My Fake Fiancé Read online

  “My Fake Fiancé”

  By

  Lisa Scott

  “My Fake Fiancé”

  “Bridesmaid Blues”

  “The One That Got Away”

  “Wedding Auditions”

  “Do Over”

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2012 Lisa Scott Macdonough

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this short story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  “My Fake Fiancé”

  By Lisa Scott

  Sorting through the mail, my fingers closed around the thick, glossy envelope that screamed wedding invitation. I passed it to my roommate, Micki, who was sipping her coffee while grumbling about men who tie up the bar, then leave lousy tips when she refuses to hand over her phone number.

  “Shocking news,” I told her. “Another wedding invitation.” She was scheduled to be a bridesmaid in eight weddings over the summer and had been invited to another five. It was costing her a fortune. Thus, the grumpy attitude as she detailed the night from bartending hell. She’d been moonlighting to pay for all the wedding costs. Affordable bridesmaids’ dresses are the thing of fairy tales, apparently. But she’d created a wedding advice blog detailing her adventures, so she was making the best of it. “Did you get invited to this many weddings when you lived in Boston?”

  She sighed. “Nope. But Springfield’s my hometown, so I know lots of people here. Guess they were all waiting for me to move back before they got married.” Micki held out her hand and took the envelope from me. She looked at the front of it and laughed, tossing it back to me. “Sorry, Sammie, this one’s for you.”

  I jumped back and let it drop to the floor with a thwack. Micki didn’t mind standing up in weddings because she had no plans to get married. At least that’s what she told me privately. It was another story on her blog.

  I, on the other hand, should’ve been married by now, or at least had a close call, and hated going to weddings—reminding me that at age twenty-nine, I’d never had the pleasure. I didn’t even have anyone I could bring as a date. All this, and I had twenty thousand dollars in a savings account my mother had left me before she died, specifically set aside to throw the wedding of my dreams. A wedding she’d never see. So yeah, I had a few good reasons to hate weddings.

  Reluctantly, I picked up the envelope, and slid out the card. A trail of fine glitter and dried rose petals spilled out. I read the invitation and groaned. “No, no, no. Not Carrie LaMont. Anyone but Carrie LaMont.” I was waiting for a dove to fly out of the envelope next, the way she did things.

  Micki poured herself another cup of coffee and doused it with creamer. “What’s wrong with Carrie LaMont?”

  I slumped onto the stool and propped my chin in my hand. “She was my number one frenemy in high school before the word was coined. Anything I could do, she could do better.”

  “Carrie La Mont. Sounds familiar.” She held out her hand and I passed her the invitation. Reading over the details, she nodded. “Didn’t recognize the name at first. I’m in this wedding. She’s marrying my cousin.”

  “Your cousin the brain surgeon?” My voice squeaked.

  “Pediatric brain surgeon,” she clarified. “Yes. Despite the gaggle of models and lawyers and beauty pageant queens following him, Carrie LaMont won the game.”

  I whimpered. “Why? Why her?”

  “You haven’t seen her in a while I take it.”

  I shook my head.

  “She’s gorgeous, her father’s loaded, and she apparently does things in bed that are illegal in some states.” Micki shrugged. “My cousin’s a talker when he’s drunk.”

  “She’s also a natural blonde with a supermodel figure and the prettiest teeth I’ve ever seen.” I stomped my foot. “Why isn’t life fair?”

  Micki shrugged. “So don’t go.”

  “She’ll think my life is so miserable I’m ashamed to show up.”

  Micki tucked her hair behind her ears, showing off the new blue streak she’d added after moving back home. Some people get tattoos to mark life milestones, Micki changes her hair. “But isn’t it true? You were just telling me your dating life is so slow that you only shave your legs once a week.”

  I cringed, thinking about my prickly legs. “I can’t let her know that! Besides, there should be some perks to being single, right? Not having to shave every day is one of them.” I went right for my stash of emergency chocolate in the cupboard by the fridge, then settled for a cookie when I realized the chocolate was long gone. I looked for the shopping list stuck on the fridge so I could add chocolate. But chocolate was already on the list. I grabbed the last cookie and then jotted cookies on the list.

