Faking It. Stefanie London
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want you two to get reacquainted. Finish your coffees and figure your shit out.” Gary pushes up from his seat, his belly straining against his navy uniform shirt. Today he’s in office dress—proper trousers instead of the tactical ones, and a black tie at his neck. Probably had a meeting with the big boss. “See if you can keep from killing each other.”
“Our reputation precedes us,” I say as Gary exits the meeting room, leaving me alone with my soon-to-be fake-wife.
“Your reputation precedes you,” Anderson corrects me. “Mine is nice and quiet. The way I prefer it.”
“Always so argumentative.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. Unlike her, I’m not dressed in uniform since I’m here as a consultant.
They might be able to drag me back for a case, but I’m not signing any long-term contracts. I’ll do this job as a favour for my old boss. I like the guy. I don’t like the life I left behind. Too many demons. The second this job is over I’m getting my ass back to New York.
“Look, this is my first assignment as a detective,” she says, nailing me with her wide brown eyes. “And I know you have a penchant for wreaking havoc, but I will not let you screw this up. You might have left this life behind, but this job is important to me.”
Anderson is all spit and polish, just as I remember. Perfectly pressed shirt and slacks, neat ponytail. She’s clearly catching up on paperwork before her big move into a detective’s role. I bet she stayed up late last night shining her shoes.
“Message received, Anderson. No tomfoolery.”
“You should start calling me Hannah. Get into the habit so my surname doesn’t slip out in front of anyone while we’re on the job.” She sticks her thumb into her mouth to chew on a nail, but then thinks better of it and folds her hands in front of her. Outside the meeting room, people wander back and forth—some in uniform and others in civilian dress. “I wanted to keep our first names the same. Make it easier to remember. Although I still don’t see why we can’t be brother and sister. It seems ludicrous that anyone would think I’d marry you.”
“Oh yeah, speaking of which...” I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out a worn velvet box. Anderson’s eyes widen as I flip it open, showing her the old, ornate ring nestled inside.
The ring is legit. It belonged to my mother and since I’m never, ever getting married I’m pleased to use it for something. It wasn’t her engagement ring—that one lives with my grandmother. But my mother loved jewellery enough to have a personal jeweller on retainer when she was alive, so I wasn’t short on options for this fake proposal.
Fun fact: I don’t need to work. My parents were rich. Like, travel around the world on a private jet rich. Like fly in a bunch of diamonds straight from Antwerp rich.
Not that I want anything to do with the money. It’s been sitting in a bank account for the last fifteen years while my financial adviser plays with cryptocurrency like he’s got a great big pile of Monopoly money in front of him. I told him to pick the riskiest ones and not even think twice if he lost the lot. He didn’t, not by a long shot.
And for this job, I’m going to have to embrace the upper-crust lifestyle.
“You’ve got to start wearing this,” I say.
Anderson blinks. “This is not how the fairy tales led me to believe a proposal would happen.”
The gold band cradles an interesting stone in a smoky shade that’s somewhere between brown and grey, which is nicer than it sounds. It’s surrounded by tiny white diamonds that glimmer under the artificial lighting.
The ring is unusual and pretty, like Anderson.
“I guess I’m not doing it right.” Clearing my throat, I slide off my chair and drop down to one knee. “Detective Senior Constable Hannah Anderson, will you—”
“Fletcher!” she squeaks, and several people outside the meeting room snap their heads in our direction. She gives me a shove and I fall to one side, laughing and landing on my palm. She snatches the ring box out of my other hand and shoves it into her pocket. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“What? I thought I was being nice.”
She shakes her head as though I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Yarra. Which, to be fair, might be true. “Couldn’t you find one of those gumball machines and get me some crappy little trinket? I’m going to freak out wearing this.” She pats her hand over the pocket containing my mother’s ring. “This is...real.”
“Yeah, it is. Topaz or some shit. And we’re going to be tracking a band of jewellery thieves. Ever think of that? Might be good to have a sparkly conversation starter.”
Her expression tells me it was a good call but there’s no way in hell she’ll say it aloud. Anderson—sorry, Hannah—doesn’t like to admit when other people are right.
“We should meet early on Monday morning. I’ve arranged for Ridgeway to drive a van with some boxes to the apartment building.”
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Nothing much. Files and stuff. But we have to look like we’re moving in.”
I grin. “It’s a new adventure for us. Newlyweds getting their first place together. You’ll have to practice looking excited.”
“I don’t know if I have it in me,” she drawls. Then she stands. Even with me sitting and her standing, she doesn’t have much height on me. What did I call her back then? Pocket Rocket. “Monday morning. Seven a.m.”
“Seven?” I groan. “Who moves into a house that early?”
“People who are excited to be living together.” She picks up her coffee cup. I’m already imagining how strange it’s going to be to see my mother’s ring on her finger. For some reason, it doesn’t repulse me as much as it should. “Don’t be late.”
“Seven a.m. it is, my darling wife.”
She rolls her eyes again and I contemplate warning her that the wind might change. But this time I hold my tongue. I’ll have many hours ahead of me to drive her nuts. Gotta take the perks of the job wherever they come. I pull the file out of my backpack and scan the summary page containing the key details of our assignment. Seven a.m. at 21 Love Street, South Melbourne.
Love Street? Sounds like the perfect place for a fake marriage.
Hannah
OWEN’S LATE. I’M shocked...not.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to ignore the strange feeling of the ring on my left hand. The big stone chafes me, reminding me constantly that it’s there. It’s irritating. Like the man who gave it to me.
It’s also insanely beautiful and makes me feel like a princess, but I’m not telling a soul that little piece of information.
“Have you got a coping strategy in place?” Max Ridgeway leans against the small van parked in the loading dock of the place that will be my home until this assignment is over.
21 Love Street is the kind of place I would never actually live. It’s one of those “boutique” apartment complexes—only six stories in height, with a grand foyer and all the trimmings. It’s not meant for people like me, people who grew up with a family crammed into a house without enough bathrooms to go around. Sure, this place isn’t the most expensive building in the city...but it’s well beyond my means. And we’re going to be living in one of the penthouse suites.
So yeah, you could say I was feeling a little out of my element. And that was before my “husband”