My Fake Fiancé Read online

  That's about as close to swearing as my sister ever gets. That's Sarah, the perfect little princess who never says or does anything wrong. Hell, I'm pretty sure she's never been kissed or had one impure thought. And now that I think about it, that might be why she's such an uptight, condescending prig – she just needs a screaming, toe-curling orgasm. Or twelve.

  I sigh and shake my head. Nothing like being peer pressured by your own family. Not just peer pressured, but guilt tripped on top of it. I tug on the end of my hair and swallow down the growl and snarky comment that nearly passed my lips.

  “Fine,” I say, some of the fight leaving my voice. “I'll be there.”

  “Great. When?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know,”

  I disconnect the call and drop my phone on the table. Pacing around the room, I take several deep breaths and let them out slowly. I glance at the clock and wish that my roommate was here to talk me off the ledge. Rosie always knows what to say when I'm as worked up as I am right now.

  But she's staying at her boyfriend's place tonight, so I'm on my own.

  I take another deep breath, exhaling slowly, and light one of my aromatherapy candles to bring me an additional bit of peace and calm. I need a clear head to work, but Sarah always knows how to get under my skin and knock me off balance.

  I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and take a long swallow, doing my best to focus my mind on anything other than the anxiety of going home for Thanksgiving.

  Sitting down at my computer, I flip it open and turn it on. Pulling up the document, I read through the last couple of pages, attempting to get back into the rhythm and flow of the prose. I really feel like this is my best work yet. I can't wait to finish the manuscript and start sending it around.

  This is my dream. My goal. And I'm not going to give up on it. I’m not going to let anybody deter me from trying to make it happen.

  Chapter Three

  A week later, I'm standing in the SeaTac Airport in Seattle with my bag in one hand, my phone in the other, and the friend who was supposed to pick me up nowhere in sight. I check my watch and see that it's after nine – my ride should be here by now.

  “Damn it,” I grumble.

  I drop my bag at my feet and punch her number in again before pressing the phone to my ear. The baggage claim area for my flight is empty and a buzzer sounds as the carousel turns off, officially making me the last person here.

  Great.

  My call goes straight to voicemail and I feel my blood pressure rising. “Hey Cindy, guess what? I'm down here at the airport – and you’re not. Even though you promised you'd pick me up. Hope whatever you're doing is worth bailing on me. Thanks for nothing.”

  I angrily disconnect the call and drop my phone into my pocket. I grab my bag and head for the doors. I didn't want to take a cab home. They're expensive as hell and I don't have a lot of money to begin with. I barely have enough to cover the cab ride since my paychecks won't hit my account until tomorrow or the next day – which is why my friend was supposed to pick me up. Scratch that, my former friend. This isn't the first time Cindy's left me high and dry. I should have known better. I really should have.

  I make my way through the crush of people in the terminal, heading for the transportation queues. Voices boom from the overhead speakers and the buzz of conversation inside is nearly deafening.

  As I pass by one of the baggage claims, I notice a tall man standing there holding a sign. Truth be told, I might have only noticed him because he's strikingly handsome. He's at least six-foot-two, has short dark hair, a well-trimmed beard, and dazzling green eyes. His features are chiseled, and he’s trim. Fit. He's wearing dark slacks and a dark button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He looks like a model straight out of a L.L. Bean or American Eagle catalog. The man is so beautiful, it makes my heart skip a beat.

  The sign he's holding says, “Alice Donnelly,” and I can't help but wonder who he is. He doesn't look like one of the typical slouches you see driving for a car service. Whoever Alice Donnelly might be, she's a very lucky woman.

  I'm about to walk by him when an idea pops into my head. A really good idea. It's the kind of idea that makes an angel and devil appear on your shoulders – one trying to dissuade you because what you want to do is so bad, and the other attempting to convince you to do it for the same exact reason.

