseas in Europe where his father runs the headquarters of their family business. Says here his mother is kind, but naïve, his father is rougher around the edges. It says he’s severe and quiet. Heath also has younger twin siblings who can be somewhat suspicious and intrusive. That doesn’t help my nerves at all.
I sit back and rub my eyes. There’s so much to memorize. It feels like my brain has locked up. I need coffee.
There’s a knock at the door. I figure it’s probably a delivery man since Mandi has something sent to the apartment daily. I get up to open the door, but it’s not a delivery man. It’s Heath.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. This is not how I wanted him to see me. I’m wearing cut-off sweats and a tank top I slept in with no bra. The messy knot of hair piled on top of my head hasn’t been washed in two days. Thank God I shaved my legs and gave myself a pedicure, or this encounter would be a lot more embarrassing. Still, he’s so crisply dressed, his perfectly coifed hair looking as if it came out of a mold. I feel even more disheveled than I would if he were in casual clothes.
“Did we have a meeting?” I ask. He doesn’t seem like the type to just show up unannounced.
He has that same stern look he wore when we first met, as if he’s already shed away the thought of our wonderful first date. I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but it does. Part of me feels kind of hurt by the brushoff.
His eyes flicker to my breasts, then, reluctantly, back up to my eyes. I feel the slight twinge of pleasure as they harden from the attention. Normally, if someone came over, I would try to hide it. But I like the idea of torturing him a bit.
“No, I’m just stopping by to bring your transportation,” he says.
I’m confused and, for a moment, flirting with him takes a back seat. When he told me I wouldn’t be able to take public transportation during this job, I’d assumed he would send a company car for me like he did yesterday when he sent me home after our meeting/date.
His big body blocks the doorway, so I can’t see what he’s talking about at first until he steps to the side. Sitting in front of my dingy apartment is a sleek black something or other—I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m pretty sure it’s a car—or maybe a spaceship. I’m certain it’s not something you can pick up off the lot at the auto mall.
“Is that …” My words trail off when he hands me a key fob that has the word Maybach on it. Is he for real? “There’s no way I’m driving that,” I tell him.
His eyebrows come together and his head tilts. “Why not, is there something better you’d rather drive?”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. He puts his hands on his hips, not looking amused.
“Better?” I say. “Is there such thing as a better car?”
“I’m sure there is,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think there is. It’s just … I don’t know … a bit excessive, don’t you think? That’s a half-million-dollar car.”
The only reason why I know that is because Mandi is addicted to reality TV and the mother of the Kardashian girls drives something similar.
“You’re my betrothed,” Heath says. “I can’t have you driving around in a Toyota Corolla covered in rust spots. There’s a certain image we have to uphold.”
“How do you know what kind of car I drive?” I ask, taken aback by his knowledge of me.
“I did some research after we met.”
“I like my Toyota,” I say, a little offended by his remark, and a lot offended that he’s been spying on me.
I don’t actually like my Toyota. The thing is a money pit and makes this god-awful squeal as I drive down the road. It’s embarrassing, really. But so is driving around in a Maybach. I don’t want people staring at me. I’ll get self-conscious and end up rear-ending someone, or doing something embarrassing.
“What about a compromise then?” he says.
“A compromise is good. That’s what marriage is all about,” I say.
He gives me a surprised look.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing … I guess I’m just surprised how seriously you’re taking this whole marriage thing.”
“I have excellent work ethic. You’re paying me to be your bride and I plan to be the best damn wif
e a man has ever had.”
He still looks bewildered, but he shows me a slight smile and continues. “What kind of car would you prefer to have?”
“What about a newer Toyota. They’re reliable, efficient, get great gas mileage. There’s a little used car lot down the road—”
“No,” he says bluntly.
This time I’m the one with my hands on my hips. “This doesn’t sound like compromise to me.”
“You do realize that any other woman in your position would be jumping at the chance to drive a Maybach?”
“I’m not any other woman. I’m me.”
