Fake It Baby One More Time: A Fake Romance Collection Read online

  “Like us?”

  “Nah, we got this.”

  I’m just hoping we really do. Out of all the women in the world, Buckley is the last person I’d pretend to be married too.

  Three

  Addison

  Today was like a horrific train wreck. A slow-motion catastrophe I couldn’t turn away from, or even prevent. And now I’m going to be playing house with the last person I want in my living space. The man I want nowhere near my inner bubble. I must’ve done very bad things in a previous life. Vin didn’t seem too phased by it. He was probably hoping I’d refuse the assignment, but that’s not happening. I’ll be the best fake wife the Highlands has ever seen.

  Soaking in my tub, with the jets of the whirlpool on full blast to ease the tension coiled in my muscles, I finish off my glass of wine and glance at the file sitting on the bathroom countertop.

  Our fake marriage, and details of our fake relationship, are all neatly contained inside the manilla envelope.

  Next week, I’ll be Addison Davenport, stay-at-home wife, which gives me lots of time to mingle with the other wives and get the info I need so I can get fake divorced from my pretend husband, Vin Davenport, finance executive. I’ll admit, the thought of mingling with these women makes my stomach dip. Social awkwardness is my best friend, and I’ve never gabbed over the latest gossip with women in my entire life. Typically, I’m a loner in my down time, so this is going to be a bit of an adjustment.

  Before I become a raisin, I turn off the jets, flip the lever to drain the tub and step out.

  My phone rings, and I study the unknown number before swiping right.

  “Hello,” I answer, wrapping a towel around me.

  “Miss your new husband?”

  The mirror above the sink reflects my surprise at Vin’s husky voice caressing my ear. “How did you get my number?”

  “Babe, I’m a federal agent.”

  The shock at him phoning me is replaced by greater shock that I didn’t find it the least bit offensive he just called me ‘babe.’

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to work on getting used to being around each other,” he tells me. “I can’t have my new bride acting like she’d rather be shoveling shit than be around me.”

  I place a hand on my toweled hip. “Listen, I know how to do my job.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me at all. “See you in the morning.”

  He disconnects the call, and my annoyance swells bigger than the universe level. How dare he question my ability? Sure, I don’t come from a wealthy family, or do any entertaining, or have any noteworthy experience being in a long term couple, but I watch The Real Housewives, and that should come in handy. He’s the one to worry about, not me.

  This may be my first assignment away from the desk I’ve been chained to since I joined, but I’m ready.

  I towel off with quick aggravated strokes before yanking on my black-striped pajama shorts and a white tank. And then, I pick up my phone and call him back to show him just how well I can do my job. I go to voicemail where his deep voice tells me to leave a message.

  “Hey, Love Bug,” I purr in a voice that would make a sex phone operator envious. “I was just toweling off from my bath and realized I never told you I missed you.” I drop my voice a little lower, adding some sultriness to it, “I’ll make sure all the wives know just how much I think about you...when I’m alone in the tub...naked.”

  There. I disconnect. I performed so well, I’m a little turned on. And that annoys me more.

  Later in the evening, studying the case file, it sinks in by this time next week I’ll be living with Vin.

  Even if it is pretend, even if this is an assignment, I’ll still be sharing a house with him. This is really going to put a damper on his dating life. I’ve heard all the gossip about his sextracurricular activities.

  I’ve never understood men who act that way. Is it a fear of commitment? Or is it something much bigger than that?

  Well, whatever Vin’s case is, it’s not my business. I’m focused on the end prize, and I won’t let anything stand in my way.

  Regrets, I have them. I shouldn’t have left that voicemail. The next day, as Vin and I go over the records of all the people living in the Highlands with Grubbs, thankfully, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe he’s one of those people who doesn’t check his messages, and I’ll be lost forever in voicemail limbo, never to be heard again.

