You've Got Male (Chick Flick Club Book 2)

by Lila Monroe

  “Another thing my exes tell me,” he smiles, totally unruffled.

  “And I bet you don’t even like dogs!” I turn to Kyle and fix him with a smile. “Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” I say, shooting a last glare at Not-Kyle. “And you can tell me all about your bicycle.”

  “Umm, sure.” He spots a table in the corner, and heads that way, but before I can follow, Not-Kyle gives me a wink.

  “Good luck with your soulmate. What do you think, is it meant to be?”

  Ugh!

  I turn on my heel and leave.

  I can’t believe I thought he was hot!

  Arthur ’Fitz’ Fitzwilliam is the hottest, most reckless playboy in town… and my new husband?!

  Believe me, I never dreamed that I’d be walking down the aisle to a quickie marriage with a total stranger, but thanks to my eccentric god-mother, an iron-clad will, and a blind, three-legged cat called Alfred (don’t ask), I need to get hitched ASAP. And when the perfect candidate leaves me at the alter, there’s only one person crazy - and drunk - enough to step up at the last minute.

  The best man.

  Also known as the man most likely to get caught romping with three Rockettes in the back of a Sex and the City tourbus. The man who could melt my panties at twenty paces - and make me want to pour a bucket of ice-water over his head. The man I just pledged to love and honor and… oh god, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

  Our arrangement was clear: keep up the charade long enough for me to claim my inheritance and send my slime-ball cousins packing. Our plan is working perfectly.

  Then Fitz decides to change the rules….

  Can this fake marriage turn into something real? Find out in the latest hot and hilarious romantic comedy from USA Today bestselling author, Lila Monroe

  Billionaire Bachelors Series:

  1. Very Irresistible Playboy

  2. Hot Daddy

  3. Wild Card

  4. Man Candy

  5. Mr Casanova

  6. Best Man

  1

  Becca

  I’ve never been the woman who dreamed about her wedding. You know, the girls who start a scrap-book when they’re five, practice signing their boyfriend’s last name all through high school, and wind up throwing a Bridezilla meltdown because their second cousin Susie dared to dye a pink streak in her hair the week before the ceremony so now the bridesmaids won’t match, and it was supposed to be HER special freaking day.

  Yeah, nope. That’s never been my style. But if you’d asked me how I pictured the big event, I probably would have said walking down the aisle in a beautiful dress to say “I do” to the man I love, surrounded by our family and friends.

  I definitely wouldn’t have imagined standing in a bland, windowless room at City Hall getting left at the altar by a guy I’ve known all of four days.

  “What do you mean, you can’t do this?!”

  I stare at Scott in horror. Scott, the skateboarding DJ-slash-energy drink entrepreneur who said that getting married would be “like, totes ridic.” Scott, who showed up today wearing cargo shorts, a baggy T-shirt that stinks of weed, and those weird foam shoes that mold to your toe shape.

  Scott, whose last name I’m completely blanking on right now.

  Hey, I never said we were marrying for true love.

  The registrar looks back and forth between us and clears his throat. “Do you two need a moment? Because I’m on a schedule, here.”

  “One sec.” I grab Scott by the arm and drag him to the side of the room. His best man is already scrolling on his phone, while my maid of honor-slash-legal witness, Poppy, gives me a WTF? look. I give a fake, desperate thumbs up in response before whirling on my reluctant groom.

  “What’s going on?” I demand, panicking. “You said you wanted to do this. The paperwork is all signed!”

  Paperwork prepared by the most discreet fake-dating agency in town, who found me a man willing to get hitched on a whim and assured me that nobody would discover the truth about our not-so-happy coupledom.

  Scott gives me a shrug. “I’m just not feeling the vibe here, between us.”

  “We don’t need to vibe!” I whisper-yell. “I’m paying you my life savings to marry me for a month. As soon as I claim my inheritance, you’re off the hook. There’s no vibing required!”

  “See, this is what I’m talking about,” Scott tells me. “You have zero chill. Listen, good luck with everything, but I’m out of here.”

  He turns to leave.

