“Like a surrogate?” His voice was louder and bolder than he intended. His eyes traveled to Thomas and Eden Cross, who’d had their own surrogate crisis. The woman sitting with them was her sister, who could also be considered the devil incarnate if early stories rang true. Seeing her now smiling at their baby, she didn’t appear so evil, but then again, everything could be dressed up to look like something else. He was sitting across from a bride who had no groom.
“Yes, I guess. I need someone to marry me now. I need you to marry me now.”
Tilden pushed his chair back a few inches. Was it fight or flight, or maybe the air was getting thin in the diner? “You what?”
Maisey walked over with a pot of coffee in one hand and a cup in the other. “Would you like some?” Since he had a cup already, she was no doubt speaking to Goldie.
“No, I think she’s leaving.” He picked up his papers and shoved them into a nearby folder. “I’m leaving too. Can I get my check?”
“I’d love a cup, please.” She reached over and put her hand on his. “Hear me out.”
“No one here is selling what you’re looking for.”
Maisey looked between them. “We got cakes and eggs and the best waffles in town.” She stared at her wedding dress. “Looks like you need a fortifying meal.”
Tilden shook his head. “She’s not looking for crispy bacon. She wants a husband.”
Maisey almost dropped her pot of coffee. “I’ve never put that one on the menu. You think it would be a good seller?” She filled Goldie’s mug and walked away.
“I’m not your man. I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a dirty stick than get married.” He took a ten from his wallet and set it on the table. “Coffee is on me.”
He made to stand, but she gripped his hand and held it.
“Have you ever been so desperate that you’d do just about anything to get what you needed? I’m not talking about want here. I’m talking about a need as deep as hunger. In my case, it feels like starvation and homelessness. Ever been so alone that you had to rely on the kindness of strangers because you had no one else to depend on?”
His silent yes reverberated inside him. He’d been there. He was still there.
He sat down and leaned back in his chair. “What’s your story?”
“You got an hour?”
“Yeah, I’m sure I do, but it looks to me like you have a deadline.”
She picked up a napkin and tucked it into the bodice of her gown. “Can’t afford to stain it. I have to ship it back to the designer tomorrow. Definitely can’t afford to buy it.”
His eyes grew wide. “You rented your wedding gown?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, I borrowed it. I’d never spend a dime on anything so ridiculous.” She pointed to one crystal. “This little sparkly bit would pay for your breakfast.”
He laughed. “You call it ridiculous, but you’ll get married in it.”
She let out a squeak. He was certain it was supposed to be a growl, but it caught in her throat and the pitch veered north.
“It’s not a real marriage. Just a marriage of convenience.”
He picked up his coffee and sipped while he looked over the rim. He was good at reading people, but he couldn’t get a feel for this one.
“Not convenient for the groom or he’d be here. Seems rather troublesome to you at this point too.”
She appeared to wilt. Her body sagged into the pouf of the dress. “My life is an inconvenience, but we’re dealt the hand we’re dealt, and we have to live with it.”
“Or you can change it. What part of your life requires you to marry a stranger in a dress you wouldn’t wish on your best friend?”
Her cheeks blushed. “Oh, I’d wish this and a case of pox on Stephanie, who used to be my best friend.”
“Steal your groom?”
“No.” She shook her head until her tiara nearly slipped off. “She stole my Hippy Chic sponsorship.”
“You’re speaking a foreign language.”
Her phone rang and she groaned, holding up a finger when she answered. “Yes, I know I’m late. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She hung up and looked at him like a seal before the slaughter.
He didn’t know this woman, but he knew desperation when he saw it.
“I’m a social influencer who’s lost her ability to influence.” She pointed to her gown. “This was my last-ditch attempt to keep me out of the soup kitchen. I pimp products like this dress.” She pointed to her lips. “Or this God-awful dried-blood red lipstick. I tell people how fabulously emollient it is and how the color is perfect for a night out. It feels like I’ve walked through an arid desert and my lips split.” Her tongue slipped out to wet them.
“You lie to make money.”
She laughed. “We all lie. Show me someone you consider honest, and I’ll show you a fraud. Life isn’t about the people, it’s about the package.”
There was some truth to her statement. Not everyone was forthright and honest, but she was wrong. Life was about the people.
“It’s different if you lie to yourself as opposed to lying to others.”
She shrugged. “Are you willing to help me lie? I need a temporary groom. We can get the marriage annulled next week for all I care.”
She glanced down at the bills on the table.
“I’m not your man.” He pointed between them. “Who would believe you’d marry someone like me?”
“Who would believe I’d have to marry someone at all? This wasn’t part of my long-range plan, but sadly there isn’t enough filler or Botox to keep me in business. At twenty-six I’m all washed up.”
He lifted a brow. She was beautiful in that Hollywood airbrushed way, but no way was she twenty-six. “Another lie?”
She smiled a warm and genuine smile. “That’s a secret.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Of course. A secret is an untold truth. A lie is pure fabrication. There is a difference, a secret cannot be a lie because it’s kept.”
