The Fiancé by Stefanie London

CHAPTER FIVE

Ava

Two days later...

ISTAREAT the suitcase on my bed. The damn thing is still empty and it gapes at me like a wide, open mouth. What is one supposed to wear for a weeklong sleepover with their fake fiancé?

Let’s be real, there’s nothing in my wardrobe that says “yes, I am hot enough to date a billionaire,” and no amount of squinting at my closet is going to change that fact. I’m solidly a cute-skirt-and-ballet-flats kinda gal. A “find the best thing on the sale rack at Target” kinda gal. I don’t do designer labels and ball gowns and stupid tiny purses that cost more than my monthly rent.

To make this process even more unbearable, Emery is sitting on my bed and glaring at me. Her hair—dyed a vibrant blue—is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were dating someone, especially not after all the crap about your mum trying to marry you off. What happened to honesty? Integrity? The lifelong bonds of sisterhood?”

“Talk about a flair for the dramatic,” I mutter.

Emery ignores the dig. “I thought we told each other everything.”

The worst part of this situation, by far, is having to lie to Emery. I knew she’d be pissed at me, but the girl also has a mouth bigger than a barge. No way can I risk her accidentally divulging some incriminating information. Besides, I want this over and done with as quickly as possible.

She’ll forgive me...eventually.

Last night I tossed and turned, my brain spinning on the possible outcomes of a week with Daniel. I kept veering to images of his full mouth and the dark, burning intensity of his eyes. To his powerful hands and what his body might look like under his suit. How I felt when he adjusted my buttons, his gaze never leaving mine.

This is a fake engagement, remember? This is about getting your ample butt out of a financial hole and nothing more.

“I’m sorry.” I push my hair away from my face and sigh. “It’s...complicated.”

“A Facebook answer? Wow.”

Ugh. Talk about twisting the knife. I hate lying. “Em...”

“It’s fine. I’m giving you a hard time so you remember this next time you think about lying to me.” She grins and I know I’ve been forgiven...for now. If she finds out that this lie was to cover up an even bigger one, I’m toast.

Guilt churns in my gut. I’ve always wanted a sister, and Emery is the closest I’ve come. We have a great group of friends right here in this building—the two of us, plus a detective named Hannah, a flight attendant named Drew and her twin sister, Presley. The five of us are like a little family and we catch up weekly for games and drinks. Knowing that I need to mislead them all makes me feel sick.

You’re doing this for your future.

“I feel bad, okay?” I pluck a simple black dress from my cupboard. It’s not fancy in the slightest, but I’ve always thought it had a bit of an Audrey Hepburn vibe. “Really bad.”

Emery watches me closely. “Have you told your mum about all this?”

“Apparently someone saw a picture of me from the launch party and told her.” I cringe.

“Oh shit, she found out from someone else?” Emery’s face would be comical if I wasn’t feeling so anxious about this whole thing. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

While this whole arrangement has the benefit of getting my mother off my back about Anthony McCreeperson, that doesn’t mean the plan is without its downsides. Namely, that I got the earful of a lifetime about not telling her I have a boyfriend. Let alone one who’s proposed to me.

Oops.

“She said that she was disappointed that I’d kept it a secret, but at least I had some hope of a stable future.”

Emery blinked. “I’m sorry, did we timeslip back to 1952?”

“Story of my life.” I roll my eyes. “It’s insulting that she thinks I need someone to take care of me. But whatever, that’s her issue, not mine.”

“Well, I mean he should take care of you, if you know what I mean.” Emery cackles.

My cheeks burn. I don’t need any help thinking about Daniel taking care of me in that way, trust me. I woke up in tangled sheets last night with the kind of dirty dream that had me willing my body to go back to sleep. The kind of dream where my legs were spread and his dark head was moving down, hands and tongue and teeth sweeping over me like a storm.

How I’m going to keep my sanity intact while we pretend to be in love is a question I haven’t yet answered.

“That red face says you don’t have any trouble in that area.” Emery nudges me with her elbow.

“Can we not talk about my sex life, please?”

Or lack thereof.

I need to keep my wits about me for this whole thing. Yes, I’m lying and I feel guilty as hell. But what options do I have? Allow myself to be evicted from my apartment and move in with my mother because I can’t afford rent?

If I do that, she’ll be in my ear every day about marrying Anthony and eventually I will either A, give in to shut her up or B, end up stabbing her with a Biro.

Our relationship would not withstand us living together. And while I thoroughly hate the idea of being paid to pretend to be in a relationship, right now my survival instincts are the ones in the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to get out of your hair,” Emery says, pushing up from the bed. “Text me when you’re back. You owe me a pizza night.”

She envelops me in a big hug. For a minute I want to cry—how the hell did my life end up here? I did well in school, planned my life out with goals and dreams and ambitions. I studied hard and I’m kind to people and...

Thinking like this won’t do anything. Just bat your eyelashes at a handsome man and then you can come home and get your life in order.

How ironic that no matter how hard I’ve tried to buck against my mother’s ideals, this is where I’ve ended up.

I won’t let Daniel get to me. I won’t be fooled into thinking someone like him might want me in the real world. I won’t feel any affection for a man who can buy his way into or out of anything. My mother fell for a man like that once, and she never recovered from it.

I won’t repeat her mistakes.

As I finish packing, the sound of a car door slamming grabs my attention. My apartment overlooks Love Street—that’s right, I live at 21 Love Street, and the address has never felt more ill-fitting. A sleek, black limousine is parked out front and the driver steps out, wearing a black suit and a shiny brimmed hat.

Looks like procrastination time is over. I’m being summoned.

Reality settles around me like a boa constrictor. I’ve agreed to Daniel’s deal and it’s time to front up.

All you have to do is be seen at a few Michelin-starred restaurants gazing lovingly into his eyes. Easy-peasy.

I can play my part and then go back to my life barely even remembering Daniel’s name. So long as I keep my distance the second the prying eyes are out of sight, I’ll be totally fine.

I shut my suitcase and check my reflection one last time before heading downstairs to meet my fate.

“Let me help you with your things, Ms. Matthews.” Daniel’s driver, a guy who introduces himself as Andy, lifts my bag into the boot of the limo like it weighs no more than a bag of chips. “You’re a light packer.”

My cheeks burn. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it as an insult, but it only adds to my growing feelings of insecurity about the whole arrangement, and frankly, I don’t need any help with that.

Andy opens the limo’s door for me. To my complete and utter dismay, Daniel is stretched out along the back seat, looking like the epitome of male hotness. He’s dressed more casually today, in jeans and a touchable white shirt that he’s tucked in and secured with a brown belt. It highlights his trim waist and contrasts with the broadness of his shoulders. His black hair is wavy and soft, a little long around the ears.

All in all, he looks like a more attainable version of the man I met the other night—which is a dangerous, dangerous impression. Because nothing about this man is attainable.

I scoot into the back seat with all the grace of a newborn deer, trying not to let my skirt ride up my legs. Dammit, why didn’t I wear pants instead? My thighs have a life of their own sometimes. His eyes flick over me, hotly assessing every inch, with a subtle quirk of his mouth that makes my pulse pound in my ears.

Everything is fine. I can manage this. I can absolutely ignore the pulse of sexual awareness currently scrambling my brain. Who needs brain cells anyway? They’re filler, really. Totally not a requirement to function.

Yeah, you’re in deep, deep trouble.