Real Love, Fake Marriage

by Vesper Young

  Real Love, Fake Marriage

  Vesper Young

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © 2019, Vesper Young. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.

  Table of Contents

  Deacon 1

  Mindy 2

  Deacon 3

  Mindy 4

  Deacon 5

  Mindy 6

  Deacon 7

  Mindy 8

  Deacon 9

  Mindy 10

  Deacon 11

  Mindy 12

  Deacon 13

  Mindy 14

  Deacon 15

  Mindy 16

  Deacon 17

  Mindy 18

  Deacon 19

  Mindy 20

  Deacon 21

  Mindy 22

  Deacon 23

  Mindy 24

  Deacon 25

  Mindy 26

  Deacon 27

  Mindy 28

  Mindy 29

  Deacon 30

  Mindy 31

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Deacon 1

  The hospital room was the nicest money could buy. Private, large windows, teak furniture. And of course the ECG machine. Every comfort money could buy. But from the look on my father’s face, the pain was ever-present and worsening.

  I hated seeing him like this; what son wouldn’t? I didn’t visit often. This was my first time coming in two weeks and every grimace a reminder of his deteriorating condition.

  We didn’t talk much even with me there. It was a different kind of exhausting, constantly casting about for meaningless topics. Small talk wasn’t a talent when I dealt with clients and even more useless with family.

  My eyes settled on the vase to his left. “Who are the flowers from?”

  “Donna,” he replied, naming my old nanny. “These were your mother’s favorite, you know? The woman couldn’t stand roses. But dahlias? She adored them.”

  I hadn’t known that. Then again, I’d been four when she died.

  “I miss her,” he murmured. “Though I suppose it won’t be long.”

  “Dad! Don’t say that.”

  He continued like he hadn’t heard me. “After she died, everything was so wrong. So out of focus. I couldn’t bear to be at the house. I should’ve moved, shouldn’t have abandoned you…”

  “You didn’t abandon me. Donna was there. Besides, for the past decade, we’ve worked together. How many sons can say that?”

  I tried to keep my words light. It was an effort to hide the fact his words hit home.

  “I’m sorry, Deacon. I’m afraid I passed on my tendency to immerse myself in work. Lord knows the hours I put in before I met your mother. And you’re worse. You don’t even date.”

  The accusation normally would’ve rolled off me. Sure, I didn’t date, but as the scion of Blake Enterprises, it wasn’t particularly important.

  Except he sounded so sad. So broken. Nothing like the stern man I was used to arguing with in the boardroom.

  That’s probably why I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Actually, Dad, I haven’t know how to mention it before, but I am seeing someone. We’ve kept it quiet, but it’s, um, it’s good.”

  His face lit up, the most hopeful expression I’d seen on him in weeks, and it was easily worth the guilt of lying.

  “Really? Who?”

  “My secretary, Mindy,” I improvised, naming the first person who came to mind. Probably because I spent more time with her than anyone else. “We didn’t want to stir up gossip.” Dad always hated office gossip.

  “Deacon, that’s wonderful! You have to bring her by so I can meet her.”

  I gave him a phony smile. “Absolutely.”

  Mindy 2

  “Due to late payment, a thirty-dollar surcharge has been added. If further nonpayment occurs, actions will be taken including wage garnishment. For more support, Wilmont Collections can be reached at—” was as far as the automated machine got before I snapped my cell phone shut. Yes, I still had an antique flip phone. Usually, it was inconvenient, but, in situations like this, it was substantially more satisfying to dramatically close the piece of junk than to tap some high-tech a screen.

  Sometimes, you had to savor the little victories. For me, they were few and far between.

  The reason I hung up on the millionth collections call this week wasn’t just that I could now do a pitch-perfect imitation of the Wilmot Collections automated voice. And the Jared & Jason Credit Recovery voice. And the Connect, Collect, Protect LLC voice.

  It was because my boss has just walked back in.

  Deacon Blake.

  He strode through the door like he owned the place. In fairness, he practically did. His charcoal grey suit fit him perfectly, in a way that said I rule the boardroom and the gym. The deep, piercing gaze that occasionally fixed on a client he wanted to charm seductively added and the bedroom.

  But this time that intense gaze wasn’t fixed on a blonde, full-chested heiress. It was fixed on me.

  He strode over to my desk in three easy strides. Being over six feet tall, he easily towered over me even if I wasn’t sitting.

  “Ms. Killip,” he began, then shook himself. His intense gaze remained, but it held a note I wasn’t used to seeing on Deacon Blake’s face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was nervousness. “Mindy. You’ve been working as my secretary for a year now”—actually, eleven months—“and we just got the Berlin contract secured”—actually, that was three weeks ago—“so I was thinking you and I should go to dinner at Le Coucou and celebrate.”

  I struggled to stop my jaw from dropping, internal commentary forgotten. The whole baloney prelude so he could ask me on a date? My boss, the workaholic who had included in my job training to prevent any previous hookups from contacting him. That boss was asking me on a date?

  Still, something stopped me from immediately snapping, Nope, no way, not gonna happen. It wasn’t good to upset your boss, and with these debt collectors blowing up my phone, I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

  Plus, it’d be nice to have something other than ramen-in-a-cup.

