Her Best Friend Fake Fiancé

by Kimberly Krey

  Camila gasped. Then groaned. “No…that’s not how that was supposed to go.”

  “Tell me about it,” Betzy said. “That was going to be our moment. Our I secretly love you and I hope you love me too so let’s spend the rest of our lives together moment.”

  “Those moments don’t really exist,” Rachel grumbled.

  “Oh, they do,” Camila said. “Sometimes they just take time.”

  Betzy shook her head, musing. Her belief was caught between that of the women by her side. “I think they exist. But maybe they don’t exist for everyone. Maybe some of us just have to settle for…the Marcus Creightons of the world.”

  Now it was Rachel’s turn to let out a groan.

  “That’s the guy you dated a while back?” Camila asked.

  Betzy nodded.

  “James told me about him.”

  “Yep. That was another mistake. But back then I was thinking it was meant to be, the way we hit it off when we first met. The way I was able to help him save his company. Until he took credit for that himself and pretty much dumped me before I could dump him.

  “So now I’m kind of over this idea of fate. And which one is it, anyway? You’re supposed to take fate into your own hands? Okay, I tried that. It was a nightmare. I was flying across the country in tears as the New Year came in. And if it’s waiting for fate to play out, don’t you think I’ve done that too? I mean, how long do I have to wait? Long enough to get on Slipper’s bound-to-be-spinsters list?”

  “I forgot about that,” Rachel said, shifting to sit upright beside her. “Did anyone text you back about the article?”

  Betzy shot a gaze across the room. She’d left her phone tucked into her handbag the entire evening. “I have no idea.”

  “Let’s find out,” Camila said as she climbed off the beanbag. Betzy did the same and, with the two girls at her heels, hurried over to the handbag.

  Camila held up a hand as they huddled around the device. “Now remember. If you’re on there, you’re going to take the high road.”

  Betzy nodded. They’d spent the first hour of the evening listing out all the ways she could do that very thing. “Right,” she agreed. “I’ll find platforms to talk about how outdated and cruel that term is. I’ll show the numbers we found about how the typical marrying age is on the rise. I’ll get onto talk shows, daytime news, whatever it takes.”

  The nodding was mutual, so Betzy swiped the screen to see that she had, in fact, received a text regarding the matter.

  Grandma Lo: A friend of mine has a friend whose son works for Slipper. He confirmed that you are listed in that article, Hon, and from what he says, it isn’t pretty. Time to gear up our defense.

  “That witch!” Rachel growled. Only she might not have actually said witch.

  Knots of anger tangled and twisted in Betzy’s gut. “I’m twenty-eight years old.”

  “Yes,” Camila said, “but the article said they’d name women who’d eventually become spinsters. Like they’d ever be able to tell.”

  Rachel shook her head. “It’s probably based on stupid statistics of other billionaire women. I’m sure a lot of them are alone since men would probably come in, mess everything up, and spend all their money until they were broke.”

  “Right,” Betzy said with a nod. Only she hadn’t paid attention to Rachel’s words. She was too busy mentally seeking a different route from the one she’d chosen to take.

  Who wanted to step onto talk shows and news shows and face the humiliation of explaining why there was possibly a man out there who would actually be willing to marry her one day? One who was interested in her and not her money.

  “I hate Daisy,” she spat, looking from one girl to the next. “I’m sorry, and I know I’m not supposed to say that about another human being—”

  “Yes, you are,” Rachel blurted. “When they’re as evil as her, you can hate them.”

  Betzy regretted saying it already. “I wish I was just…engaged already.”

  Camila gasped. “To Sawyer!” She screamed his name like it was a solution. “That’s it!”

  “Oh my gosh!” Rachel started jumping up and down. Camila joined in. “That’s it, that’s it. Just tell everyone that you’re engaged to Sawyer.”

  If Betzy’s eyes could jump out of her face from shock alone, they would. It felt as if they might. “That is not. Even. Possible.”

