I feel like a fake wife already.
And then I remember: I don't want to have to explain.
I don't want to have to justify.
I don't want to have to dissect the facts.
To rationalize. To justify my actions.
I don't want to explain myself to anyone.
And I wouldn’t need to if I were Andrew’s fake fiancée.
I could just show up, smile, and let the world believe in the lie. I could be a perfectly lovely fake person.
Slumping backwards, I slosh the drink in my lap, my hair fanning across the suite’s overpriced pillows, giving in.
“So,” Andrew presses after a few tense seconds, “do you want to tell me what you really called me for? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t so I could hear the sounds of your breathing on the line.”
I reach for the whiskey—a drink I’d never imbibe on any other night. Closing my eyes, I let the liquor talk instead of the burdened business owner inside.
I throw the should away…for the moment.
“Actually, I called to tell you…” I stall, taking another sip of the dark elixir. I let it slide down my throat. “That I’m going to need an extra bag of cat food if I’m going to leave my cat Domino in the house for the entire weekend. And a few extra dollars so that the neighbor can check in on him, make sure he’s still alive.”
I can practically hear Andrew’s smile. “I’ll have a bag dropped off to your neighbor first thing in the morning. Got a hidden spare key?”
I give him all the details and then I hang up the hotel phone, slinking back onto the bed, my head swimming.
I’ve lied for a lifetime about things that I’ve wanted in my life.
I can lie for the next two days.
I’ll have to. If I want to save the bar. Or save my employees.
Or even do something as stupid as save myself.
Chapter 8
NANCY
“I just want you to be comfortable,” he said after I had told him my answer. “I'll send a car for you.”
I told him I didn't need a ride, but he insisted. And now, the driver is waiting for me when I step out of the hotel.
The air tastes metallic this morning, the gray sky the color of worn steel.
The day is dreary—a perfect complement to my nerves which are beating as hard as the rain this Saturday morning, and Andrew’s text is still on my phone.
One hand on the suitcase Andrew’s man brought, another on my phone, I glance at the slew of texts on the screen—one right after the other.
I exhale.
SOPH: I know you must be mad as hell at me for ditching last night, but are you ALIVE?
I’ve called you five times in the last five hours, and you never seem to have your phone with you.
LEARN TO PICK UP.
If you don’t answer my texts, I’m going to call the cops and report you missing. And then we’ll both be in trouble.
I’m an asshole.
I won’t even get mad this time if you remind me I’m one. I will have deserved it…for missing your fundraiser
(Side note: I got distracted by Noah. Or rather, “little Noah.” Though there’s nothing “little” about him… Okay, I’ll stop)
Anyway, call me when you can, Nan
Seriously.
Did I mention I’m an asshole?
I blow out a frustrated breath, thumbing through text message thread number two in my phone. It’s only more of the same.
This time, from Eric…
Who didn’t even check on me last night.
Eric: I’m sorry I missed everything. I had no idea things had gotten that bad
Call me
I’m on staff at the bar all weekend, so you know where to find me
Can’t wait to see you
And then there was Andrew.
My heart beat harder as I scrolled a little too quickly past Eric’s to read my new partner-in-crime’s latest text.
PITA: Remember what I said: Just bring yourself. The house has everything you’ll need.
No toothbrushes needed. No hairbrushes.
No clothes.
Definitely no clothes.
You could show up naked, and Henry won’t mind
And I wouldn’t be upset either…
Just a thought
I glance down at the outfit I’ve picked out for today, items from the hotel boutique—a navy peacoat, a simple blouse and jean set that I know won’t fit in with the crowd I’m going to see.
Not that I’ll fit in either.
I’d Googled the Fletchers this morning. And it didn’t help my nerves.
The sites on the billionaire family were full of gossip and conjecture, rumors about the Fletcher tycoons—tales of wealth beyond belief. Yachts on the fourth of July. Galas by the dozens.
I didn’t believe it.
But there’s nothing to believe or disbelieve as a deep black Mercedes rolls into my field of view, as dark and sleek as the rainy street.
Taking a deep breath, I walk down the few steps, stopping just as it slows, my pulse playing a frantic beat beneath my skin.
I cross my arms just as the back window lowers.
Andrew stares out at me, eyes almost the color of the sky.
“You’re on time.”
I raise a brow. “I’m not the one with the reputation for being late.”
“Fair enough. Well, just wait until you meet the other Fletchers in the family. You’ll soon learn the meaning of perfection and punctuality, courtesy of my mother.”
“Can’t wait.”
The front door opens suddenly, and out pops a gray-haired man in a suit and hat, heading my way. I brace myself.
Especially when Andrew opens the door a second later, stepping out and stopping the gray-haired man I’ve already met who heads my way, his hand up.
“Henry, Henry, Henry. You’re a good man. A very good man. But I’ve got this.”
Henry returns to his position at the wheel, and Andrew swings his eyes back to mine, staring at me as he crosses over the sidewalk.
He stares down at my suitcase.
“I thought I told you not to bring anything.”
“Yeah, that was never going to happen.”
“I see.” He reaches out, grabbing the handle. “You don’t trust me.”
“What would you say if I told you no?”
He