  Desperate times, however, call for desperate measures. And right now, I'm desperate as hell. I quickly check my reflection in a nearby glass case, pushing some of the loose strands behind my ears in an attempt to make myself look slightly less bedraggled. I cast a quick glance at the man behind me and see him scanning faces, looking everywhere – and looking very impatient. It seems clear to me that he has no idea who he's looking for. As I watch the last few people trickle out of the arrival gate, I realize that this Alice Donnelly woman, whoever she is, might not even show up.

  And I'd certainly hate for him to waste a trip down here for nothing. This can be a win-win for both of us. He gets to give “Alice” a lift, and I get to where I need to go. Or at least, close enough to it. As long as he heads toward the suburbs just outside of the city – and dressed the way he is, I can't see him going anywhere else – I can hitch a ride as far as I'm able to go, then have him stop off so I can use the restroom at a gas station or something and bail out there.

  Easy-peasy.

  I would just straight up ask him for a ride – I'm not above asking for help – but he looks like an uptight, stick-up-his-ass kind of guy. In a lot of ways, he strikes me as the male version of my sister. He comes across as one of those miserable corporate types who hates life. I don't want to add to his misery by playing the poverty card and guilting him into giving me a ride. It's better that I pretend to be this Alice Donnelly chick – at least for a little while.

  With one final look back, I see them closing up the gates. No one else is coming off that plane. The man looks frustrated, a dark expression crossing his face as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. No doubt, preparing to call ol' Alice – which, of course, would ruin my entire plan.

  Hustling over to him, I lay a hand on his forearm. He looks over at me, the look of anger on his face slowly giving way to one of caution and suspicion. Yeah, he really reminds me of Sarah.

  “Hi,” I say, motioning to the sign. “I'm Alice. Sorry to keep you waiting, I didn't see you standing here before.”

  He shakes his head and gives me a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. I see his gaze probing me, boring into me. I don't know if he's quite buying me being Alice or not, but he has no proof, so he's holding his tongue. Or I’m being paranoid and reading more into his expression than is actually there.

  “Hi, sorry,” he says and extends his hand. “I'm Miles. Christopher sent me to collect you.”

  I nod, not having any idea who Christopher is, but pretending like I do. “Chris is thoughtful like that,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Miles.”

  He nods. “Yeah, you too,” he replies with a chuckle. “It's nice to finally meet my brother's mysterious girlfriend. I have to be honest, I wasn't entirely sure you actually existed.”

  I laugh and hope it doesn't sound too forced. “Now, why would he make up a non-existent girlfriend?”

  Miles shrugs. “To get our mother off his back, I suppose,” he says. “But, now that we can confirm you're real, I guess it's my time in the barrel. Yeah, not really looking forward to that.”

  The smile that touches my lips is genuine this time. “Oh, you're single, are you?”

  “And childless,” he says, a low, rumbling chuckle passing his lips. “Much to my mother's chagrin.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I say – actually knowing exactly what he means.

  He reaches down to grab my bag, but I snatch it up first. He looks at me curiously but remains silent. Instead, he turns and looks at the luggage carousel.

  “Can I get your other bag at least?” he asks.

  �
��Oh, this is it,” I say.

  “Traveling light?”

  I give him a smile. “Always do.”

  “Okay then,” he says. “Well, let's go.”

  The night air is chilly, bordering on frigid, as we walk silently out to the parking lot. Miles leads me to a black Cadillac Escalade. He holds the door open for me and I slip into the passenger seat, setting my bag down at my feet. My stomach churns and I'm worried that he can see right through me. I'm worried he knows I'm not Alice Donnelly and is just humoring me as part of some sick game.

  And this is why I typically try to avoid doing things like this – I can get paranoid as hell. But I had no real choice in the matter. Desperate times and all that.

  Miles climbs in behind the wheel and starts the car. Soon enough, we're out on the highway and headed in the direction of Cedar Grove – a working-class suburb. I doubt that Miles lives there. If I had to guess, based on his clothes and car, I'd say he’s from one of the more affluent areas.