  “You said he usually comes back for the holidays,” Camila said. And she was the sensible one.

  “It’s not normal,” Betzy said.

  “He’ll totally go along with it,” Rachel assured. “Sawyer would do anything for you.”

  Nausea rolled through Betzy’s stomach at the mere idea of asking such a huge and ridiculous, not to mention embarrassing, favor. “I would never ever ask.”

  The two women squealed in unison, paying no mind to Betzy’s words. “They could stage this amazing proposal at some public place,” Camila said. “Oh, maybe your Christmas special of The Lion’s Den.”

  “Yes,” Rachael blurted. “And it has to go public like the night before the magazine comes out, so it makes the editor of Slipper Magazine look like a total idiot!”

  Betzy considered, for just a blink, what that would be like. The Lion’s Den, the family’s TV show designed to rescue multi-million dollar companies, was airing a live special this year…

  “No,” Betzy said before the stirs in her chest became something more. Revenge was not a good motivator. But what was? Dwelling on the fact that they just might be right about her? Wasn’t she entitled to a tiny bit of revenge?

  She pictured the kiss she’d seen in the elevator. The pain that seared through her at the sight. She couldn’t take another letdown. And if she dared ask Sawyer about something like this, she’d probably find out just what was happening in his love life. And she wasn’t sure she could take that.

  “Guys,” she blurted. “The high road, remember?”

  The chatter died down. The excitement, like a live force in the room, dropped too. Nose-dived was more like it.

  “Right,” Camila said with a sigh. “No, no, you’re right. The other way is better. Let’s stick to Plan A.”

  “I like Plan B better,” Rachel said with a humph.

  Betzy went over the list they’d made in her mind. “I’ll reach out, see when I can make a few appearances, and we’ll combat this ugliness with grace, the way Grandma Lo would.”

  “And finesse,” Camila added as she snatched the champagne off the counter. She poured a bit of the sparkling drink into the glasses nearby, handed one to both Betzy and Rachel in turn, and lifted her own glass toward the center. “Here’s to doing this with grace and finesse.”

  “With grace and finesse,” they repeated. “Cheers.”

  Chapter 4

  Sawyer stepped on the clutch, shifted into fifth gear, and relished the feel of the salty coastal breeze on his face. Boy, did he miss driving in LA. The bright sunlight, gorgeous palm trees, and the open road. This baby, a Lamborghini Veneno, made it all the better. The fact was, Sawyer kept two of his three cars back in LA; no point having them in New York, where he rarely drove.

  He’d taken a detour on his way from the private airport, driving past the Benton’s estate, where he’d lived a good portion of his life. Betzy had recently purchased a home of her own not too far from the family’s estate. He found himself picturing a different scenario where the two met. Where she didn’t know him as the close friend whose mom cleaned her home when she was young.

  On most days, Sawyer felt as if he’d achieved enough to be worthy of a girl like her. Heck, he’d made more than a splash in the industry.

  But then the doubts would creep in. Voices that said he’d never measure up. Memories that told him he’d fallen short before.

  A vision of his twelve-year-old self came to mind. There he was, boarding a bus, letter in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of his dad.

  After a whole lot of reluctance, Mom had given Sawyer the address so he
could send a letter. He lived just a few towns away. What she hadn’t expected was for Sawyer to dig into his race car bank, skip school, and catch a bus to go find the guy’s house himself.

  He’d gotten answers to all of his questions over the years. At least the ones Mom could answer.

  “Does my dad know about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know when my birthday is?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did he ever celebrate one with us?”

  “No, bud. He didn’t stick around long enough.”

  “Do you think he ever thinks about me?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he does.”

  “Then why doesn’t he ever come and see me? I bet he’d be surprised to see how tall I am.”

  “I bet so too.”

  “Does he like Mario Andretti too? I bet that’s where I get it from.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s exactly where you got it.”

  Mom often wore that same sad smile when answering. Back then, he figured she worried about Sawyer liking his dad more than her. In retrospect, he realized she was worried he’d get his heart broken by a man who wanted nothing to do with him, even if Sawyer was his own flesh and blood.

