BS Boyfriend: A Standalone Fake Fiancée Romance

by JD Hawkins

  The teal dress is as tight around her body as I suddenly want to be. Its hem clutching her perfectly-shaped thighs. Its taut material outlining her hips and waist as if daring me to resist exploring them further with hands, lips, my own body. She’s a completely different kind of stranger now. Breasts I could bite, shoulders I could kiss, a body I want to pull against mine until sunrise.

  Suddenly her arrow-like eyes and straight little nose don’t seem so cute, so friendly, so pretty—now they seem seductive, ravaging me, compelling me to do the same to her…

  She starts talking, and like a man coming to, it takes me a second to shake this lustful fog and focus on her words.

  “…really sorry but this is literally the only thing I have that even comes close to ‘nice’ clothes. It’s either this or a pair of ripped jeans. You know, the most fancy I thought I’d get on this trip would be dancing at the bar—I just couldn’t even imagine how or why I’d end up at some fancy dinner with financial big shots. I dunno, what do you think we should do? If I’d known earlier I would have bought something…maybe we could ask one of the staff if they have anything in the lost and found that I would fit in? Something that doesn’t look as ridiculous as this? Maybe we could—”

  “The hell are you talking about?” I say, stepping past her inside the room, partly to get out of the corridor, but mostly to get a look at her from another angle. “You look incredible.”

  She smiles a little and it seems to make her entire presence glow. She brushes hair past her ear before remembering to shut the door. Her room smells like makeup and hair products, so that it feels almost like I’m basking in her. I can almost forget everything else being here, looking at her. Almost, but not quite.

  She shrugs her shoulders, trying to look meek…but it’s impossible in a dress like that, with a body like hers. A force of extreme sexuality emanating from her, so that the way she sheepishly turns a little sideways only makes her coquettishly arousing, the way she bends one of her knees as she shrugs a gesture that makes my jaw clench.

  “It’s not what I would have chosen,” she says, relaxing a little.

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t choose,” I say, turning away and pretending to be interested in a perfume bottle so I can get a grip on myself.

  “You don’t think it’s too much? Too loud? I feel like I should be in black, or something more subtle at least…”

  I put the bottle back down and allow myself to gaze at her again.

  “We’re trying to convince people that you’re my fiancée,” I say. “The way you look, the only question they’ll have is why I haven’t put the ring on your finger already.”

  She laughs that pretty, easy laugh again, and I realize that it sounds like a foreign language to me. A pleasant one. Something from another world, where people live differently. A world where people don’t take things so seriously. Where they aren’t bundles of unfulfilled obsessions and pathological ambitions. Even at the best of times, Nicole—or anyone else I ever dated for that matter—never laughed like that.

  She steps toward me, her own anxieties diffused now, but my inner tensions only rising as she brings her barefoot body closer.

  “You look like you got dressed in the dark,” she says as she fixes the collar of my shirt, the lapel of my blazer.

  Even in the short time I’ve known her, I know it’s just her natural inclination to help, some innate compulsion to take care of others before herself. Her hair still pinned back on one side as she prepares it, a selection of jewelry on the table ready for her to wear. She’ll fix my outfit before she gets to finishing hers.

  But all I’m thinking about is her pretty fingers working themselves across the fabric on my chest, her body so close to mine, dainty chin raised, eyes focused on their work. I stay still so she can fix me, but inside I feel like a man caught in a storm at sea—or maybe I’m the storm itself. Rocking and raging in the danger and fury of my own thumping blood.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve felt desire. Desire like this, for sure. My work, my failed relationship, even my social life, it’s all been defined by self-control, as if acting like a monk would get me into heaven. Perhaps I’m only just realizing it won’t. Or perhaps I’ve been testing myself a little too much.

  Or perhaps—probably—this woman, with her angelic smile and body made for sinning, is the biggest test of my discipline yet.