  As I sit there with the world rushing by us outside, I notice the sticker in the lower corner of the windshield bearing the “SP” emblem – Shadow Pines. It's one of the ritziest gated communities anywhere in and around Seattle – which is saying a lot. Miles and his family obviously have some money. A lot of it.

  “No offense, but I have to be honest,” he says, finally breaking the silence between us, “I'm a bit surprised. You don’t seem like my brother’s usual – type.”

  I laugh. “No?”

  He shakes his head, never taking his eyes off the road. “From everything Chris told me about you, I expected you to be uptight and boring.”

  “What, and you don't think I'm uptight and boring?”

  He shrugs. “It's hard to explain really,” he says. “You just seem a lot less – well – you don't seem to have the stick up your ass that most of his girlfriends do. You seem a lot less – snooty.”

  “Snooty,” I say with a laugh. “I suppose I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “Well, it wasn't meant as an insult,” he replies.

  We ride in silence and I steal a look at my handsome driver. He really is gorgeous but comes across a little stiff to me. A little cold. I'm guessing he's not a secret romantic or anything.

  “So, how did you two meet?” he asks.

  A bolt of adrenaline shoots through me, making my heart race. Since I'm already on edge and not entirely sure that he buys the charade, I automatically assume he's testing me. If I lie and he realizes I’ve made something up on the spot – it will be all the proof he needs to bust me.

  But, what will he do if he does? Take me to the cops? What would the charge be – stealing a ride from somebody? I don't know enough about the law to know if I could be in trouble for pulling a stunt like this. More than likely, Miles would just kick me out of the car. While not ideal, at least I'm a bit closer to where I need to be than at the airport. It might even be a walkable distance at this point.

  “Alice?”

  It takes me a second to register that he's talking to me – clearly, I need to up my identity theft game if I'm going to make a habit out of doing stuff like this.

  “Sorry, I spaced out,” I explain. “Jet lag or something, I guess. What was the question again?”

  He gives me a long look. If there's one thing I can tell about Miles, it's that the man is sharp. There is a keen intelligence in those eyes and in the direct, unflinching way he stares at you, like he can see the truth behind your words.

  “I asked how you met my brother,” he repeats slowly.

  I can't help but hear the note of suspicion in his voice. I can tell by his expression that he's definitely thinking something isn’t right. I give him my warmest, most reassuring smile.

  “Oh, he didn't tell you?” I ask sweetly.

  “No,” he replies. “He didn't.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I've started the lie and all I can do now is keep it going. If he finds outs, he finds out. All I can do is try and spin a good enough story to keep the ride going a bit longer. About ten miles up ahead is a truck stop. If I can get Miles to stop there, I can use the restroom and slip out the back. From there, it’s only about five miles to my mother's house and I should be able to cover that ground pretty quickly.

  I just need to keep this conversation going a while longer.

  “Oh, well, it's kind of a funny story,” I say. “I was in a coffee shop one day and –”

  “Wait, my brother was in a coffee shop?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He hates coffee,” Miles says. “He's always complaining about overpriced, burned coffee.”

  I shrug, doing my best to avoid panic as I try to come up with a plausible explanation. The hole around me feels like it’s growing deeper and deeper, and I'm tempted to open the door and jump out of the moving car, if only to be done with the charade.

  “Well, technically, he wasn't in the shop,” I say, a nervous chuckle escaping me. “I was at a table outside and he was walking by. He bumped the table and spilled my coffee all over me.”

  “That so?”

  I nod quickly – probably too quickly, if I’m being honest. “Yeah,” I say. “He apologized profusely, and we ended up talking for a long time. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  I give myself a silent pat on the back for making it through to the end of that pile of lies without cracking. The question is – did Miles buy it?

  “Huh,” he says. “I guess fate works in mysterious ways.”