  “So you’ll be on this cul-de-sac,” Grubbs explains, pointing to the blueprint of the sprawling gated community full of upper class couples.

  Instead of studying Vin for any signs he heard my wanna-be phone sex message, I study the layout. The development has one-way in and one-way out.

  “Who’s recently moved in in the past five years?” Vin asks, stealing my question.

  “We thought that too, grab whoever’s the newbs. But, the Highlands is a new development. Most people are new.”

  “Do we have pictures of everyone who lives on that block?” I ask.

  Grubbs hands me a file. “Here’s the latest DMV records.”

  Vin moves to the whiteboard, writing the word ‘SUSPECTS’ at the top. “Who’s first?”

  I grab the first picture off the top of the file. “Miffie Patterson.” I study the picture of a platinum blonde with the lithe body of a supermodel and a happy disposition. “She’s a perky little thing.” I hand the photo over to Vin.

  His eyes roam the picture before he takes a piece of tape, and sticks her photo on the board. “What do we know about her?”

  I scan her file. “Not much. Grew up rich. Owns a charity organization.” I glance at Grubbs. “Get info on that.” I return my attention back on Vin. “Her husband, Richard, owns his own mortgage company.” I read further. “Oh, actually, he owns a whole bunch of mortgage companies. And she only does the charity work. They have a son, Preston, he’s seventeen.”

  “What do we know about Richard, the husband?”

  I grab Richard Patterson’s file and flip it open. “Not much. We have his company’s financials for the last three years. Nothing here for last year. Must not be out yet.” I flip through the pages. “We’ll have to see if we can get it.”

  “Next up is Chester and Helena Fowler,” Vin says, putting their pictures up on the board.

  I study Helena’s photo. She has long dark hair, dark eyes, and a little half smirk. Almost reminds me of Elvira. Chester is the light to her dark with sandy-blond hair and blue eyes.

  “What do we know about them?” I ask.

  Vin examines the papers. “Chester owns the Fowler’s hardware store in the Highlands. He studied business at Princeton, and then took over his father’s chain of hardware stores.”

  I pick up Helena’s file. “She was wealthy from the moment she was born, and she’s been in tons of beauty pageants.” I grab a photo and hand it to Vin. “Look, she won Little Miss Pumpkin Patch when she was a kid.”

  Vin studies the photo of a smaller Helena, wearing a tiara and poofy orange dress, standing in a field of pumpkins, then hands it back to me.

  “Up next Greg and Kelly Sanders,” he says, taping their wedding photo onto the board. “Greg owns the local steakhouse, The Flank House.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t called Lombardi’s and we could just arrest him now.” I laugh at my joke.

  “That would be ideal.”

  “Ah, Kelly was born poor, married rich. Says here she used to wait tables at Greg’s restaurant.”

  “Ok, moving onto the last and final couple Dale and June Whithers.” He puts their picture up with the rest of the suspects.

  “What do we know?” I ask.

  “Not much. Moved here from New Hampshire last year.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “He owns two dry cleaning stores.”

  “They all own businesses that could be used to launder money through,” I say.

  “You both definitely have your work cut out for you.” Grubbs smiles, g
rabbing the file on the Whithers and scanning it over.

  We continue the day going over and assessing each couple, and after a while, they all begin to blend together. Like one giant suburban blur most likely doped up on pumpkin-spiced Xanax.

  Rich socialites all hiding just enough about themselves to make them all appear guilty.

  This case isn’t going to be as open and closed as I thought it would be.

  Four

  Vin

  Five thousand square feet should ensure I don’t have to run into little Miss Sunshine, unless it’s absolutely necessary. She can stay on one side of the house, me on the other. After her voicemail last night, I can’t stop picturing her naked. To be honest, I can’t stop picturing a lot of things. That voice can haunt a single man like me, late at night, alone in my bed.