  Her skin, her smell, the delicacy of her fingers brushing against me, all conjuring up visions of what could be if not for everything else. My imagination running with the force of reality, a movie I can’t stop, a daydream I can’t control. It would be so easy to pull her body just a few inches closer…to lift her onto the dresser, smashing the bottles and products there aside so I can squeeze and stroke every curve…

  She finishes fixing my collar and looks up at me, eyes catching mine.

  “There you go,” she says, her voice gone low and throaty. “Perfect.”

  But she doesn’t move away from me, and I can feel the heat radiating off her as we gaze into each other’s eyes, the sudden urge to kiss her almost taking over.

  I force myself to step back. It’s an instinctive decision, but it’s an instinct I’ve trained all my life. The choice to wreck everything by giving in to my own impulses, or to forcefully remind myself of what’s at stake, of what we’re here to do. Self-control versus these impossible temptations.

  I clear my throat loudly and look away.

  “I’ll go sit out on the balcony while you finish getting ready,” I say, forcing normality into my tone.

  She nods. “Sure. I’ll try to be quick.”

  It’s a nice evening. The incessant heat of the day giving way to a cool breeze which turns the air light and fresh. I let myself feel it on my skin, reset my heated blood, and focus myself on the task at hand.

  After about ten minutes I hear the French doors open behind me and turn to look.

  “I’m ready,” she says, and I get up to return to the room, determined not to notice how the light splashes across her hair, how a thin necklace now emphasizes the taper of her neck, how the heels she’s put on have made her body even more perversely thrilling.

  I wait for her with my hands in my pockets while she darts about the room performing some final preparations. Grabbing her handbag, remembering what she needs to bring and putting it inside, final checks on her hair and makeup. The hazy pleasure I get from looking at her mingles with dark pangs of familiarity.

  With Nicole, these trepidatious moments of getting ready before going out were almost always accompanied by arguments and tensions. Her on edge because a successful night out was the be-all and end-all, me fatigued and bored by another night of superficial parties with the kind of people who liked them.

  Somehow, despite having plenty to dread this evening, there’s an easy calm between me and this strange new girl who’s carrying my career in her pretty fingers.

  “Okay,” she says conclusively, flashing her spotlight smile at me as she stalks on heels toward the door, “let’s do this.”

  The hotel restaurant is as spacious and grand as a European ballroom. Gigantic windows on one wall look out upon mountains silhouetted by the sunset. Its glowing light skims across a lake at their base. As pretty as a painting, but real enough to take your breath away. The ceilings are so high that the many candlelit tables seem small by comparison.

  The maître d’ smiles at Hazel and me as we approach, and she slides her arm through mine, presses her body into me a little. It’s such an easy and natural gesture I almost forget that she’s doing it for show.

  “Mr. Keaton,” he politely says, bowing a little to me before turning to Hazel to do the same, “Mrs. Keaton—your party is already at the table. Follow me, please.”

  He turns around and we follow. I swap a look with Hazel—no need to say it, we’re both thinking the same thing. It’s working. For now. I wind my arm around her back, hand on her waist, and try to make touching her like this look like a familiar
thing, rather than the exciting prospect it feels like.

  Sure enough, most of our group is already sitting around the large, round table. They notice us coming from a distance. It’s no surprise, since there isn’t a man in this restaurant who hasn’t stolen a glance at Hazel. The table group is all smiles, teeth flashing at us with a mixture of delight, surprise, and intense interest.

  They give a chorus of brief greetings and I stop at the table smiling back at them, clutching Hazel a little closer, proudly, intimately. She rests a hand naturally on my chest as she smiles back at them.

  “Hello, everyone,” I announce, with a casual formality. “I’d like to introduce you all to my fiancée: Ni—Hazel.”

  Their responses are enthusiastic and simultaneous.

  “Hey!”

  “Wow you two look fantastic together!”

  “So nice to finally meet you.”

  “What a pleasure to have you here.”