  “Fine.” My tone held a note of reluctance. “What time?”

  “Seven. I’ll send a company car to pick you up. And try to wear something… appropriate.” He gave my outfit a disapproving look.

  I glanced down at myself. What was wrong with it? Okay, my cardigan had a couple small holes and my sleeves were a touch frayed. Nothing a needle and thread couldn’t fix.

  His disapproval chafed. Not all of us could spring for thousand-dollar suits.

  “I’ll spring for my nicest potato sack,” I said with an eye roll.

  He snorted. “You do that. Hold my calls for the rest of the afternoon.”

  He didn’t wait for my response before leaving.

  In the hours after I went from seething at the insult to curiosity about the dinner. In my almost year working as Mr. Blake’s secretary, he’d never shown any real interest in me. Hell, in anyone. The “hookups” I fended off were usually business clients where the job description had included wining and dining to seal the deal.

  I wasn’t a client.

  The puzzle distracted me. I took a peek at the website of Le Coucou. I sucked in a breath. Okay, maybe he was right. This definitely wasn’t a place I could walk into with a second-hand cardigan.

  I furtively texted my best friend, Kara. On my ancient phone, it was an ordeal.

  Can I borrow a fancy outfit ton
ight?

  Her reply was instant. Ooh, hot date? Of course you can!!!

  I sent a quick, Thanks, TTYL, and slipped the phone back in my purse. She’d get the details out of me this evening.

  ***

  “No, girl, no.”

  “No?”

  I held a turtleneck dress up against me. It was black with small white polka dots.

  “No. Absolutely not. I bought that as something cutesy and respectable to wear to Ryan’s parent-teacher conferences.”

  “How is Ryan?” I asked as she forcibly grabbed the garment from my hands. Ryan was her six-year-old son.

  She held up a silky, red V-neck against me. “He’s good. Of course, now he’s on a vegetarian streak. His teacher has a pet bunny, and he can’t bear to eat any of its friends.”

  “Aww, Kara, that’s really sweet.”

  “It is, but I’m not allowed to eat meat either. I’ve had to sneak some fast food burgers in-between shifts,” she confessed.

  I gave her a smile. I knew she adored Ryan. Another woman might have resented having to become a single mother at nineteen, but Kara had risen to the challenge.

  “But no to this. He’s my boss, for Pete’s sake!”

  She raised an eyebrow at me in the mirror. “Is it, or is it not, a date?”

  “I don’t know. He made up an excuse and seemed nervous, but he’s never seemed interested before.”

  “Well, neither have you, right? I know you’re under a lot of pressure but try to have a fun night. Don’t forget—you showed me his picture.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I should never have shown you his LinkedIn.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “But those eyes, that jaw! How can you resist that?”

  I recalled the sneer he’d given me when he appraised my clothes. “Easily. I don’t want to be a cliché. The secretary and her boss? I mean, come on.”

  Now it was Kara’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m telling you, Mindy. With a face and body like that, it’s not a cliché, it’s a fantasy. Have some fun!”

  Unfortunately, I knew that “fun” could end up with me fired.

  I pushed away the V-neck and dug further into her closet. Kara was the fashionista whereas I, truth be told, has the fashion sense of a colorblind clown or nun, depending on the mood.

  There had to be something appropriate for a fancy French restaurant.

  “You know what he said to me?” I grumbled while sorting through hangers. “‘Wear something appropriate.’”

  “Okay?”

  “And he gestured to my outfit. Like he was saying ‘You’re a poor peasant who I can’t trust to figure out what to wear.’”

  “Is he that bad, hon?”

  “Sometimes! He’s so arrogant and business-y and just gets under my skin. I bust my ass each day in that office. I have his coffee hot and waiting for him with two scoops of that fake sugar every morning and he never even looks up from his computer to say thank you.”

  I glared at the latest combination of clothing in my hands. A purple blazer and a turquoise T-shirt. Kara hastily removed them from my hands.

  “He works nonstop, Kara. It’s unreal. And then he thinks he can waltz in on my lunch break and demand we go to dinner at some fancy-pants restaurant.”

  “I’m so sorry your successful, sexy boss asked you on a date at the hottest restaurant in town,” she said drolly.

  I gave her a look.

  “Alright, alright, he’s an unmannered workaholic. He’s awful. Really, there’s nothing good about him?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes—not that I pay much attention—he gets this super-concentrated look when he’s working on a file and it’s kind of hot. And he does dress impeccably. Which brings me to the fact I’m seeing said-impeccable boss in an hour and don’t know what to wear.”

  Kara reached for the red top again. “So, he’s a hot jerk who you aren’t going to date. But as your best friend, I am ordering you to have some fun. Show him what he won’t get since you aren’t a cliché,” she teased. “Just because you look sexy doesn’t mean you’re going to have sex.”

  I gave the shirt a reproachful look. Okay, I had to admit it would look good. Kara had an eye for that. And the fabric was soft; it would certainly fit my curves nicely.

  “Okay, you convinced me.”

