Fake It Real: A Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Zahra Girard

  The sun sets.

  A green road sign says Welcome to Eureka.

  We drive on.

  Another sign — this one a faded billboard with more than one missing letter — The Redwood Resort.

  We pull into their parking lot and have no trouble finding a space right in front of the main office.

  Julian gets off the bike and then helps me dismount.

  My body is thrumming. My feet are unsteady. My mind is preoccupied, stuck on the feeling of him so close to me. I feel like I’m caught in some humming space between an orgasm and an adrenaline dump.

  It takes me a second to realize this hotel we’re staying at is not the finest of establishments.

  “Here?” I say.

  I think my tongue is even buzzing. And my toes are numb.

  He nods. “Low profile, remember?”

  I give him a look. “Right, but, does that mean low class, too?”

  “Jeez, one day as my fiance and you’re already giving me the third degree?” He says, and I roll my eyes at him. “I’ve ridden through here many times, and there isn’t much in the way of options this part of the state. Besides, it’s only for one night.”

  “I’m just kind of surprised you don’t have some friend with a mansion around here. Don’t you rich people always travel in style?”

  “Would I prefer a nice hotel, with free-flowing beer and room service from a Michelin-starred chef? Fuck yes. But I’m not going to throw a fit if that’s not an option. Also, riding a bike like a 90 year old arthritic, just to keep from pulling all my stitches loose is fucking hard.”

  My eyes widen. I’d forgotten about his stitches in the vibrating and terrifying madness of the ride here. I’m glad I packed some of my medical things.

  “Ok, fine,” I admit. “Let’s go inside.”

  I suck it up and follow him. The lobby doesn’t do much to allay my fears that this place is going to be terrible.

  “Can I help you?” the manager says in a voice that sounds as impossibly lazy as he looks.

  “One room for the night. Whatever passes for your honeymoon suite,” Julian says, winking at me over his shoulder.

  I roll my eyes. So does the manager.

  He slaps a key on the table, Julian pays, and we head to our room, which might have been an impressive suite back in the 1960’s. But I’d be willing to bet that’s probably the last time this room was cleaned.

  “Stay here,” he says, tossing his bags on the bed. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

  He leaves almost before his bags hit the bed, and I’m left in the dusty, musty room all alone. All I have is a backpack with a dress, a toothbrush, a first aid kid, and some other sundries.

  I poke around the room a bit, flip on the TV, and then sniff.

  Something stinks.

  I sniff again. It smells like used gym socks that’ve been baking in the sun for hours upon hours.

  It’s me.

  “Yech,” I say as I take a more in-depth sniff.

  I’m used to funny smells. Working with animals will do that to you. But even I have to admit I’m a little rank.

  I strip down and toss my smelly clothes to the floor. It’s time for a shower. I have miles and miles to wash off.

  Even though the bathroom shows it’s age — the coloring, the linoleum floor with some kind of pattern on it that looks like it was a grandmother’s discarded knitting project — the shower feels incredible and the water pressure is so good it’s got to be illegal.

  Suds carry the grime away and the heat relaxes muscles I’ve kept tensed for hours and my mind wanders in water-propelled bliss.

  I start picturing the ‘after’ of this little adventure with Julian and it feels good seeing myself in my mind’s eye coming back to my anonymous life with enough money to be secure for years.

  That’s all I want. Ownership of myself. I’ll have control of my own future, and all I’ve got to do is give myself away for a little while. Play some role for the cocksure rich guy.

  Though the thought of that sticks like a bone in my throat.

  I’ve fought so hard to be my own person, to have my own business, to make my life my own, that I’m not going to give that all up even if it is for play.

  Right now, our relationship — even if it is just a business one — is so one-sided. Julian Stone isn’t afraid to knife my car just to control me. He expects that, because he’s paid me, he owns me.

  If I’m going to make it through this, I’m going to need to take some control somehow, to make sure that whatever happens, I have a say.

  I smile as I wash dirt out of my hair.

  I’ve got an idea, I know just how to wrap him around my finger. And the inspiration comes from one of my best friends, a woman who has no trouble turning men into menservants. All I need to do is ask myself: what would Alanna Greco do?

  Julian Stone isn’t going to know what’s hit him.

  Chapter Six

  Julian

  Pizza and beer. One of the most perfect pairs, period. It doesn’t matter how much money you make, if you’re a CEO or a nobody, you can’t deny that combinations like this are fucking brilliant.

  I’ve got both in hand when I get back to the hotel room. My stomach is growling and I’m ready for an easy night in after a long day.

  “Melody,” I call out as I step inside.

  No answer.

  I try again, “Melody.”

  There’s not many places she could hide, and she doesn’t really strike me as the type to play games. The bathroom door’s a bit ajar and I knock on it, opening it a bit more.

  “Hey,” comes a startled shout and then there’s sloshing and spraying from the shower as she pulls the curtain closed.

  She doesn’t do a very good job.

  I get a tempting glimpse of soaked perfection, a hint of a smooth leg, rivulets of water trailing from the curves of her breasts across her abdomen and between her legs. She’s a beautiful maelstrom in a bathtub and I’d be happy to drown in her.