  It grew late before his father pulled into the drive. Good thing he’d told Mom he was going to a friends’ house for dinner after school.

  He sat behind a large boulder at the corner of the property, waiting as the sun moved closer to the horizon, reflecting on the envelope he’d tucked lovingly into the mailbox. To Jackson Coller.

  The letter didn’t say much. Just that Sawyer wanted to meet him one day. He’d suggested that—since they both liked fast cars—maybe they could go to the Daytona 500 together sometime.

  He included a recent school photo, and closed the letter with a few simple words.

  It’s okay if you don’t want to call or come see me right away. Just keep my picture. It has my number and address on it. Hope to see you soon.

  Love, your son Sawyer Kingsley.

  It was like looking at a movie star or something when he finally pulled up and got out of the car—a shiny black Camaro. It had taken everything in Sawyer not to run up to him and introduce himself right then. Ask to hop in his car and go for a spin.

  But he stayed in place, certain that, after getting his letter and seeing his picture and hearing about how much they had in common, his dad would call him. The picture would probably go on the fridge. Or maybe in his wallet. Some parents liked to do that.

  He watched, fidgeting with the laces of his high top shoes as the guy—a perfect stranger, really— pulled a stack of mail from the box. Sawyer’s letter sat right on top, and it must have gotten his attention too, because he pinned the others beneath his arm to tear it open.

  Sawyer watched for his reaction. If it was good, maybe he could come out from his hiding place and let him know he was there.

  But as he pulled out the letter, began reading it with narrowed eyes, deep, angry-looking lines creased his forehead. He flipped the letter over to look at the back, which was blank, before tugging the small wallet-sized photo from the envelope.

  He shook his head as he scrutinized it. Back and forth while the lines in his face grew deeper. Suddenly, a voice called out from the porch. A woman stood there. Tall with blond hair in a pink dress.

  “Jackson?”

  The man—his father, he’d reminded himself—darted a look over his shoulder and sandwiched the letter between his palms. “Yep?”

  “Did you pick up the groceries?”

  At once he crumpled the letter in his hands, along with the picture, the envelope, all of it. “Yeah, they’re in the trunk,” he mumbled.

  Sawyer held very still, eyes set on the man’s fist as he marched over to the curb, lifted the lid of a large trashcan, and dropped the crinkled wad right inside.

  Not the best day of his life, that was sure. A familiar ache sank into Sawyer’s chest at the recollection even still, but it was nothing compared to the pain he’d felt back then.

  All from a rejection so dark he hadn’t fully recovered. One that left him asking why he’d ever tried. Had he left the situation alone, not reached out to contact the man like he had, Sawyer could have told himself that perhaps his father really did care. That he was out there somewhere hoping to meet him one day.

  But it was too late for that.

  Driving into the city always did spark up the unpleasant memory, but Sawyer didn’t let himself think on it for long. He pulled his mind back to the present as he approached the house in Lake Sherwood.

  After a ridiculous amount of convincing, his stubborn mom had agreed to let him help her rebuild the home on the property of her dreams.

  Mom had bought the place all on her own, a lakeside house, no less. It just needed more improvement than she’d anticipated. He’d added a few perks for himself as well. A dock leading to the lake. A garage that held his speed boat and water toys, not to mention his third car—the Porsche. He’d drive that back to LA and keep it at the storage garage by the airport this time around.

  Tall trees lined the property, giving the home an added level of privacy. Sawyer turned his music down as he pulled into the long, narrow drive, eyeing the massive wrap-around porch for any signs of Mom. A smile pulled at his lips as he saw her hovered over a hanging plant, a watering can in hand. She paused to wave at him.

  Sawyer waved back and set his eyes on the stairs, waiting for Mario to enter the scene with his flopping tongue and flapping ears. A sliver of fear struck him in the pause. It wasn’t like the beagle to miss out on his homecoming. Perhaps the old dog was inside sleeping.

