The wedding ceremony is being held at a small stone chapel on Fletcher’s friend’s estate in Winnetka. The small room is almost entirely lit by candles, and there is soft music playing. I feel as if I’m in a trance—I suppose it’s a combination of being excited, nervous, and sleep-deprived. Oh, and that Xanax. Fletcher looks mouthwateringly good. At moments during the service, I find myself wishing it was for real. No one can argue that Fletcher Creed is the catch of the century.
Standing next to him—this important and influential man—while wearing a wedding dress makes me feel even more like an impostor than I usually do. I sometimes wonder if everyone feels that way or is it just me? An impostor, though, is what I am and in so many definitions of the word.
I stammer through my wedding vows. Forcing myself to stare into his eyes, I can easily see amusement glittering within their depths. Glad he finds the whole thing so damn funny. I don’t.
He is a puzzle, though. Despite his ability to be charming, he’s often arrogant and brusque. He’s a man who always has security flocking around him though he seems more than capable of defending himself since he practices kickboxing and martial arts as well as lifts weights. Rick, the man I thought was merely his driver and Cru, the one I thought was his butler, are always hovering nearby. If we’re together, they are both near. If we split up, one follows Fletcher and one me. At all times. It began as soon as I agreed to the arrangement to become his wife. And there are others too—in the house, in his office, whenever we go out.
And there are others too. Like Hugo. Probably more I haven’t met yet.
At our wedding reception, I finally ask him about the constant security.
“Will you tell me why you have so much security staff around all of the time?”
“I need them,” he says simply.
I turn to stare, trying to find the truth in his impassive expression, but he gives nothing away. It’s both infuriating and impressive that I can never tell what he’s thinking or feeling. Then with the vague answers he gives me, how am I supposed to understand. Big men always surround him because he needs them? Why? My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why? Are you in danger?”
“Anyone who is affluent or in a public position is in danger. There are bad actors everywhere on the planet, even here.”
Really? I study his face. Did I imagine a fleeting look of quiet panic skidding cross his features? Maybe something happened to him in the past, but I don’t want to pry. He’ll tell me in his own good time if we ever grow close enough for confidences. Otherwise… whatever.
“So I need them now too?”
“I think so. Because someone could try to get to me through you.”
“Oh.”
He rakes his hand over his slicked-back hair—personally I prefer it dry and disheveled—and he shoots me a sidelong glance. “You never did tell me how your other client reacted to my underhanded theft of his companion-for-hire?”
I guess we’re changing the subject. “He wasn’t happy. I told him I would look into finding someone else who might fulfill his requirements.”
Fletcher arches his eyebrows. “Do you actually know of someone?”
I press my lips together. Do I look like someone without friends or resources? It’s not as if I’m a down-and-out prostitute, for God’s sake. My profession is perfectly respectable—for the most part—from my point of view. He has, however, made it abundantly clear that it’s not from his.
When the music starts Fletcher turns to me from the table where we’re seated. “I believe this song is ours,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand. My heart flutters inside my chest as I place my fingers in his hand and rise to my feet. Why didn’t I realize we’d be dancing? At least this is one area where I can shine. I’m not a ballroom dancer, but I’m trained in movement.
If someone asked me right after our dance what song it was we just danced to, I couldn’t say. I was bouncing back and forth between a nervous state and a swoon at my new husband’s good looks and swagger. I mean, really. The woman who gets him for real will be freaking lucky. And my next thought goes right down into the gutter, but I can’t help it. Is he great in bed? Well endowed?
I’ll just bet he is.
I’m no virgin, but my sexual experience is limited to two men. One was still a boy really who was awkward and clumsy. And the other one asked way too much of me and turned out to be evil incarnate.
But Cilla tells us stories of her conquests, and they sound nothing like my limited experiences. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. She describes multiple orgasms, huge dicks, broad shoulders to hang on or dig fingernails into as the pleasure became too intense—I mean, of course, I’m jealous. I want to try again, but I haven’t met the man.
Or have I?
What would it be like to go to bed with Fletcher Creed? He’s probably very experienced since he’s more than likely had tons of women. And he’s so good-looking that I get wet just sneaking peeks at him. Even admitting that to myself rushes blood to my cheeks, but it’s true. He turns me on like nothing and no one before him.
17
Marley Jacobs
When the song winds down, Fletcher smiles and gestures to our guests to join us. Cilla goes over to speak to the DJ, and then lively music starts up as she and some guy named Spiro take over the dance floor and begin to swing dance. As people start to drink, more hit the dance floor too.
Sitting out a few songs to drink my champagne, I spot Cilla grab Fletcher for a dance and a white-hot jealousy streaks up my spine, fast and furious. I quickly bring my glass to my lips for cover and try to remember that it’s Cilla, and she means me no harm. And anyway, he’s not really mine to covet, is he? I have to keep reminding myself of that inconvenient truth.
The next few hours go by in a blur of faces. Though we had about forty guests at the ceremony, the reception has a good deal more people. Like five times more, it seems like. I dance with lots of men, some pretty damn handsome, but none can hold a candle to Fletcher Creed.
