My Fake Fiancée. Nancy Warren
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once the VP job was in the bag, he and his wife-to-be would discover she didn’t want to marry him after all. He’d get all the sympathy of a jilted man and the job would be his.
However, instead of interviewing suitable candidates, he was heading home for brunch at his parents’ place before they headed off on summer vacation for a few weeks.
He pulled in to the driveway of his parents’ Cape Cod, noting that his sister’s car was already there. Suck-up.
He got out of his vehicle, leaned in for the huge bouquet, part send-off and part guilt gift since he hadn’t seen his folks in weeks.
As he walked by his sister’s car he saw that she was still in it, arguing on her cell phone as usual. He sent her a cheery wave and walked on, only to halt and head back a slow step or two until he was level with the driver’s door. He knew it was desperation driving him now, but Sarah was a lawyer with a ton of women friends, many of whom went to Vassar. One of them might impress Van Horne. Sarah was four years younger than he, so most of her friends were in the right age range. Of course, Sarah’s friends tended to be way too serious and definitely too feminist, considering a man’s balls not as one of his chief erogenous zones, but as the handiest place to kick him. Hard.
However, he was desperate.
She clicked off the phone, then gave a purr of satisfaction. His sister rarely lost an argument. Or backed down. As he knew from painful experience. She was the perfect divorce lawyer. “What poor schmuck are you screwing over this time?”
“You want to talk about screwing over? The guy hid millions of dollars overseas and now he’s suing the wife, a high school teacher, for alimony.” She tapped her phone against her chin, “We’ll get him.”
“Do you ever represent men?”
She gave him a scornful glance. “As if.”
Then her gaze sharpened on him. “Well, aren’t you the dutiful son?” she crooned, getting an eyeful of the blooms. Then she stepped out of the car and gave him a one-armed hug. “How’s my big bro?”
Winning an argument always made her mellow, so he decided to ask for her help, assuming he wouldn’t be any further behind if she laughed in his face, which she’d probably do. But maybe, just maybe, she had the perfect woman for him.
“In a jam, as it happens. I need your help.”
Her glance softened and a look of concern crossed her face. “Oh, honey, what is it? Not trouble with the law?”
“No. Nothing like that. Woman trouble.”
Her crack of laughter nearly wilted the roses in his bouquet. “Here’s your problem, lover boy. Those aren’t women you insist on going out with. They are emotionally stunted fashion dolls.”
“Exactly.” He grinned at her shocked expression. “I need to meet a real woman. Someone like you. Who obviously isn’t a blood relative.” He considered her. “Or a man hater.”
“I don’t hate men.”
“Okay.” He wouldn’t get anywhere by insulting her, he reminded himself. “Honestly, Sar, I really need your help.”
“Tell your counselor everything.”
So he did. And watched her eyes grow rounder as the story progressed.
“You lied about having a fiancée for career advancement?”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
She shook her head at him. “What were you thinking?”
“Obviously, I wasn’t. Wasn’t thinking they’d want to meet this woman, anyway.”
She slammed her car door shut with her hip. “I cannot believe any firm in this millennium thinks it’s okay to withhold promotions based on a person’s marital status.” She shook her head. “It’s antiquated and wrong.”
She was clearly thinking deep legal thoughts. “The whole thing’s all but illegal. Want to sue them?” She looked so hopeful he almost laughed.
“No. I don’t want to sue my employer. I want the VP job.”
“Why did you say you wanted my help?”
“I was hoping you might know a nice, unattached woman, somebody smart and classy who would be good wife-of-the-VP material. Who might enjoy coming out to a few business occasions and posing as my fiancée. Then, after I get the VP job, we’d quietly split.”
Her face creased as though she’d tasted something bad. “If I knew any women like that I’d—”
He put up his free hand to stop her. “Never mind. It was a long shot. I really don’t need a lecture, either. Let’s forget we had this conversation and enjoy a nice family brunch.”
He turned to head inside when her hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
He turned back.
“Believe it or not, I do know someone who might just be desperate enough to do this, if you help her in return.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “You know her, too. Or you used to.”
“Who is she?” If he knew this woman, he’d have thought of her by now since he’d gone through every contact he’d ever made searching for a suitable candidate.
“Chelsea Hammond.”
“Chelsea Hammond?” The name rang a vague bell, but he couldn’t picture her.
She glared at him. “Chelsea? My best friend? Who lived right there in the Dennises’ home while she attended high school?” She pointed to a white two-story that shared a back fence with his folks’ place. “She was always over here. She used to bake the most amazing cookies and cakes and stuff.”
His confusion cleared. “Oh, you mean Hermione?”
“Nobody called her that but you,” Sarah reminded him.
He remembered her well. She was so serious. Always had her nose stuck in a book, often a cookbook, masses of long dark hair and eyes that were too big for her face. The minute he’d read the first Harry Potter book he’d thought of Sarah’s serious friend and from that moment on had called her Hermione, after Harry’s best friend, the superbrainy Hermione Granger.
Before he could ask more, the front door opened. “I thought I heard you two outside,” their dad said, beaming at them. He raised his voice and bellowed, “Meg, the kids are here,” and his mother came out from the kitchen with her arms spread wide.
Meg and Lawrence Wolfe were like the poster couple in the early retirement ads. They were exactly what they looked like. Successful, healthy and still—as far as he could judge—happily married. They traveled, got away in the winter to somewhere warm, golfed, gave dinner parties and attended church regularly. His mom volunteered at a soup kitchen and his dad had recently, to his and Sarah’s eternal embarrassment, involved himself in amateur theater.
Their only disappointment, as far as he could tell, was that neither of their children was married.
The minute they’d said their hellos and got the initial chitchat out of the way, Sarah went to the shelf of photo albums in the walnut bookcase beside the gas fireplace, chose an album and flipped through. She brought the album over to him.
“Here’s a picture of the three of us. Chelsea, you and me.”
He squinted at the album his sister shoved under his nose. The event was Sarah’s birthday and the three teenagers stood together. He had his arm around both girls. The cake read Happy 15th Birthday, Sarah, and they’d posed beside it. He’d have been nineteen, he supposed, and he towered over the two girls. A slight, thin girl, Hermione had shiny dark hair, he remembered, that was like a curtain, hiding her face. She used to blush when he was around, which made him suspect she had a bit