  Micki snorted. “I guess unlimited sympathy sweets is a perk of being single too?”

  I ignored her. Micki could eat anything and stay a size four. “I have to bring a fabulous date and slightly tweak the truth about my life.” I made a teeny-tiny gesture with my fingers. “Oh, and new highlights. Botox? Should I try botox?” I paced around the kitchen wondering if there was any way to make Carrie LaMont squirm.

  “You could just go and wish her well.”

  I gave Micki a dirty look. “Of course I can’t do that. Liam Streeter was all set to ask me to prom and she stole him away once she found out I was interested. Then she dumped him a week later. He was really into me until she came along. I could be married with two kids if it weren’t for her.”

  “Okay. She sucks. Tell you what—I’ll help you find the perfect date. Come to the bar Friday and we’ll find the hottest guy, create a drool-worthy history for him, and pay him big bucks to go with you.”

  “Micki!”

  “What, you think you’re going to find a Brad Pitt look-a-like CEO in three weeks? For free?”

  “Three weeks?” I looked at the invitation. “I must’ve been on the second-tier list of invites.”

  Micki wrinkled her nose. “More like third tier, I’d say.”

  I groaned. “Wouldn’t you think I’d be first tier so she could be certain I was there to humiliate?”

  “Maybe she forgot about you until the third round.”

  I gritted my teeth. “A Brad Pitt look alike CEO who’s foreign,” I said, upping the ante after such a slight. “Who builds orphanages in Africa.”

  Micki pointed at me. “Let’s make him the guy who dumped Angelina Jolie before she hooked up with Brad Pitt. She used poor Brad to fill the void of your mystery man.”

  We clinked coffee mugs. “I like it.”

  ***

  Easier said than done, as it turns out. By midnight Friday night, we’d found a guy with a lovely accent from Ireland—who was going back to the motherland in a week. The only guy who looked remotely like Brad Pitt—if you tilted your head and squinted—was too drunk to stand up. He certainly couldn’t be trusted to play along nicely at a wedding that was sure to have open bar all night long. One guy who seemed like a good prospect wanted seven hundred bucks to play the part. Would a night out with me be that horrible?

  “This was a dumb idea,” I said, slumped over the bar, nursing the remnants of my white Russian.

  Micki wiped down the bar top. “Now don’t give up. You can always come back tomorrow night.”

  I was about to call it a night when the wait staff from the banquet hall attached to the bar spilled out; some retirement party having ended at midnight.

  Micki’s eyes widened and she whistled softly. �
�Hold the phone. Looks like we’ve got a new waiter who might fit the bill.”

  I followed her gaze and sucked in a breath. He wasn’t a Brad Pitt look-a-like, but who cared. A Matthew McConaughey look-a-like would suffice. “Introduce me,” I whispered to Micki.

  “I don’t know him,” she whispered back. “But we can change that.” She caught his eye and waved him over.

  He looked behind him like he wasn’t sure she meant him, and with that, I was sold. Not that I was looking for a relationship with a guy I was going to hire. Just that someone so hot also being so humble was a great quality.

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Micki Keegan.”

  “I’m Justin Banks. Just started this week.” They shook hands across the bar.

  “This is my friend, Samantha Cooper. Talk amongst yourselves while I get you a drink. What’ll you have?”

  “A beer would be great. What can I get you, Samantha?”

  Nice, he’s thoughtful to boot. “I’ll have another white Russian.” With no time to waste, I got busy. “So, you’re a waiter?”

  “It’s one of my many jobs. I’m a waiter, a model, and an actor.” He shrugged.

  One eyebrow shot up. “An actor?” Was fate finally playing along? “You’re an actor?”

