I shift my eyes away from him, struggling to contain the hysterical giggle that bubbles up and crouches in my throat, ready to burst out. It’s a nervous habit of mine that shows up at very inconvenient moments. Like the time I was called to the principal’s office when some regents exams were missing—which I had zero to do with. And the time the mother superior at our church interrogated me about who sprayed obscene graffiti in the church playground. My friend did it, and I almost spilled because I was terrified of that nun. Instead, I laughed and got into a heap of misery. And there was the time I got pulled over for speeding and had only a learner’s permit. The state trooper did not find my compulsion to giggle charming to say the least.
Laughing in those kinds of tense situations is never helpful, so I do my best to suppress it. Like now. Instead, I fake-cough until I pull myself together. When I’m certain I’m not going to giggle in his face, I decide to maybe help him see some humor in the situation. Hiking my shoulders, I try for a contrite expression on my face. “Um… sorry?”
His lips go taut and his eyes narrow into near slits. “I’ll be very honest with you. I wanted to throttle both Richmond for asking for your opinion and Hammer for everything that went wrong. But most of all, it was you…” He halts, seeming to pull himself in check. After a deep breath, he resumes. “So… you could imagine my surprise when you turned up first at an executive lunch on the arm of a completely different man and then with yet another man at my mother’s fundraiser. It’s safe to say I was stupefied, a state in which I rarely find myself.”
His mother’s fundraiser?
Caroline Creed hosted that event. So is he the Creed son that Tara was gushing about? That handsome man in the photo that she showed me? I knew there was a chance of it because of the building address, but… it just seemed so unlikely. After all, the family owns massive amounts of real estate.
Damn, this is not good. He could ruin me.
I sit there chewing my cheek and make a conscious effort not to wring my hands.
“I was asking myself,” he continues, “what the hell was going on. Were you cheating on your husband? Or living a double life? Multiple personality? Then I saw the seating list had an entirely different name. At that point, I could probably rule out the cheating, but I still was confused. The look you had at the luncheon was very intentionally different from the first one—it seemed as if great care was taken to achieve the difference. I almost didn’t recognize you.
“Almost.”
He uncrosses one arm to wag his finger at me as if I am a naughty child. Which is sort of how he is treating me.
“Then at the fundraiser… That’s when I put the pieces together. I checked the names on the guest list—easy to do since they were again listed by table and seat assignment. And voila, another name yet.”
I tilt my head. Despite my nerves, I am damn curious how he ran me to ground so fast. “How did you trace it back to me?” My voice sounds squeaky.
He flips his hand dismissively, and my eyes follow his every move. I don’t want to but I can’t help myself. He’s riveting to watch. “I didn’t even have to call my security consultant. One of your clients gave you up. I won’t say which one—that wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”
I am so busted that there’s no point in even trying to defend myself. The thought of fleeing zips through my mind, but I am frozen to the spot. He leans down nearer toward me, closing the already-meager distance. I swear there is less than ten inches of air between our faces now. “The point is,” he says before taking a sip of water, “that impersonation is right on the line of legality. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I’m not impersonating anyone—not a real person,” I stammer out. “I’m not defrauding anyone for profit. I’m playing a role. In Japan what I do is a legitimate business.”
He leans closer. “Except this is not Japan, Ms. Jacobs. Here it is vastly unethical. Even if it’s not technically illegal, I could still expose you. Discretion is a vital part of what you do. But,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the desk, “that’s not why I called you here today.”
Thank God it’s not illegal because, to be honest, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Maybe some would see it as unethical but not me or I wouldn’t do it. I dismiss the little voice that harps at me, telling me he’s right—I am in the business of deceiving people.
“Then why did you,” I ask even though I’m afraid to hear the real reason. I’m afraid he will expose me as a fraud and ruin my little burgeoning business upon which my survival currently depends. Plus, the man is super intimidating, and I honestly think a smile would crack his face.
“Proposition, remember? Long story short, I want to hire you.”
“Hire me?” I repeat. I look at him quizzically, relaxing a tiny amount. Maybe, just maybe, this could work to my advantage rather than my ruin.
Suddenly, I see animation in his expression instead of ire. His eyes are dancing with what I could swear is amusement. But why? I swallow the ever-threatening lump in my throat. “For what?”
“To be my wife.”
Oh.
That’s right up my alley. I could totally do that. But… wait a sec. How can I pretend to be his wife? He’s famous. Wealthy. Probably the most eligible man in the entire city of Chicago—according to Tara anyway. People are bound to know his marital status. I sink back in my chair and try to think, something nearly impossible to do in this man’s presence.
Even if we could pull it off… Did I really want to get involved with a man of his stature—especially one as intimidating as he is—even on a purely professional basis? And by stature I don’t mean his height. I mean his wealth and position in Chicago society. He comes from a formidable family, and even being in his company temporarily makes me squirm.
I peek up at him. “Wouldn’t people know it was a charade? You’re very well-known, aren’t you? You are a Creed, correct?”
“I am. I guess I neglected to introduce myself. I’m Fletcher Creed. As to your question…” he shrugs his shoulders. “People get married. Even people named Creed. Who are they to know any differently?”
