My Fake Fiancée

He obviously had some objections, too, because she heard Sarah say, “No. You can’t get together with her ahead of time. Because she’s not here.” Her friend winked at her. “She’s on location catering. She’ll be back Friday. Don’t worry. I guarantee she’ll be there. You remember Hermione—she was always completely reliable. Now, tell me where and when.”

Chelsea wondered what on earth she was letting herself in for. And what sort of game was Sarah playing? She’d almost forgotten the Hermione nickname. She’d pretended to hate it, of course, but secretly she’d been thrilled that David had noticed her enough to give her a pet name. Even if it was because she reminded him of a too-smart, socially inept nerd girl.

“No. You can’t call her. Remember, she’s working on location, I told you. Her cell phone is still on some European plan. Way too expensive. No. I’m not giving you the number. You’ll have to trust me.”

Her tone changed. “Hey, I wouldn’t let you down, not about something important.” It seemed like David had a lot more to say, and Sarah did little talking for a minute or two, merely saying things like “yes” and “of course” and finally, “Look, if you want me to tell Chelsea to forget it, I will. We only want to help you out.” Her friend continued, “Okay. She’ll see you Friday at ten minutes before seven.” He said something else and Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember her at all? Chelsea is the most punctual person you’ll ever meet.

“Call me Saturday and tell me how it all goes. Good luck, future veep.” And she hung up.

Her brother obviously had some misgivings and Chelsea realized she had a few of her own. Also a heavy dose of suspicion. “Why aren’t you letting him see me or even talk to me before Friday?”

“Little grasshopper, you must learn to be wise. Would you rather this little high school crush you haven’t seen in forever sees you at work up to your armpits in flour and food gunk in your hairnet or wearing one of those gorgeous Parisian dresses you bought home with you, hair all done, makeup perfect?”

She had to admit the woman had a point. If she had to see the teen god of her youth again, she wanted to look her best. “And the reason you won’t even let him talk to me on the phone?”

“'Kay, that was for me. On behalf of all women, he deserves to be a little bit nervous, don’t you think?”

Chelsea took the remaining half of her croissant back again. “Frankly, right now, I don’t know what I think.”

“This is going to be fantastic. Oh, one thing, David asked that you wear something sexy.” She shook her head. “You know what men are, they love to show off a gorgeous woman. Like it gives them extra points in the boy game or something.”

“Sexy, huh?” In a deep part of herself, she had to admit the idea of having David actually look at her as a desirable woman instead of a shy teen was appealing. She reviewed her options. “I’ve got just the thing. It’s red, pretty tight-fitting and kind of low-cut. You don’t think that’s too sexy for a corporate do?”

Sarah looked delighted. “That will be perfect.”

4

HE SHOULD BOOK AN appointment with a psychiatrist right now, David thought as he headed out for possibly the most important evening of his entire life, where his escort was not only a woman masquerading as his fiancée, but to add a little extra spice to the evening, was also essentially a blind date.

As he exited his Rittenhouse Square town house, which he’d had his cleaning service freshly clean today, including making up the guest room for a woman he barely knew, he contemplated just how much could go wrong tonight. He passed a street vendor selling soft pretzels and the scent reminded him that he’d eaten nothing for lunch but Tums. Not for the first time, he wondered what he could have been thinking. How arrogant to suppose he could pull off a scam like this. Why hadn’t he listened to Jane? She was right, she was always right. This deception had been a bad idea from the beginning.

Kids played in the wide green spaces of the park, horsed around the lion and goat statues. He wished he could go join them, anything but show up at this dinner.

If the big brass found out, he probably wouldn’t lose his job, but he would lose all possibility of promotion. Never mind the respect of people who had come to matter to him.

He walked by a few couples, normal-looking twosomes who obviously belonged together, and his collar grew even tighter. Long before he was ready, he found himself in front of a big hotel where he’d arranged to meet Chelsea. He was a couple of minutes early so he prepared to wait for his date.

