My Fake Fiancé Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by R.R. Banks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Just Pretend (Sample)

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by R.R. Banks

  How did a lie and one car ride turn into a full-blown engagement?

  It all started with a sign…Literally.

  You might have life figured out, but I definitely don’t.

  I’m an aspiring novelist that’s domed to be single.

  I’m a mess really. Imperfect might be an understatement.

  To survive the Holidays, I did something crazy.

  I walked up to L.A.’s hottest bachelor and gave him a proposal.

  Now, I’m in big trouble.

  Trouble in the chiseled form of Mile Churchill.

  He’s richer than sin and he’s carrying a huge package.

  Falling for him wasn’t part of the arrangement.

  Nor is the life changing surprise that’s about to change everything…

  Chapter One

  “And for the matter of punitive damages, we the jury award the plaintiff 7.3 million dollars.”

  A gasp ripples through the courtroom behind me and I clap my client on the shoulder, a wide, beaming smile on both of our faces. We were only seeking four million in punitive damages, but the jury found the negligence significant enough to warrant almost doubling the damages we sought.

  As the judge thanks the jury and dismisses them, I can't stop myself from shooting a look of arrogant triumph across the aisle at Ray Monsol, lead counsel for the Emerson Corporation. He glares at me with a sour look on his face. He's obviously having trouble believing that his team of overpriced legal eagles just got their asses handed to them by an upstart like me. Again.

  My partner, Nate Beck, and I graduated from Stanford Law, but instead of going into corporate law, we decided to do our own thing. I've always had a vision of what I wanted my career to be like – one of David slaying Goliath after Goliath in the courtroom – and was excited to see that Nate shared that dream.

  Together, we've spent the last decade or so making the lives of guys like Ray Monsol a living hell. We've made our mark by taking on – and taking down – big corporations who screw over people like our clients. Over the last decade, we've won millions of dollars in settlements and awards for those we represent – all while making a nice chunk of change for ourselves.

  I don't do what I do because I need the money though – I come from a family with more money than God. I liken my choice in career to big game hunting – except I'm not one of those assholes who runs around murdering defenseless animals because it makes me feel like a man.

  No, my prey are the big companies and my weapon isn't a big gun – it's my wits, my smarts, and the law. So yeah, call it the thrill of the hunt that drives me to do what I do. That's not to say I don't care about my clients. I absolutely do. I genuinely despise seeing what these big corporations put them through. And because of that, I fight like hell to advocate for them. I fight like hell to bring them justice and to make sure they get what's owed to them.

  It also helps that this kind of work will benefit me when I run for office later in life. I've had political aspirations for a long time. Right now, I'm just biding my time. I'm putting in the work and building my cred as a champion of the people. Someone willing to stand up to corporate greed – which is ironic, given that my family owns a large tech company in California. But, that reputation is what will carry me into office one day, so I work hard at it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Churchill,” Mrs. Winston says, tears rolling down her face.

  I give her a smile and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I'm so happy for you,” I say. “Now, you can go on with your life. You can live comfortably and know that companies like Emerson have finally realized they can't treat people like that.”

  This is the standard spiel I recite to every client after a win. Not that it means much. These big companies will never learn their lesson, no matter how many hundreds of millions they’re made to pay out. Mostly because the damages almost always end up costing less than implementing the changes that brought about the lawsuit in the first place – especially since the number of people who will actually file a suit is very small. Only a lucky few are fortunate enough to punch these bastards where it hurts –their wallet.

  It's all a numbers game as far as these companies are concerned. After all, CEOs need their multi-million bonuses and luxury vacations, right? So, companies like Emerson Corporation end up cutting corners and doing whatever it takes to save a buck here and there.

  No, these companies will never learn their lesson. They'll never stop treating people like disposable commodities because it's better for their bottom line than taking care of them is.

  “I know money will never replace your husband for you, Mrs. Winston,” I say. “Again, I'm so sorry for all you've lost.”

  She gives me a tight smile as tears continue to roll down her cheeks. “I'll be able to do a lot of good with this money,” she sighs. “I'll finally be able to provide for my family.”

  I nod. “Yes, you will.”

  “Bless you, Mr. Churchill,” she says. “Bless you.”

  “There he is, the man of the hour and today's big winner,” he calls. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miles Churchill, champion of the downtrodden!”

  I laugh and give Nate a smile as I drop down into one of the large, overstuffed wingback chairs gathered around the small, wooden table. Some of the other club members are looking at us, their faces a blend of amusement and hostility. Many members of the Wheldon Social Club are CEOs of companies I've hunted and taken down. I don't think they’re fully capable of appreciating my efforts.