  “No, wait!” I cry, desperately grabbing onto him. Too many people are depending on me for this to fall apart now.

  “Jeez, woman, relax.” Scott tries to shake me off, but I hold tight.

  “You don’t understand,” I beg. “I need to get married TODAY!”

  “Sorry,” he says. “Not my problem.” And then he grabs his neon-green mini-scooter from where it’s propped by the doors, hops on, and glides away. “Peace out!” he calls behind him, as the doors swing shut.

  “So, what’s it going to be?” the registrar asks impatiently. “Is someone getting married today?”

  “No,” I answer with a dejected sigh. “I’m not.”

  After being jilted in such a humiliating fashion, there’s only one thing to do:

  Drink.

  Poppy takes me to the dive bar around the corner and buys a round of shots. “I’m really sorry,” she says, sliding my glass over to me. “I know how much you needed this to work out.”

  “Thanks,” I say morosely, and I brace myself for the burn of tequila in the back of my throat. So much for a quick fix to my problem: I’ve been dumped and disinherited, all in the same half-hour. I haven’t been so humiliated since the time I walked my middle-school fashion show with my skirt tucked up in the back of my Saved By The Bell pants.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Poppy brightens. “Gay marriage is legal in New York. The two of us can get hitched!”

  I give her a faint smile. “Thanks, but the terms of the inheritance said ‘husband.’ ”

  “Oh, that sucks.” Poppy deflates. “I can’t believe Aunt Marigold screwed you like this.”

  “She had no idea,” I immediately defend her. “She thought she was doing a nice thing, leaving me the apartment building. She would never have imagined I’d wind up . . . here.”

  I gesture around at the dim bar. At three in the afternoon, it’s populated by a homeless dude, an old woman in furs, and me: a crazy jilted bride wearing a cream shift dress I found for half off in the clearance bin at Target. I also picked up some cute throw pillows for my apartment, but I guess they’ll look just as cute on the bench I’ll have to sleep on now that I’m getting evicted soon.

  “Let’s face it,” I sigh. “Pulling off a fake wedding was a long shot. I mean, a thirty-year-old woman has a better chance of being struck by lightning than getting married in this city.”

  Especially when, you know, the whole thing was faker than the friendships on Real Housewives.

  “Actually, that’s an urban myth,” Poppy says. “I think you’re just more likely to die in a car accident.”

  “Gee, comforting.” I manage a grin. “Good thing I take the subway.”

  She laughs and checks her phone. “Are you going to be OK? I have to get back to the office. This adorable high-school guy needs a special love note for his prom-posal.” Poppy beams. She’s a professional Cyrano, helping people woo their beloveds with special notes and gifts. Usually, I love the details of her projects, but today, love and happiness are the last things I want to hear.

  “Go, spread joy,” I sigh. “I’ll be here, thinking of ways to break it to my neighbors we’re all being evicted.”

  “I’m sorry, babe.” She gives me a hug. “Call me if you need another witness—to a wedding, or a first-degree murder alibi. I’m open for both!”

  Poppy heads out, and I slump lower against the bar. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, and I loved Aunt Marigold like she really was family (and not just my adopted
godmother), but my bestie is right.

  Marigold really left me up shit creek without a paddle.

  “Another round?”

  An English accent comes from behind me, and I lift my head long enough to clock a tall, handsome guy with dark hair and an amused smirk on his sexy, full lips.

  The best man.

  “Shouldn’t you be off with Scott, like, catching chill vibes, man?” I ask, mimicking my five-minute fiancé’s drawl.

  The man smiles. “Not my scene. We don’t actually know each other all that well. We were drinking last night, and he said he needed a witness. I had some time, so . . .” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal to crash a wedding.

  Not that my wedding was much of an event. The registrar still had mustard on his collar, and there was a janitor sweeping up when I walked down the aisle-slash-linoleum hallway.

  I should have known it would end in tequila and tears.

  “Anyway, I thought it only polite to offer my best,” the man adds, still looking amused. I don’t blame him.