He sauntered over to stand beside the entrance to the hotel, and as he did so noticed a stunning brunette looking like she was waiting for the World’s Luckiest Man. Every cell in his body zinged to attention. The woman was hot, hot, hot. On a scale of one to ten she was a fifty. Her hair was a sleek bob, dark and shiny, and her huge brown eyes looked out on the world with what he could only think of as a sophisticated innocence. Glorious mouth. Painted in rich, I-could-talk-dirty-all-night red. Red to match the body-hugging dress that outlined her centerfold curves. She took a step toward him on do-me-baby stilettos, and the sway of her hips almost did him in. He took one step forward himself, closing the gap between him and paradise, when he suddenly remembered why he was there.

“Sorry,” he said, with true regret. “I’m meeting someone.”

That killer mouth curved into a smile. “I think you’re meeting me.” Even the sound of her voice was a turn-on. Rich, slightly exotic, somehow.

Ooh, great line. He really wished he’d met her some other time. He laughed. “I wish.” Then took a quick look up and down the street, hoping Hermione would get there soon.

The smile disappeared and a puzzled frown took its place. “David! It’s me. Chelsea.”

“Chelsea?” He gaped at the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He felt like a man having a sex dream that insanely turns into some horrible nightmare. This amazingly desirable woman? Hottie on heels was supposed to be his fiancée? What happened to drab, shy, smart girl Chelsea? Introducing this woman to the executives and board of directors of his firm would be like introducing nitroglycerin to gas.

Boom.

And he’d be the one exploding up in the air.

He could hear the echo of his sister’s words now. “She’s the same, David. She’s gained enough weight to fill out a little, but she’s exactly the same.”

And that’s the moment that he realized he’d been conned. He never should have signed Sarah up for that online dating site. In retaliation, she’d ruined his career.

“You’re Chelsea?” He looked her up and down, unable to believe the gawky teenager was now a goddess.

A delighted smile lit her eyes. “You didn’t recognize me.”

“I, uh, no. Honestly, I didn’t.” He felt aggrieved. “What happened to Hermione?”

“She grew up,” the woman said softly.

And wasn’t that the understatement of the year. If only it was winter, he could huddle her in her coat—hell, he’d buy her one. A nice wool trench coat that would cover her from neck to ankles. But it was July, hot, sultry July, and there was no way to cover her up.

She picked up on his doubt. “Am I dressed okay? Sarah said to put on the sexiest outfit I own.”

“Of course she did.”

Rapidly, he reviewed his options. Five minutes until they were supposed to meet for dinner.

He could either tell her to go home and make up some tale about his fiancée being sick, or he could go through with this charade. Maybe he could break up with her much sooner than planned, since the fiancée he’d imagined would help forward his career seemed in imminent danger of destroying it.

He forced a smile. He didn’t have any options. “You look fine.” He stepped forward, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“I could say the same. I guess we’re helping each other out.”

He almost groaned. He’d forgotten his sister’s conditions. Not only was she single-handedly destroying his career, but she’d also finagled him into allowing this woman to stay in his house for three months.

No doubt there were morality tales about the consequences of telling lies, tales that would terrify children into behaving perfectly. He felt like he was living a morality tale right now. The Liar is Punished.

“Can you walk in those heels? The restaurant is a couple of blocks that way.”

“I think I can manage.”

They headed off to the restaurant. He had five minutes to prime her, when he’d planned to spend hours telling her everything he figured a fiancée would need to know. But she’d so addled his brain he couldn’t think of any of the things he’d imagined would be so important.

What did it matter, anyway?

He was doomed.

Chelsea didn’t seem to appreciate she was his doom. As she walked beside him, her body seemed to dance to the tap of her shoes on the pavement. “Who are these people I’ll be meeting tonight?”

“Right.” Luckily she was smart, and obviously not as thrown off stride by seeing him again as he was by seeing her. He gave her a quick rundown of all the players and she listened intently, with a tiny line between her eyes, reminding him for the first time of the girl he’d known.

“Is there anything in particular I should say or not say?” she asked, as though she were cramming for an exam. But he’d pretty much already accepted the failing grade.