True, I suppose. Hmmm, how do I get out of this? The answer is suddenly before me like a beautiful desert mirage. I clear my throat. “Normally, I’d ask for specifics and give you my terms… but recently I’ve agreed to an exclusive arrangement with a regular client. That means I’m not in a position to take on any new clientele. I’m sorry.”
He leans in closer, his arms crossed again. My body instinctively rears back, but I’m trapped by my chair from retreating too much. I’m not liking his change in body language—it’s bordering on angry-CEO mode again. “Did you sign a contract already?”
Lie, Marley, lie, my inner voice begs me. Hurry. Tell him it’s signed, sealed, and delivered. When I peer at his face, I could see that my hesitation has cost me the option, damn it. He knows I haven’t yet signed by my reaction. How much could be said with a look? Even though I’d just met him, I could recognize the satisfaction I now see in those glittery eyes.
“I’ll assume that’s a no.” He rubs his chin.
Even his hands are beautiful, damn it. Masculine yet perfect. But looks aren’t everything. Especially not if you’re an arrogant dick.
“Don’t sign,” he warns me. “I need you to agree to an exclusive arrangement with me.”
Wait, what? “Exclusive?” I squeak. “I assumed it was a one-off thing.”
He stands up and walks back around the desk. Sits down again. Tilts his head. “Why would you assume that?”
Yeah, why would I? No real reason… but I did. I hitch my shoulder.
“No,” he answers. “This is a long-term assignment.”
A long-term assignment with Mr. Creed. A man who has wealth, power, influence… and he’s young and so… hot. Talk about having it all. He is currently using that clout to push me around. And I am letting him. I sit up in the chair, trying to find my spine.
“What kind of long-term assignment is it
exactly?” I think I keep my voice in a reasonable negotiating tone rather than a shrill squeal that only dogs could hear, but my fingers under the desk are busy twisting the hem of my skirt. I definitely don’t want him to see how agitated he makes me. It weakens my position.
When he finally laughs, it’s a luscious dark sound that makes things deep inside me clench like a fist. “I believe I just told you. I need you to be my wife.”
Fletcher Creed’s wife: the role of a lifetime. “I’m not sure I exactly understand, Mr. Creed. I could play your girlfriend long term, which is what I was planning to do for my other client. But how could I play your wife since you’re so well known here? I could see how it might work if it were for one or two days and out of town at that but long term? And in Chicago? It would be painfully obvious that it wasn’t true for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that we don’t live together.”
His expression is an exaggeration of innocence when he says, “Oh, but we would, Ms. Jacobs. Live together. You’d have to move in with me.”
What? Was he insane? “Move in with you? May I ask who it is we need to be fooling—is it one person or multiple people?”
“Specifically, one person, but it would involve fooling multiple people in the process.”
“Multiple people? As in…?”
Inhaling deeply, he stares at me with a penetrating gaze, looking like he is trying to decide on what to do. Finally, he says, “As in my family.”
“Your family?”
“Is there an echo in this room?” He swivels his head, glancing about the office.
Funny. I just cannot believe what he expects me to do. “But,” I add before he could speak again, “you’re a prominent man. Won’t people around you know you’re not actually married?”
“No, they’d also believe I got married.”
I can’t help frowning. I am confused. “Let me get this straight.” I twist my sterling rings on increasingly clammy fingers. “You want to hire me to be your wife, have me move in with you, and stay there long term.” He nods. “Like…” I rake my bottom teeth across my upper lip. “…how long is long term?”
He sighs, plainly reluctant to explain. But this is a major, massive thing he is asking of me—a complete stranger. I need to know everything so I know what I’m getting myself into. Assuming I agree, which is kind of a remote assumption at this point.
He’s saved by a knock on the door and an older woman, her silver hair cut short on one side, longer on the other, pokes her head in. “Mr. Creed, your noon appointment is here.”
He looks at his watch—a smartwatch that I would give my eyeteeth for, whatever eyeteeth are anyway. I’m sure I’d give them—as I surreptitiously glance at my phone that’s peeking out of my bag. Five of noon.
Frowning, he responds, “I can’t reschedule. All right, tell Peele I’ll be with him momentarily.”
“Yes, sir.”
Expectant eyes refocus on me. “Ms. Jacobs, is it possible you’re free for dinner this evening? We can continue our negotiations then without interruption.”
I’m eager to flee his intimidating presence yet frustrated because I’m realizing this man is not going to take no for an answer. But I can be stubborn too. “I’m supposed to meet with my client to sign the exclusive contract this evening. I can’t bail on him at this late hour.”
“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “Do. Not. Sign.”
My first reaction is to shrink back from his authority, but I catch myself. Who the hell does he think he is? Oh, that’s right. His family owns two-thirds of Chicago. More meekly than I plan to, I ask, “What time?”
He looks confused.
“Dinner,” I repeat. “What time tonight?”
And I actually get a smile, not a smirk, but one that looks real and electrifies his eyes, almost dazzling me into a stupor. “Eight?”