  My cock is surging in my pants, straining against my jeans as I think about all the possibilities that wait for me just inside the doorway.

  “Privacy, please,” she says, reaching out of the shower to slam the door in my face.

  Did she wink at me?

  I ignore it and remind myself that this is just business. That’s all. We’re going to eat pizza, drink some beers, and just get some sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.

  “I’ve got food. Come out when you’re ready.”

  I stay in my place by the door, listening to the running water, to the skittering of the shower curtain along it’s metal rack, to the shuffling of a coarse cotton towel sliding over her body.

  I can’t even see her right now, but still, she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.

  The door opens and she’s wearing one of those flimsy hotel robes that ends just above her knees. Whatever knot she’s tied is hardly doing it’s job and the front looks ready to come undone.

  “My clothes really need a wash,” she says with a sheepish smile on her face. “Which is sort of what I should have expected after spending a day fear-sweating.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  She takes a beer and a slice of pizza and sits down on the edge of the bed, causing the edge of her robe to rise up high on her thighs, giving me an incredible view.

  Jesus.

  “Please,” she says, opening the beer and taking a long drink. “I felt like I was going to die at least a dozen times.”

  “You’re not going to die. Remember what we agreed on? Trust me.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and stretches, lifting her tits upwards and forwards, and they’re straining at the threadbare fabric of her robe. My cock is about to burst, pressing against my jeans and screaming to come out. My brain is short-circuiting at the raw heat that is emanating from every exposed inch of her. “Call me a skeptic for not trusting the word of the famously reckless Julian Stone.”

  There’s t
his little smile on her face and this look in her eyes that wasn’t there when I left. What the hell has gotten into her?

  “If you want out, there’s a bus terminal in town, I can drop you off there tomorrow. Hell, I’ll even give you fare.”

  She frowns. Even her frowns are sexy.

  “That’s not what I want at all. I just want to know a little bit more about what I’m getting in to,” she looks back over her shoulder and trails her fingertips along the duvet in this seductively slow way. “And I want to know a little more about who I’m getting into bed with.”

  I blink. So that’s her game.

  Well, I’m happy to play along if it keeps her showing off her body. And nothing says I can’t have a little fun of my own.

  I take my shirt off, watching her out of the corner of my eye and fighting back a grin as she flat out stares. They always do that. Every single time. And I’ll never get tired of it.

  The bed-springs squeak as I sit down next to her, and I think she squeaks, too. I pop the top on my own beer and taking a long drink of some dark stout.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know all about you,” she says, in the most over-the-top, breathy Marilyn Monroe-type voice I’ve ever heard. “All about us. Our relationship.”

  She slides closer; the only thing separating the curve of her hip from my touch is some worn terrycloth that’s so insubstantial it might as well not be there.

  I take a breath.

  This is more than just blue balls. At the rate she’s going, my whole body will blue before the night’s over.

  “Fine. Let’s invent our relationship. We’re engaged, we’re wildly in love, we’re mad for each other’s bodies,” she says, as her eyes flash and she shifts a little and I can’t help picturing her without that robe, with all of her bare for me to explore. “So, where did we meet?”

  I think for a second. I’ve got to pick somewhere believable, and also somewhere where the more conservative execs on the board at Stone Capital have rarely been. “Have you ever been to Portland?”

  “I live in a small town on the Oregon coast and every once in a while I crave civilization and buying things. Of course I’ve been to Portland.”

  Time to put her off balance.

  “Then, I’m sure you know that Portland is the strip club capital of the United States. Houston’s got a few more overall, but Houston’s also four times as large as Portland. Per Capita, Portland beats all challengers.”

  Her expression changes, from searingly-sexy to slightly squeamish. “And?”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “No. Just, no.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say. I knew when I suggested it, that it wouldn’t fly. Mainly I just wanted to see Melody get angry. There’s something about the way her eyes flash that makes my blood run hot. “You’re beautiful and if you got it into your head to try it, I’m sure you could twist any man you wanted right around your finger. That’s one of the reasons I asked you for your help — it’d be insane for me to be engaged to anyone who isn’t a knockout.”

  She adjusts her robe, blushing, trying to cover up, and it does absolutely nothing. If anything, it shows off even more of her legs. That robe of hers is the most purpose-less robe in existence.

  “Thank you, but, no. Flattery won’t change my mind. I’m not going to be a stripper.”

  I put my hand on her leg and lean in close to her ear. “I think you’d like it. This is your chance to live as someone completely different, indulging in those dirty fantasies you were too afraid to touch before.”

  I pinch the knot of her robe with my fingers and she does nothing to stop me. If anything, her eyes are daring me to try — one tug is all it’d take and she isn’t backing down from my challenge.

  Then, she laughs.

  “So, what? We say my name is Candy, or Amber, or Jade, and…?”

  “You’re a professional woman by day, you volunteer, and you’re stripper with a heart of gold by night.”

  She snorts and then shoves me lightly. “Right. Wrong trope, genius. It’s hooker with a heart of gold.”