  “Thanks.” I sigh. “But you don’t need to stick around. I plan on diving face-first into a bottomless basket of fries, and Lord knows I don’t need witnesses around for that.”

  “Let me buy you a drink, at least, to soak up all that grease,” he says, already gesturing to the bartender. “What will it be?”

  “Whatever makes me forget today the fastest,” I mutter.

  He chuckles. “Rebecca, right?” he asks. “I heard that part in the vows, at least.”

  “Becca,” I correct him. “And you are . . . ?”

  “You can call me Fitz.” He flashes me a smile that’s vaguely familiar.

  “Have we met?” I ask, frowning. “I swear I’ve seen you . . .”

  “Probably.” Fitz grins. “I get around.”

  I snap my fingers, finally recognizing him from all those trashy magazines I read at the newsstand. “You’re that bachelor playboy, the one who dated Scarlett Johansson. Or was it one of the Olsen twins?”

  “No comment, and also, all of the above.” Fitz gives me a wink, and I give a rueful smile.

  “Maybe you should give me some tips. Because I can’t even get my fake boyfriend to stick around.” Then I realize what I just said. “Crap,” I groan. “That was supposed to be a secret. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  Fitz clears his throat politely. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I had a suspicion this wasn’t a whirlwind love affair.”

  I snort. “More like a Hail Mary. What does it say about me that I can’t even pay a man to stick around? Wait, don’t answer that.” I hold up my hand to cut him off. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to hear the answer yet.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s more common than you’d think.”

  “What, buying myself a husband from some fake dating agency?” I take another shot of tequila and shudder. “Sure, it happens all the time.”

  Fitz looks amused. “You’d be surprised. How about I buy you those fries, and you tell me all about it?”

  One hour, three beers, and a bottomless basket of fries later, I’m in the corner booth telling Fitz the whole sorry story of how I wound up preparing to pledge my heart to a man with a Bart Simpson tattoo on his neck.

  “Marigold was . . . eccentric,” I explain. “She bought the apartment building back in the 70s and filled it with artists and writers and all kinds of people. She barely charged any rent; she always said she preferred to be around people she loved over making a profit. We met five years ago, when she sprained her wrist. I was doing my residency at St. Marks Hospital.”

  “You’re a doctor?” Fitz asks, and I shake my head.

  “Not anymore. I hated it, but I felt stuck, I had all these loans, and my parents expected me to become this brilliant surgeon . . . Anyway, Marigold clocked immediately I wasn’t cut out for medicine—she had a way of getting your whole life story in five minutes flat,” I add with a grin. “She said there was an apartment opening up in the building, I would only have to cover utilities, and I could figure out what I really wanted to do. So, I quit my job, packed up my stuff, got a job volunteering at a low-cost clinic, and never looked back. She changed my life,” I add, feeling a sad pang. “If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t know where I’d be now . . .”

  Probably stress-eating in a bar somewhere to escape the crushing doom of my life.

  Hah.

  I take another drink.

  “She sounds like a real character.” Fitz’s voice pulls me back.

  “She was,” I say mournfully. “She passed away five months ago. Had a stroke in her sleep, which is a mercy, I suppose. Anyway, she left me the building in her will, but I guess she hadn’t updated it for a while, because it says everything goes to me and my husband. I was engaged, a while back,” I explain, waving my hands vaguely. Am I drunk yet? And if not, why not? “But that’s a whole other story that requires way more carbs.”

  Fitz chuckles.

  “So, there you have it,” I finish dramatically. “If I don’t have a husband, I can’t inherit anything, and it all goes to her next of kin. Who’ll evict us all in a heartbeat, and probably turn the place into fancy condos we couldn’t afford in a million years.”

  “But surely you could fight it in court,” Fitz says, sipping his whiskey. “It sounds like she was clear about wanting you to have the place.”

  “Fight it with what?” I ask, spreading my very empty palms. “I tried talking to a lawyer, but they all were asking thousands of dollars just to send a few letters. Marigold’s nephew Brett has this big scary law firm on his side, he’s threatening to bury me in lawsuits for years! I figured it was easier just to get myself a husband for a few weeks, go through all the legal hoopla, and then get a divorce when everything’s signed and sealed. At least, that was the plan.”