  “Hazel,” I say, gesturing at each person in turn, “this is Sam, Eddy—the guys I told you about. We’re working on the same report together. Warren, of course, you’ve already met. This is Keith,” I say, nodding at the quiet, handsome accountant, then at the redheaded femme fatale beside him, “and his wife, Selena. That’s Mickey and his wife Gabrielle.” I smile at the poised, catlike couple with bronzed tans, angular faces, and perfect dark hair. “And this is Tara,” I conclude, gently patting her on the shoulder since she’s sitting in front of us.

  “It’s lovely to meet you all,” Hazel says politely, scanning the table to direct it at everyone.

  I pull out a chair for her to sit—Gabrielle to her left—and then sit beside her, with Tara to my right.

  “Welcome,” Selena says, raising her wine glass, “to our new ‘desperate housewife of Chicago.’”

  There are laughs around the table which Hazel joins in with tentatively. Real or not, her seeming shyness will probably be an asset tonight.

  “So come on,” Sam says mischievously to her, “tell us what Nate really thinks of the job.”

  “Oh, let the poor thing have a drink first before you interrogate her.” Warren smiles, raising a hand only halfway but still compelling a waiter to hurry over.

  We both order some drinks as menus are handed out and people start perusing them.

  “You know,” Eddy says, pointing at Hazel with a squint, “I’ve seen you a few times already around the hotel. Lying by the pool, having breakfast alone…I had no idea you were Nate’s fiancée.”

  Hazel and I swap a quick glance. Here it comes. These guys might appear meek and humble, but they’re a shrewd bunch. They wouldn’t be sitting with Warren if they weren’t.

  “You know Nate by now,” Selena says with a sardonic laugh, “even a woman as beautiful as her couldn’t allure him as much as his reports and accounts.”

  There are laughs around the table, then Sam leans forward over his beer with a big grin, getting into the mood of things. “Yeah, Hazel, what’s the deal with this guy?” he asks playfully. “I don’t get it: He’s still young, looks like an underwear model, is smart as a whip—and yet even I always feel like I’m having ten times more fun than him.”

  There are more laughs, but quieter now, the whole table genuinely intrigued to hear what Hazel will say. She opens her mouth to speak and then stops herself to look at me, as if a little worried she might say the wrong thing.

  I smile back at her, put one arm across the back of her chair, then raise my other palm.

  “Go ahead, babe,” I say, pretending to be completely relaxed. “You can be honest.”

  “Um…” Hazel begins, looking cute as she wrinkles her nose to think a little. “He’s…” She looks at me like she’s genuinely studying me, trying to answer the question for real. “He’s just a slow burner.”

  She’s still looking at me, as if she’s telling me this, showing me that this is what she really thinks. Then she turns back to the group and laughs a little.

  “It takes him a little while to relax—and you need to know how to handle him. He’s just very particular about things, but…he’s actually really fun and sweet and warm to be around. He just needs to feel like he has nothing else to worry about. Nothing to worry or stress about. He needs to feel really comfortable and calm before he can let his hair down.”

  There are no laughs this time, but everyone’s face looks genuinely intrigued, half of them looking at me, a few of them nodding. None of them are as surprised as me, however. She hit the nail on the head.

  The atmosphere is broken by the arrival of the waiter to take our orders, and as the others discuss and overcomplicate their selections I take the opportunity to lean in to Hazel and whisper in her ear.

  “That was great,” I say.

  She smiles and her cheek brushes against my nose. “Good,” she says.

  “You even convinced me,” I say, then pull back so she can see me smile.

  She brushes hair behind her ear and I resist the sudden urge to plant a kiss on her, even though I know I could justify it as part of the ruse.

  More drinks arrive, and along with everyone making orders, the table is now a chorus of multiple conversations, raised voices, laughter, and proclamations. Hazel is soon engaged in a conversation with Gabrielle and her husband Mickey. It’s mostly about her dress and hair, but I look down and pretend to be engrossed in my drink so I can listen in and perhaps rescue her if it gets too dicey. Soon, however, Warren and Eddy gather me into their own conversation about the hotel.