“Sounds okay. Where?”
“I’ll send a driver to your home.”
My loft is not registered under my real name, and I give it out to no one but my close friends. Not even the infamous Fletcher Creed. “No, I’d prefer to use my own transportation.”
“I’ll have my assistant text you the address.”
I rise to my feet. “Till tonight then.”
Right before I turn to leave, I remember he never answered my question. “You never did say, Mr. Creed. How long is long-term?”
He stands up and walks over toward me to escort me to the door. “About two years, give or take.”
12
Marley Jacobs
Two years?
Two years of living with him and pretending to be his wife? He is insane.
My stomach has been bitching and moaning since I walked out of his office earlier today. I drank chamomile tea and guzzled cups of Pepto-Bismol—a combination I cannot recommend. By six p.m. I’m finally feeling a little better. I drag myself off my comfy sofa where I’ve been curled up watching a comedy, snuggled in my giant purple fleece blanket.
I’ll say this. If a giant purple fleece blanket can’t help make you feel better, you’ve got big problems. Because… purple? Soft? And mine is big enough to crawl into and hide from the world. Other than lots of chocolate and moderate amounts of alcohol, nothing is more restorative.
But it’s time to climb out from my hidey hole. I have to get dressed, and I have no idea what to wear. I mean, how does one dress for a shakedown by a rich, arrogant SOB?
After a half hour of ransacking my closet, I ultimately settle on a flowy long navy skirt, wedge sandals, and a loose light-blue cotton shirt. It’s comfortable yet still a little dressy.
I then change into black trousers and a shell-pink shirt with cap sleeves and a scoop neckline, and black pumps. Then I tear that off and don a pair of jeans cuffed up to just under my knees, neutral espadrilles, and a white pirate shirt. Two minutes of mirror agonizing and it’s back to the navy skirt and wedge sandals, but I lose the blue shirt in favor of a fitted white tank top that goes down to my hips.
At eight o’clock on the nose the buzzer sounds in my apartment. My Uber.
I grab my keys, handbag, and phone, check my hair in the hallway mirror and rush out to the car. Unusual that the driver is waiting outside the car, which is a long sleek… Mercedes? For an Uber?
A large bald-as-a-cue-ball man with very little neck and dressed in black clothes stands near the rear door of the sedan that’s idling in front of the cut curb.
“Ms. Jacobs.”
I nod and force a smile, totally uncertain what’s going on, and he opens the back door for me. As soon as the doors close, the car becomes deathly silent, insulated from the noise outside by pure luxury. The driver turns his head to speak to me.
“Ms. Jacobs, I’ve been asked to check with you to see if it’s acceptable for you and Mr. Creed to continue your meeting at his home. He feels it would be more appropriate for a private conversation.”
“What? Wait a second. I called for an Uber. How is it…”
“Yes, Mr. Creed preferred that I drive you there and back.”
“How did he do that?”
My only response is an enigmatic smile. What. The. Fuck. Does he own Uber too?
“So to clarify… you’re the Uber driver? What I mean is that some poor schmo isn’t going to show up and wait for me here?”
“No, I’m the schmo. So… the house? Is that acceptable? You will be chaperoned by his house staff.”
“That’s fine,” I mutter, miffed that he was able to subvert my wishes so easily. And now he knows where I live. What a dick.
Then I start second-guessing myself. Is going to his house safe? Then again, this man is prominent so if anything happened to me, it would be very bad PR for him. True, he could roll up my body in the rug and do away with it with the help of the driver, but he doesn’t seem the type. I’ll just have to take a chance. I finally say as I whip out my cell phone and text both Tara and Cilla. “May I have the address please? The one he texted was a restaurant.”
Taking out my phone, I shoot off a text to both Tara and Priscilla, letting them know where I am going and with whom. I ignore the pings that almost immediately follow, but I can’t suppress the grin when I think of what must be going through their dirty little minds.
The car glides uptown and traffic slows us down, but it’s a pretty ride on Lake Shore Drive. What should be a seven-minute drive takes almost a half hour before we pull up in front of a beautiful greystone townhouse. I take a moment to admire the building—it is beautifully maintained with a lush garden in front that has subtle landscape lighting. In the gathering dusk it looks almost magical. Funny, but I was expecting some swanky modern penthouse apartment for a guy like him, not this tasteful home.
The driver gets out of the car and opens the door for me. As I step out, I can see the front door open, but it’s not Creed at the door. It’s yet another tall, heavily muscled dude, but at least this one’s smiling. The driver nods at me and gestures for me to approach the house.
I return the nod. “Thanks, Shaq.”
His eyes widen and for a fleeting moment he looks mad, and then his face splits into a huge grin. I smile back and shrug—that’s who he reminds me of.
As I approach the door, Mr. Gym-rat nods at me and says in a smooth voice, “Please come in, Ms. Jacobs. Mr. Creed was detained at the office, but he will be arriving home very shortly. May I get you a drink while you wait?”
“That sounds good, Mr….?”
He hesitates before answering me. “My friends call me Cru. Guess you could too.”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 7