Which sucks, to be honest.
My feet are reminding me that today has been long. I got up at seven a.m. and now it’s after midnight. I glance over at Fletcher. He’s sitting in a chair, surrounded by beautiful women—four of them. All are doing their darnedest to get his attention, pulling out every tool in the toolbox, and I can’t help but feel a stinging jealousy though I have to continually remind myself—something I fear I’ll have to do often—that I have no claim on him. Well, maybe I do legally but not in reality. I sidle over to him, and his gaze shifts to me. “Are you all right?” I whisper and without even realizing I’m doing it, my fingers reach over and run lightly over his chin. There is stubble there now, but it is deceptively silky. “Your beard grows so fast. You shaved just this morning, didn’t you?”
Though he doesn’t pull away, his eyes show surprise. Why? Because I touched him?
“I did,” he answers, rubbing his chin with his right hand where my hand was a second ago. “It grows way too fast. I have to shave every day, or I look villainous.”
“Well, there’s something to be said for villainous men. Women do like their bad boys, don’t they?”
His left brow rises. “Is that right? Do you like bad boys, Mrs. Creed?”
A small gasp escapes my mouth. Mrs. Creed. That is me now. He’s smiling broadly—no doubt at my reaction.
A real smile. From Fletcher Creed. Wow. That’s my wedding gift.
I twitch my shoulder nonchalantly. “I might.”
He playfully pulls me down onto his lap. I glance around, blushing, only to see four pairs of eyes glowering at me. He whispers in my ear, and it dawns on me that he’s doing it all on purpose to piss off these women. It is pretty outrageous that they’re flirting so shamelessly with him at his wedding reception. I don’t even know who they are. Our most important guest—Grandma Creed—stayed for the ceremony and about half of the reception and then left after giving us both a kiss and hug. Is it possible that she likes me?
Even thou
gh it looks like he’s whispering something romantic, it’s most decidedly not.
“The movers are coming on Monday, by the way.”
I pull my head back to look at him. “Movers?” I mouth.
“To get your things.”
“I’m leaving it all for Tara.”
“What about your personal effects?”
“I just need to bring my clothes and a few electronics and books. I don’t need movers for that.”
“Is it packed up?”
“Um… no?” At his frown, I add, also whispering, “It’s not like you gave me a whole lot of time.”
“Marley.” Cilla comes rushing over to me, practically dragging Tara behind her. When she sees Fletcher right beside me—well, under me—she curls her fingers, gesturing for me to come to her. The four would-be poachers get happy again as I move off his lap and walk toward my friends.
Cilla starts speaking fast. She does that when she’s drunk—even though conventional wisdom would tell you it would be the other way around. “Listen to me. You have to fuck him.”
“What? Who?”
“Tsk. Who do you think? Creed.”
“Why?”
“Why? Do you need when and how too? Because after having a dance with him, I’ve decided that he’s hot sex walking. Yes, he’s an arrogant bastard but so stupidly hot he’ll scald you—in a very good way. I want you to seduce him tonight, and call me and give me every dirty detail tomorrow as soon as you wake up.”
I rake my bottom teeth over my lip. “It’s not gonna happen, Cills. He never touches me and barely speaks to me unless we have to discuss something. How do you propose I pull off sex?”
“Oh please. Use your feminine wiles. Listen,” she says, grabbing my hands, “you have to make this marriage real. I’ve decided he’s the perfect husband for you.” She looks behind her at Tara, and Tara bobs her head enthusiastically. “See? Tara agrees. So…” She stabs her finger into me with each word. “Get. It. Done.”
“Okay, sure, but I think he has someone in his life—and if he does, I’m not going to interfere.”
“Why on earth would he marry you, a stranger, if he had someone? Isn’t she going to get a mite peeved over his marriage?”
“I don’t know what’s what yet, to be honest. I barely know the man. I have to feel my way around. Don’t worry. I promise to keep you both posted.”
Wagging her finger in my face, she says, “You do that. Even if you have to shout it across the Atlantic. Right, Tara?”
Tara nods drunkenly. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Before Cilla has a chance to say another syllable, Fletcher saunters over and gives us a look that lands somewhere between a glower and a fake smile. “Ready to go?” he asks me.
“Yes. Let me get my purse.”
We are headed to a luxury yacht to spend the next two days and nights. When Grandma Creed found out that Fletcher couldn’t take any time off from work, she insisted that he take me on this giant yacht that belongs to the family. We have a captain, chef, cleaning staff, and bartender. Of course, I would have preferred a trip somewhere exotic, but my new husband is not inclined to take me.
In the limo ride to the marina, we are both quiet, but it’s a relaxed silence—we’re both so tired. I know I can easily fall asleep right now, but I don’t want to. What if I snore or something? Better to keep the mystery going especially since we’re in a fake marriage. No sense letting the old guard down quite so soon. When we arrive at yacht club, I’m relieved that soon I can change into more comfortable clothes and go to bed.
The yacht is so freaking posh. Everything is gleaming wood, upholstered seating, golden recessed lighting with crystal lamps on each table.