  He parked the car, climbed out, and popped the small trunk to grab his bag. “Where’s Mario?” he hollered.

  His mom reached into the potted flowers, pulling a few dead leaves out of the bunch and letting them drift to the ground. “He’s out here. Just curled up by the rocking chair. Give him a holler. He can’t hear so well anymore.”

  A sigh of relief pushed through Sawyer as he hiked the bag over one shoulder. “Mario, boy.” He whistled. “Come here, boy. I’m home.”

  At last, the little guy appeared at the top of the stairwell, tail wagging as he gave out a lone bark. He lumbered down a few steps, meeting Sawyer halfway before hefting back up to keep even with him.

  “Hi there, my boy.” Sawyer dropped his bag at the top of the stairs and reached out to rub both sides of his soft, furry neck beneath his collar. The dog’s velvety ears skittered over the back of his hands as he moved. “That’s my good boy.” He kissed the little guy on the head, then picked him up and carried him like a football into the house as Mom opened the screen door.

  “I’m chopped liver compared to Mario, huh, Mr. New York’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

  Sawyer chuckled as he flung his bag to the couch. “Never, Ma.” He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in for a hug. “I’m just not used to seeing this guy so mellow.” He wasn’t sure why his emotions were so close to the surface. The dog wasn’t the only one aging. Just how much longer could Sawyer stay away?

  Heaven knew he’d made enough arrangements in the LA area to match his success on the east coast. But the most crucial part of his plan was still missing.

  The savory aroma of Mom’s cooking became evident in his next breath. “Smells good,” he said.

  Mom grinned. “Made some creamy potato soup, fresh dinner rolls, and some fudge brownies for dessert.”

  “Sounds great.” Sawyer followed his mom through the dining area and into the kitchen. They caught up on a few things while Sawyer helped Mom set the table in the sunroom overlooking the water. The lake was serene today, a sheet of glass reflecting the nearby trees and all their beauty.

  “So, do you have plans to visit any of your old friends?” Mom asked as she dipped a roll into her soup. Sawyer knew who she had in mind. He’d been asking himself that very question for the last six months.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.


  Mom looked down at her bowl and shrugged. “May as well. You’re here.”

  Sawyer hadn’t realized it earlier, but she looked more youthful. She was young for a parent of someone his age. And she’d been told she’d pass as his sister over his mother any day.

  “You’re supposed to look older each year,” he said, “not younger. You doing something different?”

  She primped her hair a bit. “Oh, I had them put more golden tones in my hair, like I did when I was younger. Of course, I’m doing Botox. Going to the gym more often now that I’m not working so many hours.”

  Sawyer had always wondered when or if his mom would ever start dating again. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess maybe she was. “Huh,” he finally said, determined to revisit the topic later. “That’s one of the perks of working for yourself. I’m proud of what you’ve built up over the years with your business, Ma.”

  She grinned. “Thanks. Training housemaids and keeping track of their schedule beats cleaning house any day.”

  “I bet it does.” He often thought back on all the hard work she’d done, cleaning houses, starting her own business, and raising him all on her own. He’d listed those very things in a card while gifting her a cherry red Dodge Challenger, AKA the car of her dreams, on Mother’s Day. He’d known she’d need a list of reasons she should accept the car. Thankfully, it had worked.

  Just then his watch buzzed, letting him know he’d received a text. He’d left the connected phone in his bedroom upstairs, but one glance at the watch told him it was from Betzy.

  Mom must have seen it too, because suddenly she said something that was very unlike her. “Do you want to go get that? I don’t mind.”

  Had it been from anyone else, the text would be easy enough to delay. As it was, Sawyer was dying to see what Betzy had to say.

  “Okay,” he said with a nod. “I’ll bring out some more iced tea if you’d like too.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks, son.”

  Sawyer hurried through the house, up the stairs, and into the room where his phone laid on the bedside table. It buzzed a second time as he secured the device and swiped the screen.