  The lemon yellow blouse she’s wearing, with a pocket over each tit, is souring my mood. Doesn’t help she’s wearing these skinny black pants with her legs crossed in my direction. I can see her exposed ankle above a high heeled shoe that can’t be appropriate for the workplace. She has her blonde hair in her signature bun, and how is anyone supposed to work with all that skin showing? All this, over an ankle. I feel like I’m in the eighteenth century, obsessing over the smallest inkling of soft skin.

  Grubbs shows us the two-story stone and mortar house Addison and I will be sharing, and it’s everything I never wanted. As the heir to Mills Lumber, I could have this whole development if I wanted. I don’t.

  My parents would love nothing more than for me to take over the family business and enjoy a nice cushy, mimosa-flavored life. But, what I really want is Matteo Lombardi behind bars.

  After Grubbs dismisses us, I grab her hand on the trek down the hallway. It’s small and dainty for someone with such a big attitude.

  She jerks it away with a frown. “What are you doing?”

  “Relax. We have to get used to touching sooner or later.”

  “I’d prefer later.”

  Her dry response makes me laugh. “We need to work on your social skills. Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks as if I’m going to stuff her in the back of my trunk.

  “You need to trust me more. That’s lesson number one.”

  She rolls her long-lashed eyes, but follows me out. “Fine.”

  Her heels clink across the pavement, echoing in the parking garage, until we reach my black sedan. As an agent, I’m very attuned to body language—you have to be able to catch the infinitesimal details to do this job—so Addison’s slight brow rise and pause in her step when I open the door for her tells me she thinks I’m a total asshat who would never do such a thing.

  “Chivalry isn’t dead,” I tell her as she composes her face back into stone and then slips inside.

  I round the hood, hop in, and start the car. Being a federal agent definitely comes with many perks, and this is one of them. This car drives like a wet dream, and the engine purrs like a satisfied kitten. I love the sleek simplicity of this car, but when we become the Davenports, we’ll be issued a new ride, something more ‘fancy’ and not so, agentish (Grubbs words, not mine.)

  “Where are we going?” she asks again as I pull onto the main road.

  I glimpse over at the persistent woman beside me and try to ignore the aphrodisiac scent of vanilla wafting from her in the confined space. “It’s almost quitting time, and everyone in this town is headed to happy hour, so thought we could have a drink.”

  As if I just told her we were going to an orgy, she half twists in her seat to face me. “I can’t go to happy hour. I have important things I need to do after work.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that? Laundry?” I tease.

  And for fuck’s sake, she is. I can see it in the slight stain of red on her cheeks. Oddly, it makes her more attractive.

  “I’ll have you know laundry is very important,” she says so damn serious, it’s cute. “Clothes don’t clean themselves. It’s not like I’m doing laundry on a Friday night. It’s Tuesday.” She glares out the window, like her argument will have me turning the car around and going right back to work so she can go home and get her laundry on. Not likely.

  “Just sit tight. If you’re going to charm the women of the Highlands, and be their bestie, you have a few things to learn.”

  She squints her eyes at me. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I just want to get you comfortable with me. This is all training.”

  “Training, how?”

  Leisurely, I reach over and hold her hand again. “Pretending we’re happily in love.”

  She scrunches her nose, like the mere thought of me repulses her. “Don’t worry. I’m going to be so in love, Cupid will be jealous.” She gazes out the window again, but this time doesn’t let go of my hand.

  And it feels weird. In a good way. Now who’s the awkward one?

  A tingling sensation erupts in my palm. My nose itches, and I’ve got one hand on the steering wheel, and one hand linked to hers. I try wiggling it.

  I’m sweating all over.

  I itch everywhere.

  And now I’m hyperventilating.

  I release her hand in a rush, and itch my nose. “Oh that’s a lot harder than it looks.”

  She appears very smug when she says, “What’s the matter? Never been in a relationship before?”

  “Of course, I have. I think.” Have I been in one? I honestly can’t recall one girl who stood out among the rest. “Actually, I guess I haven’t.”