  The Wheldon is a social club that's almost a hundred years old. Its members list has boasted almost all of the movers, shakers, and elite in Los Angeles during that time. It’s a place where you can get away from the crowds and enjoy a drink, a cigar, and a quiet conversation. Although California has a ban on smoking in public places, the Wheldon has never been one to adhere to the laws of the common folk – and their rules reflect that.

  “Catch.”

  Nate tosses me a cigar. I unwrap it – a fine Cuban – and light it as one of the waitresses drops off a glass of scotch for me.

  “To victory,” Nate says, raising his glass.

  I salute him with mine and exhale a thick plume of cigar smoke. “To victory.”

  I take a swallow of my drink and let the amber liquid slide down my throat, savoring its slow burn. To me, a fine scotch always tastes like victory. At l
east that's what it's become. Traditionally, after a big win, Nate and I meet up at the Wheldon to celebrate with drinks and cigars – much to the chagrin of the other members who are a few million dollars lighter due to our efforts.

  The best thing of all? There's not a damn thing they can do about it. Our families have belonged to the Wheldon for decades. And unless we break a rule in the member's charter, they have no way to expel us. We don't have to break the rules to get under their skin though – our presence alone is usually enough to irritate them.

  “Where are you with the Martin case?” I ask.

  He shrugs, rolling his eyes. “The company wants to cut a settlement.”

  “You going to?”

  “Hell no. Not if I have any say in it,” he scoffs. “I'd rather drag them through the shit in open court. Expose all the corrupt bullshit they've gotten away with. But, it's up to Harold. He's has to decide how far he wants to go with it.”

  Nate's far more idealistic than I am. He does this kind of work because he truly believes in being a champion of the people. He isn’t building a career planned around future aspirations – that's just who he is. That's Nate. He's a great guy, and even though I tend to give him shit about being a hopeless dreamer, I love him for it.

  Personally, I think we balance each other out pretty well – I give him a killer instinct, and he helps me feel a little more compassion and in touch with humanity. We work well together. Always have.

  “Are you going to try and talk him into taking it to trial?” I ask.

  “Would you?”

  I shrug. “Depends on what kind of a settlement they're offering.”

  “Six figures.”

  “Then hell no,” I laugh. “I never settle for anything below a million. Anything less is insulting.”

  Nate laughs along with me but knows that I'm serious. I've worked hard to craft an image that scares the shit out of people. One that says, you're about to have your asses handed to you and lose a lot of money. Of course, I've lost my fair share of cases. That’s the nature of the beast. You can't always account for a fickle jury. But I've won far more than I've lost, earning me a reputation as a lawyer you do not want to tangle with.

  “Oh look, here comes your buddy now,” Nate teases.

  I glance over and see Ray Monsol walk into the club. When he looks over and sees us, his face immediately darkens. I give him a wide smile and raise my glass to him in salute. He was at least a somewhat worthy adversary.

  “I don't think he likes me very much,” I say.

  “Yeah, I wouldn't expect to be on his Christmas card list this year,” Nate cracks.

  “Probably not,” I say.

  “More like definitely not.”

  Ray looks around the club, no doubt wanting to put as much distance between us as possible. And when he finally realizes he has no choice but to walk directly past us to get to the only available table, his jaw twitches with rage. It makes me laugh.

  Drink in hand, he marches toward us. I give Nate a wink. “Hey, Ray,” I call out as he draws closer to where we’re sitting. “Hang on a minute.”

  The man sighs, stopping in his tracks to glare down at me. “I'm meeting someone, so I really don't have –”

  “That's fine,” I say. “I just wanted to say you did a great job with the Emerson case. You were a tough opponent to beat. Good work, man.”

  His smile is tight and he looks like he'd rather do anything else than talk to me right now. Not that I blame him. I've squared off with Ray a number of times and our trials are always contentious – to say the least. I’m definitely not his favorite person on the planet.

  “Thank you,” he replies stiffly. “Now, if you don't mind –”

  “Must be tough for you,” I say. “Getting your ass kicked by us for – what is it now – three or four straight cases?”

  “Four,” Nate confirms, doing his best to suppress a smile. “Which, including today's judgment, totals more than thirty million dollars in damages we've won for our clients.”

  “Ouch. Okay, four,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, it must to be tough to be a fancy corporate attorney with an army of unpaid interns and endless resources at your disposal, and still come out short, huh? That has to sting a little bit, right?”