“I’ve noticed. You’re not like the women I’m used to.”
Is that an insult or a compliment? It’s hard to tell with his expressionless demeanor.
“Maybe you should find yourself a different caliber of woman then, because anyone who would ask you for a Maybach cares only about your money,” I say.
He looks at me like a puzzle he can’t quite piece together. “Isn’t that what you care about as well?”
“No, of course not. I mean, well …” I’m getting flustered. “Yes, I care about your money, because I’m doing a job and you’re paying me for my services. But if we were actually dating, your money would have nothing to do with it. My last—” I almost said husband—not that it’s a secret (he probably already knows after spying on me), I just don’t like telling people the reason I’m no longer married. “—boyfriend, worked as a short hall truck driver. Not exactly the kind of job that makes millions. When I’m with someone it’s because they make me happy.”
“Good to know,” he says and manages to swing the subject back around to the car issue. “A Mercedes then.”
“No way. That’s like putting a target on my back and being like, ‘Hey, look at all this money I have, come car-jack me.’”
“Maybe in this neighborhood, but not in mine.”
“Definitely in this neighborhood. That’s why I need something a little more inconspicuous.”
“That’s why you’re moving in with me,” he says.
I freeze. Did I just hear him right?
“You want me to move in with you?”
“Yes. I need you to stay with me while my family is in town. You’ll have your own wing if you need your privacy.”
His place is big enough for me to have my own wing? I don’t even know if I’ve ever been in a place with a wing.
“Keep the car for now,” he says, “and I’ll work on getting you something different. In the meantime, I want to show you your new living arrangements.”
I can’t help but get a little excited. Mandi is my best friend, but she makes a terrible roommate. The thought of having a wing to myself, even if it is temporary, is a wonderful thought. I can finally get to that stack of books I’ve been meaning to read but never had the chance because Mandi comes home at weird hours and always has the TV on at full volume. The possibilities are endless.
Heath makes me drive the Maybach because he doesn’t like driving. Apparently he’s used to being driven around in his company car everywhere he goes. That’s fine by me. I’m less nervous about driving the car after he tells me he has amazing insurance. I believe him since I doubt a dealership would let him drive this thing off the lot without it. I finally settle down and just enjoy the ride. It looks like a cockpit inside with all the different lights. The supple leather seats are like butter and fit my ass just right. No wonder this car is so expensive. Worth every penny.
We pull up to a tower of luxury condos. There’s a circular covered drive and a row of valets waiting out front. The only thing close to a valet at my apartment complex is the thug on the corner waiting to jack it.
One of the men wearing a suit and tie comes up to us. “Good morning, Mr. Starre,” he says.
Heath hands him a one-hundred-dollar bill. “This is Sylph, my fiancée. I want you to make sure her car is well taken care of.”
“Yes, sir,” the man says and jogs over to where I’m getting out of the driver’s seat.
If that’s how much valets make in tips, I see a career change in my future once this deal with Heath is over.
Heath leads me into the building. The foyer opens up into a hall with a grand staircase, and pillars all around. There’s a fountain in the middle and a lounge area with a coffee bar. Everyone who works in the complex seems to know Heath’s name and has a smile waiting for him. It’s like I’m in that scene in Pretty Woman where everyone is staring at Julia Roberts because it’s so obvious she’s a prostitute by the way she’s dressed. Except I’m not dressed like a prostitute. My ensemble leans more toward homelessness. Before Heath had shown up, I was doing my laundry and all I had left to wear were a tank top, sweats, and ballet flats. Heath has to be embarrassed to be seen with me looking like this, especially since he seems to be so into his image and status. But if he is embarrassed, he isn’t showing it.
Everything in the lobby, from the wallpaper, to the furniture, is accented in gold. The art on the walls look suspiciously like the real thing. I want to take it all in, examine the different brush strokes, the soft carpet, everything, but Heath seems to be in a hurry. This is by far the fanciest building I’ve ever been inside aside from a museum.
