My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  “A steady plus one?” Violet asks, not putting one and one together to make two yet. Fuck, how strong are those drinks? She’s usually quick on the uptake.

  Finally, her eyes narrow, flicking past me to Abi, who’s spinning herself dizzy at Kaede’s direction.

  “Oh, my God! Abi set this up! That bitch. I’m going to kill her.”

  I place my hand on her thigh, keeping her in her seat, but I damn near hiss at the heat coming off her skin and wonder if she’s that hot all over. “Wait. You’re right, but think this through. You need a fake husband. I need a fake girlfriend. Maybe we can meet in the middle and somehow make this work for both of us.”

  “I need to get married, Ross, and you’re looking for arm candy. That isn’t equal at all. There’s no middle ground there.”

  She’s not lying. Those are light years apart. And if we go with the bigger of the two, a wedding and short-term marriage, there’s the issue of the fallout when we split. There won’t be any quiet and easy way to do that, not with my parents who’ll nuclear fucking bomb the whole thing and probably end up hating either Violet or me. The long-term repercussions could be catastrophic since she’s been like another daughter to them.

  And there’s the whole issue of actually faking a relationship with Violet. I try to imagine what that looks like, feels like, and I hate to admit it, but parts of me think it sounds pretty damn good given the way she looks in this red dress. Still, I’m uncomfortable with the whole idea because I definitely had no plans to get married anytime soon.

  “Still, maybe we can work something out?” I ask suddenly. “Let’s be honest, Vi. You’d be the perfect fake girlfriend.”

  “And you’d make a decent fake husband,” Violet retorts with a sudden laugh. “Talk about damning with faint praise. Fake girlfriend . . . thought you were smooth, Ross.”

  The dig feels normal, just like we always tease even though things might never be the same after this conversation, whether we go through with the craziness or not.

  The waitress comes back with another mimosa and takes Vi’s now empty glass. “I’m just trying to keep it clear, Vi. If I brought some rando home, there’d be so many questions. Us? We can tell the truth . . . mostly. Friends for years and then one night, everything changed.” I gesture to the club around us, implying that this is that night.

  “Friends for years is a stretch. We’re frenemies at best,” Violet replies, but she leans back and turns her body toward me, letting me know that she’s at least considering this. “So, what does being your arm candy entail? And I’m warning you, if you say one word about a ball gag to keep me quiet, I’ll rip your balls from your body.”

  She says it with a smile, like it’s a sweet promise. If it didn’t sound so violent, I’d probably be picturing her touching me, fondling me, teasing me, sucking me . . .

  But this is Violet, so I shut that shit down.

  I chuckle, leaning in closer to her. She’s wearing some light perfume, nothing heavy or cloying, but this close, it’s spicy and floral. “Well, a few family dinners, a few public appearances at company events, maybe a date or two where the paps can snap a few shots . . . should be able to make it fit right in with a whirlwind engagement before the wedding and right afterward. Hell, we could probably even spin it that I was comforting you after your breakup with Colin, because you know that’s going to get social page coverage, and things between us unexpectedly ignited.”

  “You want to be my rebound guy?” She smirks, and I shrug.

  “If that’s what it takes to sell this, sure.”

  “Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” Violet says with a teasing light in her eyes. It’s partly alcoholic courage and partly her own big brass balls to make light of something so serious.

  I laugh softly, my eyes stealing to the valley of her cleavage in her dress. “You have no idea whether I’m a gentle man, Vi.”

  Violet’s eyes go wide, and I can almost see the flutter of her pulse in the curve of her neck. I pull back, licking my lips as she downs another half a mimosa, side-eyeing me the whole time.

  What the hell am I doing? This is supposed to be a business negotiation, and here I am putting moves on her.

  She sets her glass on the table, staring into its empty depths like it contains the secrets of the world. Or at least an answer to our current question of whether this is a good idea or absolute lunacy.

  She takes a large breath and pulls her shoulders back as if she’s preparing for war. I almost do the same, ready for her to slay me with her verbal barbs. “Okay,” she says on an exhale. “Let’s do this. Come on.”