  “If you want to be a hooker, you can be a hooker. There’s a whole world of possibilities is open to you.”

  “My parents would be so proud. Oh, I’m tingling at all the options open to me: stripper, hooker, why, maybe I’ll have an addiction, too. I hear coke can be pretty fun,” her eyes roll slowly in this way that’s the definition of disdain. “Besides, what does that say about you? Dating hookers? I thought a wealthy stud like you wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

  She’s not backing down. But then, neither am I.

  I grew up with two brothers, I’m used to pointless fights.

  “Never have, never will,” I say, my lips turning up in a smile. “Women throw themselves at me, and there’s nothing better than having a beautiful woman tear your sheets to shreds because she’s having such a good time she’s forgot how her fingers work. Would you like me to show you?”

  A tempting smile’s back on her face and the hem of her robe slides a little higher. The heat radiating off her is palpable — just like her sarcasm. “Is that so? As your fiance, am I expected to scream to the high heavens about your sexual prowess? The shaking orgasms bestowed upon me by your thunderous penis?”

  “Loudly and often. Pretty much every time you’re interviewed.”

  “Sure,” she says, nodding, then she holds up her hand like she’s got a microphone and she’s interviewing herself. “I can picture it now: ‘Ms. Candy, what are your thoughts on your upcoming marriage to Mr. Stone?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ms. Reporter from the LA Times, honestly, I’m too busy thinking about my fiance’s giant magic penis and the countless orgasms it gives to have an opinion on anything else. By the way, did I mention how much I love his penis?’”

  “Yes. Exactly that,” I say. “And you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “I wouldn’t be the first what? The first woman to praise your magic dick, or the first woman you’ve dated to be so empty-headed she can’t form a complete thought? Because, to be quite honest, maybe those two are related,” she says. Then, reaching out slowly, she runs the tips of her fingers across my chest and her voice suddenly turns sultry, the words caressing the most heated parts of me. “Maybe you need a more discerning critic?”

  Where did this woman come from? How can she go from venomous to sensuous so quickly?

  I shrug, feeling frustration building inside me. “Are we just fucking around here, or what?”

  She drops the games, her look changes, and she pulls her robe tighter around her body. This time she does a good enough job that she’s actually covered.

  “Tonight’s our last night before this whole whatever-the-hell-it-is starts. And I can tell you’re a driven man — you wouldn’t be doing this craziness if you weren’t. But don’t forget, I’m a person. I might be helping you in exchange for money, I might be playing along, but that doesn’t change who I am. And the second you start playing games without respecting me, one or both of us is going to get hurt.”

  I nod. It’s such a one-eighty from her that I think I might have whiplash. “Of course.”

  There’s this steely look in her eyes. “Don’t forget, Julian, you might’ve bought me, but you don’t own me. And I can cut apart your story with just a few words.”

  It gets quiet between us and I ponder my beer.

  Most people don’t talk back to me; they either know my reputation, or they know I have enough money to buy them many times over.

  I’ve got to hand it to her. She’s earned my respect tonight. And all while looking beyond sexy in some worn-out hotel bathrobe.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Trust has got to go both ways. And it will.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” she says, smiling. It’s friendly, warm, and she taps her beer bottle to mine. “Here’s to a beautiful partnership and a successful con.”

  She isn’t just some trinket for me to show off, she’s m
y partner in crime.

  “So, what now?” I say, cracking open another beer and handing it to her, then getting one for myself.

  She leans against me, casually. “Well, exhausted as I might be — which I am, because I spent all day riding with some man who drives like a geriatric Evel Knievel — my fiance sprung for the honeymoon suite, which, if that sign on the front desk is correct, means we have HBO. Want to watch a movie?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  I grab the remote, flip on the TV, and sit back down. I hardly pay attention to what’s on the screen. My eyes are on her. She’s got her head resting on my shoulder, her eyes are half-closed, and there’s this dazed smile on her face as she gazes sleepily at the screen.

  This is probably the first time in my life where I’ve been in the same bed with a stunning woman, nearly naked, and not focused on how loud I can make her scream my name.

  Not that I wouldn’t. But right now, I’m content just being with her. It feels like I have a partner, someone that I can really count on to help me make this crazy ambition of stealing the family business come true.

  Melody lets out this little sigh and leans into me further. She’s asleep.

  I settle in and watch the movie — I won’t be moving for a while and I couldn’t be happier about it.

  Chapter Seven

  Melody

  “Time to get up,” I say. “Check-out time’s in half an hour. So, unless you want to pay for another night here — which, by the way, definitely ends our engagement — we need to get moving.”

  Julian stirs from his place on the bed. Shirtless, jeans still on, his hair extremely ruffled but somehow still fantastic, he blinks at me sleepily.

  How can a man look so handsome waking up in such a mess and in a hotel room like this?

  I’m wearing yesterdays clothes, which I hand-washed in the tub this morning using shampoo from one of the little bottles and dried — mostly successfully — using the hair dryer.

  But despite all that, I’m feeling ok. I slept well and I woke up this morning wrapped in blankets.