BS Boyfriend: A Standalone Fake Fiancée Romance

by JD Hawkins

  “You’re not here for the conference, are you?”

  “No,” I say, laughing a little. “I’m on vacation. I’m a nurse.”

  He nods a little and smiles, as if something makes sense to him. “A nurse, huh? I’ll bet you see all kinds of crazy things in that line of work.”

  “Oh sure,” I say with a little laugh. “But I’ve only been asked to pretend to be someone’s partner once before.”

  “Is that so?” he says, dimples in his stubbled cheeks now that put me in flirt mode. “Who was the first?”

  “A teenager who’d been in a car crash,” I answer. “He wanted to impress his friends who were visiting.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “I was going to…but then I found out he’d asked every other nurse also—even Dr. Taylor. I’ll fake being in love with someone, but not being part of a harem. Even I’ve got standards.”

  He laughs and it’s a heavy, quiet sound, as if it’s not something he’s used to doing that often. Then he punches a fist into his palm gently, and I presume it’s something he does when he’s feeling a little awkward.

  “So,” he begins, “I came by to thank you for what you did for me. I wanted to bring you a gift to show my appreciation—flowers or something—but I figured you might be here with your boyfriend and I didn’t want to make any trouble.”

  “No boyfriend,” I say matter-of-factly, with a bit of an edge as my ex’s stupid face flashes through my mind. “I’m single. At the moment.”

  He looks at me for a few seconds, and the silence is charged. I’m flirting more than I usually do, more than I want to—this vacation is really making me act recklessly. Or maybe it’s just him.

  “You can still thank me though,” I add, in a more relaxed tone.

  “Oh yeah?” he says, revealing a glimpse of perfect teeth in his wry lips.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding playfully. “By telling me what the hell that was all about.”

  Again that quiet laugh, but this time it ends in a sigh and he looks away as he paces a little in the room. I move over to the bed and sit on the edge. He points at the minibar.

  “Okay if I grab a water?” he asks.

  “Go ahead.”

  He pulls open the little fridge and takes out a bottle of water, uncapping it with hands that make it look smaller than it really is, then downs half of it before looking at me.

  “It’s a long story,” he says.

  “Oh well,” I reply, looking at a make-believe watch, “I only have about…let’s see…two days with nothing to do.”

  It doesn’t even elicit a wry smile from him. Whatever this “story” is, it’s clearly not pretty.

  “I need you to promise me you’ll keep this a secret. Don’t tell anyone. Not even if you think they don’t know me.”

  I give him my best “reassuring nurse” smile. “Of course. Nurses who can’t keep secrets don’t keep their jobs either,” I reply, but he says nothing, and only maintains that stone-hard stare on me. “I promise.”

  Now he looks away, turning the water bottle in his hands before setting it on a side table. He takes some heavy breaths, paces a little in the room.

  “The guy you just met was Warren Brown—head of Montague and Brown,” he announces, and I can tell by the way he says it the name carries weight in his world.

  I look back at him and struggle to think of where I’ve heard of the company. “Don’t they make ketchup?” I joke.

  He smiles, on the verge of a laugh but held back by the importance of what he’s trying to explain. “They’re one of the biggest investment firms in the country, and have been for over fifty years. We’re talking million-dollar bonuses, dinners with presidents, old money. No…not just money. The kind of power even money can’t buy.”

  I’m tempted to make another ketchup joke but his seriousness compels me not to. “And you work for them?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway,” he says, pacing a little quicker. “I’m interviewing. Although ‘interview’ doesn’t really do it justice. More like an ordeal. Four months of hard work, tough meetings, being grilled at every opportunity. Working for them on a ‘temporary’ basis while they put me through the paces. But I’ve beaten out about two hundred other guys. It’s just me and their final decision now. I’m close. Really close.”

  “You must be good then.”

  “I am,” he says, and it seems more like simple fact than arrogance. “But Warren wants more than ‘good.’ He wants honesty…integrity…character. And to an old-fashioned guy like him, character means having a good woman beside you.”

  “Ah!” I say, smiling as it clicks into place. “And you don’t have one.”

  “Not anymore,” he says, before a dark wave comes over his eyes, making them cold, as if he’s turning them into shields. “Turns out picking stocks is easier than picking women.”

  I let out a laugh and say, “Well in my experience, I’d say rocket science is probably a piece of cake compared to finding a decent man, too.”

  He leans against the glass of the balcony window, hands in his pockets, looking at me. His posture so natural, despite his commanding stature, that I can’t help admiring the way he keeps a body as powerful as his under complete control.

  A little unsettled by his intense eyes, I attempt to turn the focus back on him. “So…you said you had a breakup recently?”

  “I can’t talk about it right now,” he says firmly and quickly, as if in response to me touching a bruise. Then he breathes heavily and looks out the window, seeming to mellow. “She was my fiancée, and she left just over a month ago.”

  He doesn’t say any more, and continues to pace a little restlessly until I can’t fight the urge to probe again.

  “Was it something you did, then?” I ask gently.