  She stands and grabs my hand, trying to pull me out of the booth, but I don’t budge. “Where are we going?”

  “If people are going to believe this, we might as well get started now. So, let’s go dance, stare into each other’s eyes lovingly, and look all sweet and cuddly. You can fake that, right? Side note, I’ll be judging your dancing because we will be dancing at our wedding. I need to know if you can cut a rug or if you’re going to spend the whole time doing The Carlton. No pressure, though.”

  Lies. There’s so much pressure on us both, from every angle.

  But she’s right. A public display at Club Red will be the perfect jumpstart for our story. And at least I can adjust myself as we go downstairs because if Vi’s going to grind on me in that dress, I need to be prepared with a mental list of baseball stats to keep things as unawkward as possible. But still I resist, lifting an eyebrow.

  “You haven’t asked yet.”

  Violet laughs, then stops when she sees I’m dead serious. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she bites out.

  I know my smirk lights her up, probably not in a good way, but I can’t help it. This is the game we always play, and it’s so easy to fall into the habit of poking her buttons.

  “Fine.” She turns to me, bending at the waist and unintentionally giving me a view of two of the most delicious, mouth-watering breasts I’ve ever seen. “Ross Andrews, will you fake-marry me?” It’s the most venom-filled proposal in the history of the world. It’s perfect.

  I grin, nodding. “How twenty-first century of you to do the asking. Of course, I will.”

  I finally stand, ready to head to the dance floor, but the waitress appears with another drink for Violet. I guess Abi told them to keep them coming all night. I expect Vi to leave it on the table, but she downs it in a single gulp before leading me down the steps. As I watch her heart-shaped ass flex dangerously in her tight dress, my mind fills with ideas.

  I’m going to have fun with this.

  Violet needs me a lot more than I need her, which in business is called leverage. I might just indulge a little. I won’t go too far, but we need to sell this relationship to the public, to the media, and to our families. Getting sassy spitfire Violet to act all lovey-dovey and doting toward me, maybe even fawn over me a bit in front of my parents, might be my biggest and best prank yet.

  We hit the dance floor, and out of the corner of my eye I see Kaede, who’s left Abi dancing with Archie. “Ross?”

  “Can you drive the car home?” I ask Kaede, cutting my eyes to Violet. It’s code for us, saying everything’s cool, and Kaede nods. He knows I’ll fill him in on the details later.

  The music changes, another club remix, although this one I at least recognize. Nikki Minaj and Arianna Grande work together to sing about goin’ side to side as Violet starts to move to the beat, her ass hypnotic as I dance right with her.

  As I do, I’m more and more aware that whatever temporary relief my dick got from moving down the stairs is quickly evaporating as Violet dances. She can move, everything swaying in different directions and bouncing in ways that have my head spinning.

  “Not bad.” She giggles, turning around and suddenly pressing her curvy ass up against my crotch. Her arm drifts up, pulling my head forward so she can speak hotly into my ear, “Mmm . . . not bad at all. You’ve got moves, Mr. Andrews.”

  “Vi—” I start but stop
.

  This might not be the best idea, but fuck it. I grab her hips, grinding into her through her tight dress, and she moans, the two of us practically dry humping on the dance floor as the throbbing beat pulses through the soles of our feet. I tell myself it’s for the show, just a way to make appearances and start chatter about us, but my dick says differently.

  I wrap my arms around her, laying my palms on her flat stomach to hold her to me. In response, Violet presses back against me, her head falling back to my shoulder, and she looks up at me, her eyes cloudy with lust and more than a few mimosas as the song keeps going. I can feel her lush body pressed against mine, making me want to pull the tight hem of her dress up and see if the smooth firmness I feel cradling my throbbing cock is satin, silk . . . or just toned ass.

  Before I get too carried away, the music stops and Violet does too, her eyes a little confused at the interruption. She tries to step away, and I hold her close for a half second, getting one last feel of her against my cock. When I let her go, she stumbles in her heels slightly and I have to steady her.