“Marley…” He pauses. “Come with me.”
He leads me into a beautiful bedroom suite, closes the door, and gestures for me to take a seat. I avoid the bed and choose a luxurious chaise. He sits beside me. “I… we need to both sleep in here for appearances. I will sleep on this chair and you may have the bed. I’m sorry about that, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. No doubt Grandma is testing me.”
“Is she testing you, do you think? Or maybe she just wants us to have a nice wedding night.”
“Maybe… but you don’t know her like I do. She’s conniving and shrewd. Don’t let the pearls and sweet smile fool you, Anyway, I hope you don’t find the situation too uncomfortable.”
“No, I’m fine. We should get to know each other better anyway.” When I hear how my words came out, my face turns hot. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
He chuckles. “I know what you meant.” He scans the room. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you get ready first? The bath is right through that door. Then I’ll take a turn. It does seem ridiculous that we have to share when there are three other bedroom suites on this boat… but in case there are spies among us…”
A half hour later I’m in the very large bed with the satiny sheets and a brocade duvet, and Fletcher is on the chaise. He’s rather tall and his feet are hanging off the end and he can’t lie down fully. It’s silly when I have this giant bed to myself. “Fletcher,” I whisper, “why don’t you sleep in the bed with me? There’s so much room, and I promise not to take advantage of you.”
He doesn’t answer. Is he already asleep? It has been a long day. I swing my legs over to the side and get out of bed, padding over to the chaise. In the dark, I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. I lean down and jostle his shoulder. “Fletcher?”
A second later his tired voice says, “What is it?”
“Why don’t you get into the bed with me? There’s plenty of room, and I don’t mind in the least. It’s not a problem.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“I insist. If you are really uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed with me, I’ll sleep on the chaise. I’m smaller than you.”
He doesn’t answer, so I think he’s just going to ignore me, but I stand there anyway, waiting like a dork for some kind of response. When I get none, I slink back to bed, more than annoyed at the way he treats me. As soon as I’m under the covers and getting comfortable, I hear him get up slowly, walk to the bed, and slip under the covers on the vacant side. In the dimness of the room, lit by only two small nightlights, he offers me a slight smile. “Good night.”
For two nights we share the bed, and he never so much as comes near me, never mind touches me. I didn’t expect him to, of course, but I sort of hoped he’d make some overture of affection. Friendship would be nice. Fletcher Creed is a complete stranger to me—arrogant, sarcastic, and yes, even unfriendly—and yet I’m married to him and forced to live in his home. Granted, it’s not close quarters. His townhouse is large. Still, no one wants to live with a stranger regardless of how rich and attractive he might be. Fact is, those qualities might make it even less appealing since I know the whole deal is fake, and I have no part of him or his life.
When it is all said and done I realize I never had a chance of winning with him. Once he summoned me to his office that fateful day, I had unknowingly become part of his world, but only the part he’d decided I’d have. Silly me, I thought I’d actually had a choice, a decision in the matter, but now I realize that I never did. It was all an illusion, one carefully crafted by a master manipulator.
Poor me.
And yet he’d wanted to see me naked, asked me to shed my clothes for his inspection… so there’s got to be some interest, if only sexual.
What would he have done if I came to bed naked? Too late now, but if an opportunity presents itself in the future as it almost surely will…
I just might take it.
18
Marley Jacobs
As soon as we dock, Fletcher heads for his office via Uber and has his driver take me home—his home, of course. Seeing I’ve just been nearly three days with no one to talk to except at meals, the first thing I do is call Tara.
“I need you to get over here and encourage me.”
“Honeymoon a disappointment?”
“Major. Can you come over? Are you working yet?”
“Still free although I do have an interview later this week. I’m psyched about it.”
“Oh, that’s great. So… why don’t you head over here at around one?”
“Want me to check if Cilla can come too? She’s still in town.”
“Most definitely. Thanks, Tar. Love you.”
“Back at you. Shoot me the address again? I have it written down somewhere, but I never put it into my phone.”
“Yup. See you soon.”
Ten minutes later, Cru knocks on my bedroom door as I’m settling in. While we were away, someone went over to the loft to pack up my clothes and personal items and brought them here. “Yes?”
“Ms. Jacobs, you have a guest in the parlor.”
“Please call me Marley. And thanks, I’ll be right down.”
I’m wearing a tank top with no bra and thin yoga pants so I grab a long sweater to wrap over me. How the hell did Tara get here so quickly? I just hung up with her. I make my way downstairs and into the parlor.
It’s not Tara.
A woman with straight long brown hair wearing a tight red dress and high espadrille wedges is standing by the mantel looking at photos. She turns around as I walk in.
“Hello?” I say tentatively.
She smiles and there’s a stark contrast between her ultra-white teeth and deep scarlet lipstick. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
I’m racking my brain trying to figure out where I know her from. I can’t place her at all. “No, I’m sorry. Have we met?”
She makes a face. “I doubt we travel in the same circles. I just thought that Fletcher might have seen fit to mention me, seeing as how he’s mine.”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 11