  He turns his face to me and I immediately regret the question, and consider for a second explaining that I presume he’d done something because I can’t imagine a woman leaving a guy as hot as him without a great reason.

  “Only mistake I made was proposing to her,” he says in a hard, private tone. When he speaks again the words come out reluctantly, as if he feels obligated to explain now that he’s revealed even this little. “She liked to be seen…liked attention. Liked people to know about her expensive clothes, nice car…she liked to play all the silly little games of status and society.”

  “And you don’t?”

  He turns to me again, his eyes not so hard as they search me for a few seconds. “And I don’t,” he says a little more easily.

  “So…you had a fiancée, and then she left, and you never told your, um, colleagues.”

  “Right,” Nate says, seeming a little less restless as he moves back to the chair and sits.

  “Because…” I continue once I realize he’s got no more to say himself. “It would impact your chances of landing that big job.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But…” I begin again, more tentatively now, “you’re lying to them. Lying about your whole life… I dunno. It’s kind of…”

  Nate stares off into the distance. I wait as he nods to himself, clearly wrestling with thoughts in his own mind—starting to say something but stopping himself, as if he can’t quite win that wrestling match.

  When he finally does raise his eyes to me again, he says, “The thing is…I’ve done everything by the book my whole life. I started with nothing, less than nothing. My dad was blue-collar and he was never home, never gave a shit about my grades or what I did with myself. He thought college was a waste. So after I got my high school GED I refused his offer of a job and put myself through school, taught myself programming, worked every job you can think of to pay tuition—construction, working in kitchens, hauling stuff across Chicago, anything I could find—and after all that, where the hell did it get me?

  “It got me laid off when they moved my job abroad, got me blamed for fraud I didn’t commit by the boss’s nephew, and now—” He stops himself, as if waking up from a trance. “Sorry,�
� he says as he rises to his feet and starts pacing again. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you all this. I only came to say thank you…”

  “I have that effect on people,” I say with a smile, hoping to ease him out of his self-directed frustration a little.

  He stops to look at me again, searching, then softens a bit. “Yeah…you really do.”

  I laugh gently and add, “Plus, you obviously don’t talk about this stuff. I’m sure it’s been building up for a while.”

  “Yeah…” he says, sighing heavily. “I don’t want any pity or anything, don’t want to give you a sob story. I’m just telling you that so you’ll understand how I got here.”

  “I get it.”

  “Point is, I’m done doing things by the book. And if it takes a little lie to get me over the line—then I’ll do it that way.”

  “Aren’t you worried they’ll find out?”

  “No,” he says as he continues his pace up and down the room.

  “I mean…you kind of almost got caught already,” I say slowly, then smile. “If I wasn’t such a fabulous actress, that is.”

  He stops and looks at me, squinting a little as if he’s just noticed something. “Yeah. You are…”

  “What can I say,” I remark, playfully flicking my hair as if proud, “I have a talent.”

  “You have something, that’s for sure,” he says, his voice wistful and low, as if it were just a private thought slipping out.

  I let out a laugh and shrug, feeling a little warmer under his gaze again, then say, “But it’s not like you can do something like that every time you nearly get caught.”

  “No…not every time. But…” His eyes change, something new in his face now. The same kind of look he gave me when he stopped me at the pool, one of discovery, of throwing caution to the wind. The look of a man doubling down.

  “But what?” I ask.

  He takes a moment before answering.

  “Like I said, I’m close. I just need that final offer, to sign the contract, officially get the job. It’ll probably happen in a few more days. There’s a small business conference here, and I already have some fantastic leads. Once we’re back in Chicago and I hand in my report they’ll practically have no choice but to hire me, I’m sure of it.”

  “But…” I say, sensing that he’s preambling something.

  “But…” he repeats, “this trip isn’t over yet. We’re having a dinner tonight before Warren flies back and he expects you—I mean, my fiancée—to be there with me.”

  “You want me to pretend to be your fiancée again? For an entire evening?”

  He paces away quickly, as if he’s too ashamed to look me in the eye anymore, but quickly turns back.

  “I can pay you. Good money. Name your price.”

  I laugh. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I can give you stock information New York brokers would kill for,” he says quickly, imploringly, like a salesman who’s run out of spiel. “I’ll fly you out to Chicago. Take you shopping. Show you the sights. How about a car? You like cars?”

  I laugh again involuntarily, putting my hand over my mouth.

  “What would it take then?” he asks desperately. “Just name your price.”

  I wave him away as I get a grip on the laugh I can’t control, sniffing it away though a big smile remains. “You don’t need to pay me,” I say. “I’ll do it for free.”

  His desperation turns to incredulity. “You would? Why?”

  I shrug emphatically. “I told you: I like helping people. And whether you intended it or not, that was a hell of a sob story. How about we call it a favor for a friend?”

  He smirks, but his eyes are still disbelieving, looking at me like he’s cutting through me once again, searching for something that isn’t there. “Really?”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “We’re friends now, right?”

  “I…yes. You’re incredible.” He rubs his brow and looks out of the French doors again, intense in thought. “Been a while since I knew anyone who did anything for free.”