  Untying his bow tie, he nodded. “Just bit parts in commercials and industrial videos. Only because it pays the bills. I’ve got bigger plans, but for now, I’m juggling a few different things.”

  I tilted my head, examining him. “Ever do any live acting?”

  “Like theater?”

  “Sort of.” I chewed on my lip, wondering exactly how to pose the question, when Micki arrived with our drinks.

  “Justin here is an actor,” I told her.

  She clapped. “Perfect. Did you ask him?”

  He gave me a wary smile. “Ask me what?”

  “Geez, Micki, I wasn’t going to jump right in.”

  “The wedding’s two weeks away. There’s no time to lose.”

  Justin took a long drink of his beer. “I’m intrigued.”

  I sighed. “Fine. I’ll admit upfront this is totally pathetic, but I need a date for a wedding in two weeks.”

  “Not just a date. She needs a fiancé,” Micki said.

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “A fake fiancé. Who’s a successful CEO with an Australian accent.”

  He laughed and sat on the stool next to me. “I’m none of those things.”

  “But you are an actor.”

  He sucked in a deep breath—and then another slug of beer.

  “I’d be willing to pay you.”

  “Let me guess, your ex is getting married? An old boyfriend is going to be there? I won’t get the shit pounded out of me, will I?” I got a whiff of whatever aftershave he’d been wearing. It was nice.

  I fiddled with the straw in my drink. “No, no it’s not my ex.”

  “Then why would you need to show up with a rich, successful fiancé?”

  “The bride was this mean girl in school…”

  He held up a hand. “Say no more. I have a younger sister. I once paid a buddy to take her to some big dance.”

  “Aww, really?” Something deep inside me hummed.

  “Of course. She’s my sister and no one’s going to tell her she can’t land a date. Even if she couldn’t.” He clapped his hands together. “So, what do I have to do?”

  “You’re interested?” I hadn’t expected this.

  He shrugged. “I need the cash.”

  ”For what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It’s not illegal is it? Or a gambling debt?” Didn’t want my fake fiancé getting his knees broken at the wedding.

  He laughed. “No.”

  “Okay.” I blew my bangs off my forehead. I hadn’t really expected to find someone. It’d seemed like more of a lark. “It’s not that hard. Just pretend to be the perfect man who’s engaged to me.”

  His eyes twinkled and he leaned forward. “What’s your perfect guy like?”

  I thought about it. My perfect guy was funny, and was passionate about his work, even if it didn’t pay well. He was smart, liked to read, didn’t like to party too much, liked cats more than dogs, and appreciated high thread count sheets. Weird, I know, but it’s the little things that count, and my perfect guy enjoys the little things. Oh, and my perfect guy is nice to his sister. But Justin had that covered. It’s very important to see how a man treats the other women in his life. It’s a good indicator of things to come for you.

  However, my perfect guy was very different from the guy I needed to make Carrie jealous. “He needs to be rich, successful, handsome, confident, and foreign would be awesome, can you do an accent?”

  “Aye, love,” he said in a perfect Australian accent.

  “Nice,” I cooed. “He has to be generous and kind and totally smitten with me.”

  “I think we can make that all happen in two weeks.” His grin was dazzling.

  My brain fogged over for a moment. “So, what’ll that cost me?”

  “I’ll have to give up a night of tips, and I usually bring in one-fifty at a decent banquet.”

  “How about two hundred?” That’d be worth making Carrie jealous.

  “We’ll also have to get together beforehand to get our stories straight. How about two-fifty?”

  I could buy a few new bathing suits for the summer with two hundred fifty dollars. But we were talking about the girl who took a picture of me in my bra in the locker room and sold copies of it for ten bucks so guys could get a glimpse of the smallest tits in school. Luckily, they’d grown some since then. But I’d definitely be wearing a push-up the night of the wedding. Not quite believing what I was doing, I stuck out my hand. “It’s a deal.”