We get into an elevator. It’s super fancy inside with ornate detailed wood carvings and gold leafing. It’s a cramped space. Heath’s arm touches my breast. He looks down at it. Every time he gives me any kind of attention, my nipples stand at attention. I know he sees where his arm is touching me, but he doesn’t move it. I don’t move either. How does this man manage to turn me on with just a single touch?
He clears his throat. “Have you had a chance to look over the folder more?” he asks. His rich velvet voice fills the space in the elevator.
“Stayed up all night going through it,” I admit. There was a lot, and it was strange reading about a life that is supposed to be mine yet I’ve never experienced any of it. I found myself wishing I was that girl who went to wine tastings with him in Napa Valley, who sat on the rooftop of the apartment building watching the sunset. The girl in that folder is happy and carefree. She has a man who loves her dearly and who also respects her. She doesn’t have to scrimp and save every penny just to survive on toxic food or suffer through an equally toxic relationship. She’s able to go and do things, experience life on a whole different level. Must be nice to live like the girl I’m pretending to be.
“Good. You’ll be meeting my family tomorrow night,” Heath says.
“What? Already?” For some reason I thought I’d have a little more time to prepare, to perfect my character. I don’t know how to be a wealthy person. There are rules, mannerisms. Rich people hold themselves a specific way, head up, chin out. And there’s a certain arrogance to them that comes from either getting too much attention as a child, or not enough. At this point his family will never believe that I am anything more than who I am: a jobless, penniless, desperate girl pretending to be in love with a man who has more money than God.
“I’m afraid so. They got into town earlier than I was expecting,” he says.
My head’s spinning. The elevator feels like it’s moving at warp speed. I sway. Heath catches me before my knees buckle and he holds me in his sturdy arms. Damn, he smells good. I put my forehead against his chest to keep the elevator car from going in circles.
He starts to stroke my hair. It feels good and comforting. One of his hands slips down to my bare shoulders. My body comes alive from his touch and I find myself with temporary amnesia. I’m no longer thinking about his family or my duties. Right now, all I know is that he’s touching me and I want more.
Then the elevator opens, and he steps away from me. “Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m fine.”
We step out of the elevator which leads us directly into the condo. This place is as big as two houses. Windows wrap around, giving us a stunning panoramic view of the city below. The floors are white polished marble tile. The furniture is also w
hite. The leather couches are all straight lines and hard edges. They’re beautiful but don’t look like they’d be very comfortable to sit on.
The wallpapered walls are covered in beautiful art pieces just like in the lobby. This entire place looks like an art piece. That, or a showroom. I can’t believe people actually live like this.
He gives me the grand tour, which is definitely grand. In the wing he’s calling mine, there’s even a library. I feel just like Belle from Beauty and the Beast—if the beast were the sexiest man alive.
“What’s mine is yours. As long as you’re working for me, you have free rein of the place.”
His smile stirs that needy place deep in my core and I find myself imagining him walking around this place wearing nothing but that sexy smile.
“Thank you,” I say.
I ask myself yet again why this gorgeous man is pretending to be engaged and getting married when he could have the real thing with any woman of his choosing. He’s beautiful, obviously brilliant to have gotten this far in life. He doesn’t need to pretend.
“Is it off-limits to ask why you need a fake bride? Clearly you don’t need one. You’re gorgeous, and smart, and kind …”
His eyebrows lift and I blush.
“I’m almost thirty-years-old and my mother thinks I’m lonely and she’s always trying to set me up with someone, so any possible free night I might have is spent on mindless dates trying to pretend to be interested in some pampered brat’s little purse dog. My father thinks a man without a wife is irresponsible and not planning well enough for the future. He’s constantly checking up on me. I just want them off my back for once in my life. I figure if they think I’m married, they’ll leave me alone. They live out of the country and I rarely see them, so they won’t know the difference for some time. When they come back, I’ll give them some sob story about how things didn’t work with my marriage, and hopefully that will be the end of their meddling,” he says.