“But you just told me you’re twenty-six, which I believe is a lie.”
“You would be correct, but my true age is a secret.”
“You make my head spin.”
“What do you say, can we get hitched?”
“Sorry, darlin’, I’m not the marrying type. Isn’t there another solution? No one would know if you were married or not.”
“It’s about the photos.” She popped up. “What about this? You take a few photos with me and we’ll call it a day.”
He cocked his head. “That’s still a lie.”
“Not if we say nothing. What if I keep your face out of the photo?” She moved to the right to see his pants. “Perfect. You’re wearing black.”
“Thought this was a wedding, not a funeral.”
“Depends on how you answer.” She slid the five one-hundred-dollar bills across the table. “They’re yours if you agree to take a couple of pictures with me.”
“You’ll pay me five hundred dollars to take a picture?” He could use the money. He had at least a dozen soil samples that needed testing.
“Five hundred to take three pictures.”
He plucked two of the bills from the pile. “I’ll take two hundred for one.”
He could see her thinking about his offer. It wasn’t what she wanted, but what she’d get.
“Deal.” She hopped up from her chair, grabbed the remaining three bills from the table and headed for the door. “You coming, honey?”
She breezed outside.
Tilden followed her.
All eyes were on him as he disappeared through the diner’s glass door.
Goldie was already speaking to the limo driver, who was pulling off his jacket shirt and tie. She shoved a hundred into his pants pocket, then handed his clothes over.
“You want me to change into these?”
“I can’t very well fake marry a man in a red flannel. It clashes with my lipstick.” She climbed into the car and patted the se
at next to her. “Come on in. I’ll help you get ready.”
He did as she asked, and the limousine started down the road. He didn’t know why he wanted to help her, but he did. It could have been because all his life, he’d had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
She went to work unbuttoning his shirt as if they’d been together forever. Her hands pushed the material back and off his shoulders. Her eyes grew big.
“Wow, you’re well put together.”
“I work outdoors.”
“It suits you, along with that deep voice.” She shook her head and went about getting him dressed again. Thankfully, the driver was on the plumper side.
When she had Tilden buttoned up and ready to go, she smiled. “You dress up well, too. Who would have thought?”
“Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
Her nose scrunched. “Books … why bother when you can watch the movie?”
He laughed. “I’ve got nothing to say to that.”
She tugged at his tie and looked into his eyes. “I’ve got something to say.” She placed her lips against his cheek. “Thank you for saving me today.”
He straightened her crooked tiara and tugged the napkin she’d tucked into the neckline of her dress.
“You’ll land on your feet.” He believed she would. Goldie Sutherland wasn’t who she appeared to be. He knew she was more, but was more always better?
“I hope so, but when I land, I pray it’s in more comfortable shoes.”
She knocked on the window and the driver opened the door.
“Let’s do this.”
Hand in hand, she walked him to where a photographer and a man in black waited by the tree.
She pulled the person in charge of the nuptials aside and whispered something to him before she pressed a bill into his palm.
She flagged Tilden over.
“Can we get one shot with the minister?” She looked toward the photographer. “He’s camera shy, please don’t get a direct shot of his face.”
They were turned away when the click of the shutter filled the air. She squeezed his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t know she’d take those.”
“Let’s give her a good shot. How about a kiss? One your people will talk about for days.”
When she turned to face him, he cupped her cheeks and went for it. His lips pressed against hers. He didn’t expect her to return the kiss, but when her lips parted and her tongue darted out to taste him, he didn’t hold back. His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her to him to deepen it.
She’d paid him two hundred dollars, and he wanted to make sure he delivered her money’s worth. When he pulled back, she stared up at him. The kiss glistened on her lips.
“You kissed me.”
He nodded. “I did and no lying, you enjoyed it.”
She covered her kiss-swollen lips. “A girl never tells.”
He winked at her. “We’ll keep that our secret.” He turned to the photographer. “Did you get that shot?”
She fanned her face. “Boy, did I get it.”
Tilden had wood deliveries for the afternoon. Winter was here and people were still stocking up.
“I’ve got to go. You take care of yourself, okay?” He turned back to the limousine to get his clothes. The poor driver leaned against the rear quarter panel wearing black slacks and a white T-shirt. It was fairly warm for a January day, but the air was still brisk.
“Tilden,” Goldie called. “You’re the best.”
He whipped around to face her. “That’s a secret too. If you’re ever in town again, look me up and tell me how it all panned out for you.”
The feral man inside him wanted to race back and kiss her again. The methodical planner told him it was time to put his two hundred dollars to use. He almost felt guilty taking her money and the kiss.
She was in the wrong business. Her kisses were worth more than any affiliate income a tube of lipstick could provide. Goldie Sutherland had million-dollar lips.
Chapter Three
Halfway through the drive back to Denver, Goldie’s email lit up the screen. The photographer had sent her the one shot that would save her life along with the other fifty that would go a ways in filling her bank account.