  ***

  By the time I arrived at Le Coucou, Kara had “convinced” me into an above-the-knee, black wrap skirt, strappy high heels, and matching clutch.

  I’d felt pretty ridiculous on the subway, but the city had seen stranger.

  Still, I was grateful to her once I walked inside. No way would anything I owned have fit in such a fancy place. Even now I debated making a break for the subway and going home.

  Okay, deep breath. You can do this.

  “Hi, I’m here for a reservation under the name Deacon Blake?”

  The hostess searched her screen when I felt an arm on my elbow. I turned around and immediately took a startled step back.

  “Good evening, Mindy. You look…” His words trailed off, his eyes roving my body.

  Determined not to blush, I went on the offensive. “Appropriate?” I snorted. “Hello, Mr. Blake.”

  At my short remark, he looked a bit off-kilter. Good. It was after hours and while he was my boss, it didn’t mean I’d spend the evening kissing up to him. He quickly recovered.

  “I was going to say ravishing.” There went that intense gaze, taking in my appearance in a way that made me feel utterly exposed. “And please, call me Deacon.”

  I looked him up and down as well. He looked even more handsome than usual, his face freshly shaven and dark suit complementing the decor. He fit the surroundings perfectly.

  The hostess led us to our spot, a candlelit table off to the side.

  Deacon pulled out a chair, and it took me a moment to realize it was for me. I flushed at the weird pause while he waited for me to take a seat. Once satisfied, he took his seat across me. The restaurant was dim, the soft glow of the candles illuminating the hard lines of his face. His face was often a touch severe, like he never smiled, but with the flames highlighting these features they were no longer severe but stunning.

  “Do I have something on my face?”

  “Um, nope.” Caught. I turned my gaze to the menu. If I was going to suffer the humiliation of being caught staring at my too-sexy boss at a too-fancy restaurant then at least I was going to get a to-die-for meal.

  One problem: I had never eaten French food and recognized almost nothing on the menu. What the heck was confit de canard? Or cassoulet?

  I wished I had one of those smartphones. Then at least I could discreetly look up the foods. The last thing I wanted to do was order cow liver by mistake.

  “I’m going to have the steak au poivre. How about you?” He said steak with a slight accent, as if there was no a.

  “Oh, um, maybe the cuisses de grenouilles?” I wasn’t sure which letters I was supposed to pronounce and which ones to skip.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re a fan of cuisses de grenouilles?” He said it like quease-due-grow-new-y.

  “Maybe,” I lied. “Why?”

  “Just didn’t peg you for a fan of frog legs.”

  I was queasy alright, but I tried to hide it. I may not be familiar with French cuisine, but I’d be damned to let him have the upper hand. “Okay, so what would you peg me for a fan of?”

  “Perhaps the coq au vin. It’s a braised chicken with mushroom and onions,” he explained.

  “Oh, that sounds good.” I tried to stop myself from salivating.

  He nodded, and when our waitress returned a moment later he mercifully ordered for both of us. I didn’t know enough French to tell a good accent from a great one, but knowing Deacon Blake, his pronunciation was flawless.

  She took our menus, which meant I no longer had anywhere to look except directly at Deacon. And they were looking right back at me.

  Deacon 3

  Mindy turned her ga
ze to me, and I came to a realization. I had never fully looked at her before.

  Sure, I’d seen her in the office almost every day for the past eleven months, but it had been passing glances to give orders or collect messages.

  Because if I had ever looked at her directly before there’s no way I could’ve missed how utterly verdant the green was in her eyes, the way the long lashes made her thoughtful expression utterly seductive.

  Still, this wasn’t a date. This was a business meeting, even if she didn’t know it yet. I’d backed myself into a corner when I’d given my father her name. After I’d returned, I found a horrifically emotional email from my father saying to bring her by tomorrow.

  I was lucky. In the hours since I’d spoken to her before, I had a private investigator dig a bit deeper on Mindy. What he’d found meant she would never be much of an option for dating, no matter how entrancing her intense stare was.

  That was okay, I assured myself. Now I had leverage. Though first, better to get through a relaxing dinner to let her get her guard down.

  “So, Mindy, what do you do on your off-time?”

  She gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “Not much. Read, mostly. Sew, when I have time.”

  I raised my brows in disbelief. “That’s all?”

  “What can I say? My boss keeps me busy. What do you think I should be doing?”

  I didn’t have a good response, so I ignored the question. “Okay, what do you sew?”

  “Whatever appeals to me. Last week I made new curtains for my apartment, for example. And you? What does Deacon Blake do in his free time?”

  “What do you think I do?”

  “Play polo,” she answered breezily.

  “Polo?” I parroted in disbelief. “Why polo?”

  “Isn’t that what rich people do? It’s what they do in Pretty Woman.”

  “Pretty Woman?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Pretty Woman?.” Now it was her turn to sound incredulous.

  “Sorry to disappoint, Mindy, but I haven’t.”

  “Well, you should. It’s a classic.”

  “Aside from rich playing polo, what else happens in it?”

  “It’s a love story. I guess it’s not your thing, but everyone should see it. So if you don’t play polo and don’t watch old romance movies, what do you do in your free time?”