  Ray's jaw clenches and a murderous expression flashes in his eyes as he turns and walks away without another word. Nate and I look at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Our outburst draws the attention of some nearby patrons, who shoot us stern, disapproving frowns.

  The atmosphere inside the Wheldon is usually sober. Refined, even. Conversations here are usually carried out in lowered voices and respectful tones.

  Oops.

  “You can be such a dick sometimes,” Nate says.

  I shrug. “I can’t help it. I love winning,” I say. “And I love getting in the faces of smug, arrogant pricks who think they're inherently better than everyone else just because they’re wearing a thousand-dollar suit.”

  “You realize you're a smug, arrogant prick in a thousand-dollar suit, right?”

  I laugh. “That's true,” I admit. “At least I'm a different kind of prick, though.”

  “Well, there is that, I guess.”

  I set my empty drink down on the table between us and take a long drag off my cigar, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling, still reveling in the rush of victory.

  “What can I say? I love winning,” I say.

  Nate laughs and downs the last of his drink. The waitress comes by with a fresh round in less than a minute and whisks away our empties.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Ray sitting over in his chair with another man, talking in hushed tones – still glowering at me.

  “So, Nate,” I say. “What are you and Mercy doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Heading to her folks' place out in Denver,” he says.

  “Wow,” I say. “Meeting the parents. Guess it's getting serious, huh?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I think so,” he replies. “I think she might be the one.”

  “Congrats," I say. “I guess that means I've officially lost my wingman.”

  “Please, Miles, it's not like I'm dying,” he laughs.

  “Pretty close.”

  Nate gives me a long, even look. “You ever think about settling down yourself?”

  “Eventually. I'm going to run for office at some point, so I’ll need to. Voters trust a man with a family more for whatever reason. So yeah, at some point, I'll probably wife myself up. Until then, I'm going to enjoy the perks of being rich, single, and handsome.”

  Nate laughs and shakes his head. “Wife yourself up? Wow. You are such a romantic.”

  Honestly, I don't have the time or patience required for relationships. I’ve never ever really been a “hearts and flowers” guy. Emotions are messy, complicated things that never lead to anything good. They're unnecessary distractions that take me away from what I should be doing.

  I don't have the greatest track record when it comes to dating or love, and I'm not particularly eager to throw myself back into that particular mess anytime soon. Not when I have my career and political aspirations to work on.

  It's true that voters trust candidates with families more than single, unmarried politicians. I’ll have to address that deficiency in my portfolio eventually. I'm under no illusions about it – I highly doubt I’ll be marrying for love. If anything, it will be a mutually beneficial, loveless arrangement with a woman equally as driven and ambitious as I am. I've got my sights set on the ultimate political position one day – the presidency.

  I simply don't have time to develop and nurture a relationship right now.

  I give him a small shrug. “Romance isn’t in the cards for all of us, my friend.”

  “I need to ask you for a favor,” Christopher says.

  “Sure, what's up?”

  Carrying a glass of wine, I pace the living room of my condo with my phone pressed to my ear. Christopher, my older brother, took over the
family company when our father passed. He's the only one who had genuine passion for it, to be honest. Our youngest brother, Neal, also works at the family business, but he's not as passionate about it as Chris is. Lately, he’s been talking about going back to school and charting an entirely different direction for his life – although he's yet to make a move. At twenty-eight years old, he’ll figure it out soon enough.

  I stand out on the balcony and savor the cool ocean breeze as it washes over me. It carries the salty, crisp scent of the ocean that I never seem to grow tired of. It's overcast tonight, so the body of water in front of me is dark, but the breakers that crash upon the shore glow with the silvery light of the moon.

  The rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore is soothing. Mesmerizing.

  “I'm going to be stuck in England a little longer than anticipated,” he explains. “The deal I'm working on hit a snag and I need it ironed out before coming home.”

  “You’re gonna miss Turkey Day?” I ask. “You know Mom is going to have your ass for that.”

  “I'm really hoping not,” Chris laughs. “I'm hoping this will be worked out sooner rather than later.”

  “Okay, so what's the favor?”

  “I need you to pick Alice up at the airport when she gets into town,” he says.

  “Oh, so we finally get to meet your mystery woman?” I say and chuckle. “Neal and I were taking bets about whether she's real or not.”

  “Yeah, you're a real funny guy,” Christopher says. “Can you pick her up for me?”

  “Why don't you just send a car service?”