Pictures of herself taken after Tilden left. Closeups of the lipstick, the tiara, the false lashes, the eyeshadow, the dress, and the heels. She was a walking billboard down to the nail polish and diamond on her ring finger.
She looked at the picture of the kiss. Wow, what a kiss. Who would have thought a bear of a man could pucker up like that? Funny thing was, she would have never given him a second glance on an average day and now she wondered if she’d be able to get him out of her mind.
His presence reinforced the idea that perception was based on the laws of supply and demand. Was the kiss twice as sweet because he’d been kind enough to help her for the paltry sum of two hundred dollars?
Her mind wandered again to the searing hot smooch. Had he taken it from her? He’d warned her. He started out slow and moved in for a deeper, more thorough kiss. Was that for her benefit or his? Was the laying on of lips his way of demanding a bonus for the job he didn’t want but had completed?
Mr. Cool was a mystery. She smiled to herself and posted to her social media accounts.
Goldie got married.
She uploaded the picture that only showed the side of Tilden’s face. His rugged beard was the focal point, at least to her. She’d never been a fan of facial hair. Now that she’d had that scruffy but soft feel against her cheeks, she could see the attraction. It felt better than the sandpaper-like material of the dress chafing her legs.
Her first response to the pic came in and gave her an idea. The follower asked who the man was. Goldie smiled. She simply put he was her little secret and after, she typed, #who’sTilden.
She kept her eyes on the screen, hoping to see her following skyrocket. Praying the ruse would pay off, but only a trickle of responses came in. Most weren’t commenting on the products but her lack of transparency.
One person even had the audacity to accuse her of faking her marriage. Who would do that? It didn’t matter that the insinuation was accurate, but why would the average person set up such an elaborate scheme? People were so untrusting these days.
She lowered the privacy screen to the driver.
“Ted, right?” she asked the man.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You saw my husband. Didn’t it appear like a real wedding photo?”
He glanced at her from the rearview mirror. “I’m not an expert.”
She raised her hand and pointed to her phone. “Neither is this person, but she’s accusing me of setting up a shoot.”
The poor man’s brow shot so high, she thought it would leap off his face.
“Umm, it was a set-up, right? I mean, you basically kidnapped the man from the diner. You made him wear my clothes, and you took one real photo with him. I could see how some people might question that.”
In her desperation, she never considered how fifty photos of the bride would look compared to one photo of the happy couple.
She pulled up the picture again and inspected it. It was hot. The way his hands cupped her cheeks. The thrust of his hips into the billowing tulle of her dress. The stretch of the almost too small jacket across his shoulders. How could anyone question the passion in that picture?
She zeroed in on his left hand. The one that faced the camera.
“Damn it.”
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Holy mother of Mylanta.”
“Ma’am?”
“Stop calling me ma’am. I’m Goldie.” She tugged off the tiara and tossed it across the floor. The shoes went next. In a dramatic near swoon, she collapsed on the long black leather bench, a cloud of white fabric floating around her like a gaseous waste. “No ring.”
“Excuse me?”
“He didn’t have a ring.”
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” The
window went up.
When she tried to lower it again, it stayed put, as if the driver had child-locked her inside.
Sprawled on her back, she pulled her phone to her face and looked for additional tells.
Thankfully, Tilden wore black pants that were the exact color of the jacket, but when she got down to his shoes, she wanted to weep.
She had no idea what a person would call them. Hiking boots? Trailhead shoes? Big brown monstrosities with thick laces and hooks. The kind she imagined someone climbing Mount Everest would wear.
She was a person trained to watch the details, and she’d let two major things fall through the cracks.
Her groom was missing a ring, and he looked like he was ready to dash into the mountains to avoid her.
“Oh, holy hotcakes. This will never do.”
She sent out an SOS to a few people she knew. Friends weren’t something she had in this industry. It was a term used to describe someone being nice to you to get something they wanted.
The last time she had a bonafide friend was in high school and even then, as soon as “Growing Up Goldie” went off the air, her circle of friends dwindled. Everyone wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.
Elaine replied first.
Do you need a fire extinguisher?
That’s exactly what she needed. Leave it to her number one rival to know.
No, just hoping you could share my wedding photo.
Goldie watched the three dots flash and scroll. Stall. Flash and scroll.
Sorry babe, that was news five minutes ago, but I love the Where’s Waldo spinoff. You sure know how to hook them and reel them in. All two of them.
She knew she couldn’t pull one over Elaine’s eyes. She’d been in the business too long. She was the original Kardashian.
His name is Tilden.
Again, there were dots and stalls.
Who’s Tilden?
Goldie sat up and laughed. That was the question. For all she knew, he was an indigent bootlegger.
That’s the question everyone will be asking. Are you sure you don’t want in on it?
A lifetime passed before she got an answer.
Fine. I posted, but you better be prepared to answer some questions about the man. If this gets attention, inquiring minds will want to know.
One Hundred Secrets (An Aspen Cove Romance Book 10) Page 2