  There’s an animated, vibrant energy about the table—more than usual, more than typical for a late-night dinner. Hazel’s no small part of that. Her easy, natural laugh diffusing any tension within a ten-foot radius. And even though she’s beside me, even I can’t help but notice how she glows here, how her color and radiance stand out among my stuffy coworkers in the nicest way.

  The starters arrive, and once the waiters leave again Warren uses the opportunity to seize everyone’s attention.

  Raising his glass, he says, “Before we eat, I’d like to drink a toast.” We all grasp our glasses and lift them too. “I know what you’re all thinking: ‘Oh God, here we go with another rambling piece of advice from the old fool,’” he says, and there’s polite laughter around the table. “I’ll make this one quick.” He turns his gaze to me and Hazel, raises his glass a little higher in our direction, then says, “To new beginnings.”

  My heart skips a beat—is this Warren’s thinly veiled way of telling me I’m about to be hired full-time? No longer just a temporary, probationary candidate?

  There are agreeable murmurs and everyone drinks before focusing on the platters of bruschetta, fig and olive tapenade, antipasto skewers, and herbed olive oil with sliced crusty bread for dipping.

  Hazel leans closer, her soft shoulder pressing against me, immediately seizing my attention. She says, “It’s almost like they’re your actual family.”

  “I told you this job was old-fashioned,” I reply.

  Everyone eats hungrily, pausing only for brief exchanges, quick jokes. Hazel ends up chatting with Selena a little, and I listen in to their talk of the hotel and other getaway destinations before relaxing. Hazel’s handling herself well. By the time the entrees arrive there isn’t a single reason for anybody to believe that she isn’t, in fact, my fiancée. Not a single doubt that I—or anyone, for that matter—would want to tie her down.

  More than that, they don’t just believe her, they like her. A lot.

  I’m idly talking with Keith across the table when Hazel suddenly lets out a low, erotic hum. I immediately turn to see her with her eyes closed, chin lifted to reveal her soft neck.

  She seems to come to and immediately notices that I’m staring at her with intrigue.

  “This lobster bisque is incredible,” she explains. “You’ve got to try it.”

  Before I can say or do anything she’s spooned up another bite and is holding it up before my face.

  It’s such an easy, obvious gesture f
or her that once again I’m reminded of how she comes from an entirely different world. A world where your first impulse on enjoying something is to try to share it with someone. A world where feeding a stranger is a daily, casual thing, while I’m from a world where if you tried that they’d only look at you with disgust.

  Except she’s not a stranger…not supposedly, anyway. I glance from her eyes, to the soup spoon, to her again, then maintain her gaze as I take the bite into my mouth. As I do it something in her own expression changes, as if she only just realizes now how intimate this is, or perhaps she’s just seeing how intimate I’m finding it.

  Long after I’ve taken the mouthful, after she’s lowered the spoon a little, we’re still staring at each other like we’ve just realized something. Like we’ve trapped each other. Her like a rabbit in headlights, me like I’ve caught a scent.

  “Ugh! Look at you two—so loved up,” Selena calls with pretend-disgust. She laughs. “It’s so sweet I’m going to have to skip dessert.”

  “You’re such a lovely couple,” Gabrielle adds beside us.

  Selena turns to her husband Keith and nudges him. “How come you never feed me?”

  The quiet accountant smiles a little mischievously before picking up some mashed potato on his fork and bringing it slowly to his wife. Selena smiles. We all smile.

  Then, just before the fork is in her mouth, Keith winks at us and instead dabs the mashed potato right on her nose. Selena shrieks loud enough to draw attention from the furthest end of the table, and the rest of us laugh while Keith defends himself from her attempt to retaliate by flicking bean sprouts at him.

  Amid the laughter Eddy leans across toward Hazel and says, “We’re supposed to be the greatest financial minds of the era, believe it or not. Makes you fear for the country, doesn’t it?”

  Warren chuckles and joins in. “It was worse when we began in the fifties,” he says. “George Lynch—”

  “Fourth richest man in the country,” I murmur to Hazel.