  “Sure does,” I say. “I can't wait to see him.”

  “Well, I'm afraid you're stuck with us for a few days,” he says. “Christopher's still stuck over in England.”

  “Right. Yeah, no, I got his message,” I say. “I was just hoping he'd be able to get back sooner. Not that I'm not looking forward to getting to know all of you or anything.”

  “I know my mom is looking forward to meeting you,” he says.

  Up ahead in the distance, I see the lights of the sign for the truck stop. I'm just about to ask him to pull over when something stops me, and I close my mouth without saying a word. Knowing Miles’ brother isn't going to be around for a few days makes me more than a bit curious – curious about how the other half lives.

  That devil on my shoulder leans closer, whispering even more insistently in my ear. I know I should stick to the plan – get out at the truck stop, head for Mom’s house, and end this mad situation. The brightly lit sign looms in the distance, growing closer by the second. I need to make a decision right now.

  I remain silent as we speed by the truck stop, my decision made – reason be damned.

  Chapter Four

  Something isn't right about this woman. I can feel it. When I ask her questions about her relationship with my brother, she's cagey. She gives off an elusive and slippery vibe. As an attorney, I've had to develop a pretty keen bullshit detector. It's one of the critical tools needed for the kind of success I've experienced.

  And something about this woman really sets off my internal lie detector.

  For starters, she looks nothing like the women my brother typically dates. He usually dates tall brunettes who look like they just came off the robot assembly line. His girlfriend’s always seem to be very prim, proper, and driven professional women. They're always sharply dressed in the latest career-woman fashion and completely straight-laced. They all also tended to come up a bit short in the personality department.

  “Alice” is entirely different. She’s maybe five-six at most with long hair and bottomless blue eyes. She's thin and petite but has full hips, perky breasts, and lightly tanned skin. A light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose give her a girl next door look, but I can tell she's anything but. It’s obvious that this woman has a bit of a wild streak to her. Dressed in a long, flowing, floral dress and a cream-colored cardigan, she seems more of a bohemian than a Wall Street type. She seems like the kind of woman who'd read emotional poetry or sing heart-wrenching songs about pain
and loss at an open mic night at a local coffee house.

  It could just be my own biases and harsh judgments coming through, or maybe I'm just overly suspicious of people all the time – yet another byproduct of my profession – but the woman sitting in the passenger seat seems more like a high school art teacher than someone intent on climbing the corporate ladder.

  We pass a brightly lit truck stop and I see her looking at it curiously. Her face is troubled, as if she's wrestling with some decision inside her own mind.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She turns back to me and gives me a smile that seems way too enthusiastic to be normal. “Yeah, fine,” she says. “I was just thinking that I should have had you stop so I can pee.”

  A wry grin touches my lips. “Do you want me to turn around?” I ask. “It's probably another thirty minutes or so until we get home.”

  “No, I'll be fine,” she replies. “But, thanks.”

  She still looks troubled to me, but I let it go. As we ride along, listening to the hum of the tires on the pavement below, I realize that I'm probably wound way too tight about this. It feels like I’m being too harsh and skeptical of this woman. It's probably weird for her to be riding in a car with a total stranger – and me poking at her like I'm cross examining a witness probably isn't helping much.

  As far as her being the complete opposite of who Chris usually dates – maybe that's a good thing. Those uptight corporate drones are almost always a bore. And those romances tend to fizzle out pretty quickly to boot. I can't recall the last time my brother has been in a relationship that's lasted more than six months. Maybe dating someone out of his comfort zone is exactly what he needs.

  That’s not necessarily a bad thing. And he certainly picked a beauty. I can see that she's tough but still feminine as hell. Alice is gorgeous, no question about it, and I find myself envying my brother just a little bit.

  Giving my head a shake, I hastily push those thoughts away. I really don't want to go down that road. This is my brother's girlfriend and the last thing I need to do is to start having lustful thoughts about her – even if it's really easy to do.