  Damn, she’s plastered. How many drinks did she put down before she started telling me about Colin and his bullshit?

  “Ross,” Abi says from next to me, her right eyebrow lifted about three-quarters of the way up her forehead. Fuck, she’s been watching, and by the little upturn on the corners of her lips, she’s happy with what she’s seen, for some reason.

  I love my little sister, but damn if she doesn’t gloat when one of her schemes goes off without a hitch. I guess she figures her little plan to solve both of our problems is already a success.

  “I’m gonna take Violet home,” I declare, taking Violet by the hand. “Come on, Vi. I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Drinks!” Violet yells, giggling. “Mimosas for everyone! I’m getting married!”

  Vi pats my chest a bit too hard, and a group of girls on the dance floor drunkenly slurs out, “Con-grash-u-lashuns!” Well, I guess that’s that. We’re public.

  I sigh as Abi grins hugely, waving her off and dragging Violet to the door. I grab a taxi and out of habit tell the driver to take me back to my place.

  It’s not a long ride, and Violet’s still as bubbly as the champagne she’s been drinking when we get there. I lead her out and to the elevator. Violet gapes as the doors close, giggling again as she eyes me with a girlish smile. “What?” I ask, curious about what has her acting so silly.

  She pushes her body against me. “Are you taking me to the penthouse?” Her voice lowers, like there’s a deeper meaning, but my brain’s too fuzzy from her closeness to figure out what she means.

  I nod, trying to resist the luscious plumpness of her glossy lips, but when she stands up on her tiptoes to reach toward me, I can’t hold back anymore. I crush her to me, kissing her hard as the elevator quietly hums its way up the twenty-seven floors.

  Vi’s lips are silk, warm and tender, electric in every touch against me. I press for entrance with my tongue, and she opens up, as much taking me in as I am invading her mouth. She moans against me and I swallow the sexy sound.

  As the elevator door opens and we half twirl, half stumble our way to the door of my penthouse, all I know is I want her and she wants me.

  Reality hits, though, when Violet stumbles on the single step that leads down to my living room area, and I remember that she’s drunk. I’m tipsy, for sure, but she’s drunk-drunk . . . and I’m not going to take advantage. Certainly not of Violet.

  “Where are you taking me?” Violet says as I help her up and lead her to my bedroom. “Ooh . . . I’ve wanted to see this for awhile.” Her eyes are glassy as they bounce around the room, and I wonder what she thinks of my space. Does she think it suits me? Does she like the décor?

  “I’m sure you have. Probably want to tell me that the color’s atrocious or the Feng Shui is all wrong,” I tell her, holding myself back as I pull the comforter and sheets down. “Need help with the heels?”

  Violet shakes her head, which seems to disorient her because she tumbles down to the mattress before rolling onto her back. She sticks her long legs up straight in the air and giggles as she pushes off one of her heels with her toes. It falls to the bed and bounces off, hitting the floor. “Boom . . . missile launched. Preparing missile two, Captain.” She repeats the move, her other shoe clattering to the floor.

  Violet is definitely a happy drunk, looser and less biting than her usual self. I wonder if this is how she is with people other than me.

  Her legs flail, bending and opening, which gives me an unexpectedly spectacular view.

  Holy shit, she went commando tonight. Beneath the short hem of her dress is nothing but the same soft caramel skin of her honeyed thighs, leading up to a cleft that has my cock leaking precum into my pants before I can do anything about it.

  Shiiiiit.

  Violet is stunning, and I’m a total asshole for never noticing. But I’m sure as fuck noticing now.

  “Now you . . . no ssshoes on the bed.” She pats the mattress next to her, and I realize that she thinks I brought her to my bed to fuck her. And in the surprise of the century, I want to. I want to fuck Violet Russo, the annoying pain in my teenage ass whom I honestly haven’t given a moment’s thought about until tonight.