  I grab another handful of fries and shove them sadly in my mouth. I don’t want to imagine what the others will say when I have to break the news. I haven’t said anything about all these legal shenanigans so far, I didn’t want to make them worry, but now I wish I’d given them some time to prepare for the axe currently swinging for our heads.

  Do they have a Hallmark card that says, Sorry, but because I’m single and desperate, you’ll all be homeless very soon?

  My phone buzzes, and I fish it from my purse. Olivia Danvers. The woman behind The Agency. I wince.

  “She did warn me,” I say. “Scott was the best she could find at the last minute, she said he might be flaky. But I told her to draw up the paperwork anyway.” I haul the thick document packet from my bag and slap it on the table. “A hundred and six pages of terms and conditions. Isn’t it romantic?”

  Fitz takes the sheaf of documents and scans the first page. “I’m assuming there’s a pre-nup included?”

  “Pre-nup, post-nup, during-nup . . .” I agree. “She covered everything from NDAs to PDAs. That woman is scarily efficient. And just plain scary.” I think of the cool, blonde boss in charge of the place. She could drop a pin and have a dozen men offering to be her husband. Me? I only needed one to take the gig for a few weeks, and even then I couldn’t close the deal.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  I yawn. “What?”

  Fitz flags down a passing waitress and begs one from her, then turns back to the contract. He crosses out Scott’s name and writes in his own.

  I laugh. “Come on, give me that.”

  Fitz flips to the signature page at the end and signs his name.

  I pause. “Seriously, stop screwing around.”

  “I’m not.” Fitz slides the contract back across the table to me. “There,” he says with a wink. “All set. I’ll marry you.”

  My jaw drops.

  OK, I must have gone from “mildly tipsy” to “blackout drunk” in five seconds flat because there’s no way he just . . . I mean, he couldn’t be . . .

  “Are you SERIOUS?!”

  Fitz grins. “I’m never serious, but I meant what I said. Y
ou do still need a fake husband, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes . . .” I blink, my head spinning.

  “And this is a matter of some urgency, right?”

  I nod dumbly. “I have a meeting with Brett and the lawyers tomorrow morning. If I can’t produce a husband then, they’ll file a lawsuit to block me inheriting.”

  “Then we better get moving.” Fitz checks the expensive watch on his wrist. “City Hall closes in ten minutes.”

  He gets to his feet and reaches for the perfectly cut suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. I just sit there in disbelief. Is he serious right now?

  “But . . . I don’t even know you!” I blurt.

  “Didn’t seem to hold you back with Scott.”

  “And . . . you don’t even know me!” I cry. “I could be weird, or bitchy, or, or a Scientologist!”

  Fitz grins. “Life’s an adventure.”

  “That’s it?” I blink. “You’re willing to marry a total stranger because, what, you’re bored?”

  “Seems a good enough reason to me.” Fitz offers me his hand. “Clocks ticking, princess. What’ll it be?”

  I stare at him, speechless. Today has already been crazy enough, but this? This is too much for my tequila- and carb-addled brain to process. I need to take a nap and drink half my weight in water, and then maybe, just maybe, I could begin to make sense of my life right now.

  But I don’t have time to sleep. And if I don’t do something drastic, I won’t have a bed to do it in, either.

  “OK,” I find myself answering, because why the hell not, when clearly he’s lost his mind? “Let’s do this.”

  Fitz breaks into a mischievous grin, and for a moment, I wonder what I’m getting myself into here. But he’s already taking my hand and pulling me towards the exit. I grab my purse and follow him out, blinking as we emerge into the harsh light of day.

  I check the time. Shit! “Five minutes until closing!” I yelp, and we take off towards City Hall.

  We race down the street and up the front steps. “This way,” I call, practically skidding down the hallway in my high heels. I arrive, breathless, at the clerk’s office—just as he’s about to shut the window. “Wait!” I cry. “Stop! Do you have time for one more wedding?”