  “I mean, I’m not promising I’ll pull it off,” I say quickly. “If people start asking me your shoe size or your allergies, I’ll get found out pretty quick.”

  “If you do half as good a job as you did by the pool then you’ll be fine,” he says supportively.

  “I didn’t realize how high the stakes were before! But either way, it’ll be fun to be the one pretending I’m in a relationship for once,” I say, my tone getting a little bitter again as another memory of Theo rears its ugly head. I quickly follow it up so he doesn’t notice it. “It’s just dinner with your boss?”

  “Warren, four or five other guys—I think a couple of their spouses are here too.”

  “Okay…” I say, trying to imagine it.

  Nate checks his watch and winces. “Shit. I’ve got a couple presentations I’m already late on,” he says, already striding for the door. “I’ll come pick you up around eight, okay?”

  “Wait—” I call back, standing up to follow him. “Shouldn’t we go over it together beforehand? I know hardly anything about you.”

  Nate stops with his hand on the doorknob to look back at me. “I pretty much just told you the story of my life.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to you than that.”

  He smiles. A genuine one, and I once again feel like it’s something he doesn’t do often, something he’s not used to.

  “Weirdly…” he says, in a quiet tone, as if thinking out loud, “it already kinda feels like you know me more than the people I work with. Thanks for listening to all that.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” I say.

  Now he’s the one laughing. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  I reflect his smile, trying (and failing) not to blush a little. The excitement of what we’re about to do starting to grow in me, the formalizing of our pretend engagement almost like a bond itself—in some ways even deeper, riskier, more dangerous. A shared secret, colluding like criminals, suddenly being thrust into “high society”… There’s something almost sexy about it.

  In fact, this might just be turning into exactly the kind of vacation I’ve been needing.

  4

  Nate

  Risk. That’s what my (potential) job comes down to. The constant, obsessive, meticulous, measuring, avoidance—and taking—of risk.

  When you manage billions of dollars for some of the richest people in the world, you start to realize that nothing is safe. That everything is a risk.

  The guys I’m working with—Eddy, Sam, all the rest—they’re the best in the business because they understand that. They treat every decision carefully, in business and life. They think long term, don’t rush into hype, stay cool when everyone is panicking. I used to be like that too, but now here I am, doubling down like a gambler on his last chips.

  I’ve just entrusted everything I have—my life, my career, my last chance at making it—in the hands of a nurse with a pretty laugh and a cute face. If this goes wrong it won’t just lose me the job, it’ll become the kind of story the finance world talks about over cigars and sherry in their upstate mansions. I’ll be known as the guy who tried to fake his entire life forever. Montague and Brown would probably make sure I never work anything more than a minimum wage job again. Warren hates liars, and a firm that can set you up for life can wreck you forever just as easily.

  And yet. Something about her…about Hazel…made that risk almost easy for me to take. Something compassionate in her eyes. Something real in her laugh. Something honest in her voice. A goodness about her. She even made me feel foolish for offering to pay her. It’s almost an alien feeling to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that from a person. I had stopped thinking it even existed.

  Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she’s just good at putting on a show, well-practiced from her job as a nurse. Maybe I’m just being a sucker for a woman who’s about to destroy me all over again. Or maybe…

  “Na
te! Is there a problem?”

  “Huh?” I say, as if waking up.

  It’s Sam speaking to me; we’re heading out of one of the conference halls where we’ve just seen a number of presentations. I’ve been in my own head the whole time, moving on autopilot, going through the motions.

  “You not getting enough sleep, pal?” Sam asks.

  “Of course he isn’t,” a voice says behind us.

  I turn to find Tara walking behind us. She’s another of M and B’s hotshots. A tall blonde who looks like a news anchor and talks like a marine.

  “He brought his fiancée with him,” she says with a knowing smirk. She winks at us. “She’s probably keeping him busier than the conference is.”

  “How did you know she was here?” I ask.

  Tara winks again. “News travels fast—especially when it’s the news we’ll get to see what sort of bombshell a guy like you can bag,” she replies.

  I force a half-smile and say, “I’ll have to warn her she’s the main course then.”

  Tara laughs as if I’m joking, then takes my arm as we head to the next presentation.

  It’s ten minutes to eight and I’m hurrying through the hotel, still buttoning and fixing my suit while I check every corner and space for anyone I know noticing me. The dumbest way this could all fall apart would be somebody noticing that my “fiancée” is staying in a much smaller room on the other side of this gigantic hotel.

  Eventually I manage to skulk my way to her room, and pause for a moment at her door. I lean toward it with all the anticipation of what we’re about to do, and find it cute when I hear the upbeat pop music—“going out” music—playing faintly from inside.

  I knock softly, just loud enough for her to hear me, as if still worried even a knock might blow my cover. She calls something that I can’t make out, and after a half a minute of me checking both ends of the corridor anxiously, she whips open the door.

  I’d seen her body before at the pool. A physique full of curves, beautifully voluptuous breasts, skin as soft and inviting as silk. I’d even felt the soft, glowing eroticism of her near-naked body when she’d answered the door in her towel earlier. But this…now…