  “We don’t have to be a lovey-dovey touchy couple.”

  “I like that idea.” I point to her. “Yes, we can be the type of people who hates PTAs.”

  “PTAs? Like at the elementary school? You mean PDA? Public display of affection.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. We hate it.”

  She nods, like she’s relieved. “Yes, and we can also be the type of couple who doesn’t share a lot. Like reserved.”

  “This is perfect. Yes.”

  She laughs, and it’s melodic and... cute. It makes me laugh too. “And if people ask, we only ‘do it,’” she air quotes, “on Tuesday and Thursdays.”

  I pull into the lot of Bobo’s Bar & Grill and park. “Wait, what? No way. I’m not having my fake marriage be actionless.”

  “Well, I’m just saying we aren’t the kind of couple who’s so crazy for each other we can’t keep our hands off one another.”

  “But we have sex all the time.”

  “Sure, fine.”

  “Come on, I fake rock your world every night.”

  She lifts a brow and says more to herself than me, “Oh, I don’t doubt you would.” Her face freezes and so does mine. ‘Cause now, obviously, I’m thinking about rocking her reserved world. She quickly recovers and continues, “And no nicknames. They’re silly.”

  “You mean like love bug?”

  Five

  Addison

  At his height, he’s probably about one-ninety. I’m...well, I don’t want to think about what I weigh, but if I angle myself right, I could probably overtake him, push him out of the car, and drive off into the sunset.

  Our eyes stay connected, and if I don’t say anything, maybe it will go away. Maybe he won’t discuss the voicemail I left him.

  “Got to hand it to you, that was pretty damn impressive,” he says, not letting it go away.

  I wave my hand, dismissing all my words. “That was nothing; I’m a professional.”

  He licks his lips, taking the time to let his teeth graze over the perfection. “Is that right?”

  “Not that kind of professional,” I clear up. “I don’t get paid for phone sex.” His dark eyes flare. “Can we go?”

  He scrubs a hand down his jaw and chuckles, letting me off the hook. “Yeah, come on.”

  I resist the urge to hop into the driver's seat and flee, and instead follow him into the pub. This will be good practice for what’s to come. Because if being in a car alone with his overwhelming pheromones are any indication o
f what it’s going to be like living with him, I need some major help.

  When we step inside, it’s dim and murky, only lit by natural light streaming in from the front window, showing off a dust trail in its wake.

  The red-bearded bartender narrows his eyes at us when we approach the bar. “You two cops?”

  Vin raises his hand. “It’s ok, we’re just here for a drink.”

  “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” I suggest, leaning in close so only he can hear me.

  “She’s right. Maybe you should go somewhere else,” the bartender’s gruff voice agrees with me.

  Ok, so I thought only Vin could hear me.

  “If I wanted to go somewhere else,” Vin says in a low voice to Mr.-Not-Happy-We’re-Here, “I would have.” His confidence is almost sexy. Almost.

  The bartender raises a brow, but Vin’s ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude ensures he doesn’t hassle us any longer.

  We sit next to each other at the back end of the bar and Vin orders a beer.

  “What’re you having?” Vin asks.

  “I’ll have a Chardonnay.”

  The bartender rests his palms on the bar, like I just ordered a Faberge egg. “Would you like a tea cake with that?”

  “What she’d like is her drink, Red,” Vin tells him in that dangerously low voice that leaves no room for argument. He pushes off the counter and complies.

  Vin leans in close. “I’m sure he doesn’t get a lot of wine orders in here.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I take the glass of white from the bartender, and swallow a large gulp. “Are you going to tell me why we’re here? Obviously, this isn’t the type of place we’ll be visiting in the Highlands, which makes me think something else is going on.”

  “Smart guess.” Vin twists in his seat, his back turned to the bartender, and surveys the place. “You’ll see. Now drink up.”

  I take another sip. “Are you just trying to get me drunk?”