  But not like this. Not so drunk she doesn’t even know what she’s doing.

  Someone should nominate me for sainthood.

  Instead of doing what every instinct in my body says it wants me to do, I pull the sheet up over her body and she starts shimmying underneath the sheet.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my brow furrowing. She grunts a little, her pink tongue sticking out in concentration. “You need a drink? Some water?” I clarify.

  She doesn’t answer, but getting a bit of space seems like a good plan right now because Violet’s writhing around in my bed is looking better than I would’ve thought it ever could. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before I can even get to the door, her dress hits me in the back of the head. I glance back to see her triumphant face and hurry to the bathroom, where I stick my face underneath the cold water of the sink until I can actually think.

  Violet Russo is in my bed. Naked. Lusting for me. Me? And I want her?

  How did this happen?

  My cock’s rock hard at seeing even a quick peek of her pussy, and I force myself to focus and play memory games, an old trick that I used back in my college days, reciting Super Bowl champions going backward until my brain’s able to take hold again.

  It takes me all the way back to the Miami Dolphins before I feel the pressure in my balls subside enough that I don’t think I could crack a brick with my dick, and I quickly flush the toilet for my cover story. I splash my face again, looking at the confused, haunted eyes in the mirror when I’m done.

  Holy Shit. Leaving my thoughts of naked Violet for a moment, I’m struck with the bigger reality of the night.

  I said I’d marry her.

  Not a silly flirtation we could play off as a one-time thing. Not a drunken night we could both ignore. Not even a short-term fling to get people off my back.

  But I said I’d walk down the aisle with her, fake or not, in front of her friends and family. In front of my family.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  The devil on my shoulder laughs, knowing exactly what I was thinking. That she’s sexy . . . and kissed me . . . and needs me.

  And doesn’t knowing ball-buster Violet Russo needs me do something squirmy to my insides? Just yesterday, I would’ve said it was glee at getting one over on her. Tonight, I’m not so sure that’s what this warmth is. It feels bigger, deeper, hotter than our . . . what did she call it? Frenemies? Yeah, this feels like more than a frenemy-ship.

  What the fuck am I going to do?

  This is such a bad idea. I know it. She knows it. Hell, Abi set us both up, and even she’s gotta know it. Even if it would solve some problems temporarily, I don’t think anyone would actually believe that our bickering and
teasing caught fire and led to insta-love and marriage. Would they?

  Taking a deep breath, I head back to my bedroom. I need to break this off before it goes too far because this is so many types of mistake that I can’t even list them all in my foggy brain. And when Violet’s not desperate and drunk, she’ll see that I’m right.

  But what I see at the doorway stops me in my tracks.

  She’s an angel, sleeping peacefully on a cloud of high-thread-count cotton in my bed. Her eyes are closed as she snores softly. With each exhale, her lips poof out just a little bit, and as I watch, she hums softly before squirming and getting more comfortable. She hugs one of my pillows to her chest before sighing happily in her sleep.

  I can’t.

  I can’t what?

  Fake marry her? Or not fake marry her?

  Yeah. Both of those, at the same time. Which makes no sense, but there it is, swirling in my head and my heart. And okay, in my pants.

  A fake wedding is truly crazy on some epic level, but I can’t say no to her, either. Not to that innocent face, those hungry eyes, that surprisingly tender heart . . . I can’t.

  I press my lips together, my hands on my hips as I search the ceiling for some divine intervention and realize that I can only hope that she was so drunk before asking me that she doesn’t remember in the morning. That’d give us both an out.

  Chapter 7

  Violet—14 Days Until the Wedding

  “Mmm . . . so, then the red velvet ottoman goes over there—” I murmur, but the disembodied client voice says they want it in orange juice—no, ice with a hint of whiskey. That’s not right, I think, and the discordance rouses me slightly.

  I blink, soft light warming my eyelids, and I realize that it was all a dream.

  I open my eyes more, fighting the gritty feeling, and see a silky-smooth comforter, an eggshell white wall . . .

  Wait.