  ***

  I drove home in a daze. Banks, you’re an idiot. I hadn’t been thinking straight. Damn. What had I just agreed to? Acting as a fake fiancé? This setup was not a step away from a gig as a gigolo. Right? Still, I’d never been paid to go on a date. Screw it. This was definitely an acting job. It would be a good challenge. And hell, it would be fun. Samantha was hot, and clearly had a good sense of humor if she was pulling a stunt like this. Or was it more like she was neurotic? Didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking to get involved with anyone. Not when my mom was still sick. Not when I was still struggling to launch my business idea. It’d be an easy two-fifty and nothing more. Besides, I was nothing like her dream man. Wouldn’t be a problem.

  I got home and Jekyll and Hyde jumped off the back of the couch and wound around my ankles as I made my way to the fridge. I’m no fool, they were only happy to see me because I could reach the box of dried cat food in the cupboard. If only females of the human variety were as easy to understand.

  Dumping a good-sized mound into their dishes, I collapsed on the couch with a bowl of cereal. My dog, Daisy, snoozed in her crate. I was still fifteen thousand dollars away from my goal of buying a used food truck for catering events. No one in town was doing it, and I wanted to be the first out there with the idea.

  But it would be at least a year before I had enough cash, and I didn’t have the collateral or good enough credit to secure a loan. Maybe I should be a gigolo. Juggling several jobs wasn’t fun; I worked at least sixty hours a week. Just another reason a relationship was out of the question. Launching a new business wouldn’t be easy, either. No, it would probably be a few years before I was looking for love.

  Finishing my cereal, I loaded chili ingredients into my crockpot. It was Mom’s favorite. My secret was half a cup of brown sugar. I liked to tease her and not tell her what it was. She came up with a new guess every time she tried it. She’d come close with molasses one time, but I think she’d be disappointed if she ever found out because she had so much fun trying to pry it out of me. I brought Mom a few meals for the week every Sunday. I chuckled, thinking of my many friends who dropped in on their parents every Sunday to mooch their one good home-cooked meal of the week. Here
I was delivering the food to my mother instead. I gave the chili a stir, and chopped up another onion.

  My little sister, Jill, lived across the country, and my father had left Mom fifteen years ago. We didn’t talk about the divorce, but I shouldered a lot of blame. If not for me, they might be together. Now, I was all she had, besides a small group of friends who helped when they could. Her cancer was in remission, but there was no telling when it could come back. She was miserable that I wasn’t married or at least in a serious relationship so she’d know someone would take care of me when she was gone. She liked to say if she died while I was still single, she’d come back to haunt me. I totally believed her on that one.

  ***

  To her credit, she waited until after polishing off a bowl of chili—and incorrectly guessing the secret ingredient was carrot juice—to ask about my love life. “Met anyone interesting, dear?”

  Right. Since last week? Then I remembered that I had. Only not in the way Mom meant, of course. But a little white lie wouldn’t hurt. And Sam was interesting. What the hell, I could concoct a fake relationship, too. One that would end in a few weeks and would never require a visit with Mom. At least it might make her feel better if she thought I was “getting out there” as she liked to say. I can’t imagine the anguish Mom would be in if I were a daughter and still single at thirty-two. Luckily, my sister was married with a kid.

  I smiled at Mom. “Actually, I met this great girl. We’re going out again later this week.”

  She clasped her hands and sucked in a breath. “Really? What’s she like?”

  I paused for a moment. If Samantha could create her own dream guy checklist for me to follow, I’d do the same. How would my mother know? She’d never meet her. “She’s great. She’s a cute blonde, funny, friendly.” I didn’t mention her killer curves and sexy pout. She was on the short side, around five foot four, which was perfect for me. For some reason, I was drawn to shorter women.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. What does she do, dear?”

  Huh. I hadn’t even asked. Well, this is my dream girl we were creating; she could be whatever I wanted her to be. “She’s an art teacher.” That surprised me. Normally, I’d think of a swimsuit model or an actress. No, that was more of a hookup dream girl. This was the fake girlfriend you’d want to bring home to Mom that I was creating.