Faking It For Mr Right

It makes me worry I may already be in over my head. Because I shouldn’t feel that way. Not about someone I’m just doing business with.

Xander told me we could mix business with pleasure. And maybe he can. But I wonder if I’m really capable of doing the same.

7

Xander

This is actually going to work. That’s the thought going through my head as my driver weaves through traffic, guiding the car toward Central Park. My penthouse is on the edge of the park, with a view that I know Melanie is going to love, based on the way she’s staring out the window now, a huge smile on her face, drinking everything in.

“It’s just like the movies!” she exclaims, again and again, as we steer toward home.

I struggle to suppress my grin, watching her. Seeing her reactions to everything from the first class seats and service on the plane, to the chauffeured car that awaited us at JFK airport, even to the city itself, makes me see my world through new eyes. Through her eyes.

My father is going to love her. How could he not? Anybody would. Her excitement is contagious, her enthusiasm infectious.

This plan can’t fail. It’s going to get me exactly what I want. Because who could meet Melanie, get to know her, and not believe that I’d fall head over heels for her? Enough to change my bachelor ways and settle down. She’s the perfect match, even if she’s a match I never would have thought of before. She’s so… innocent. So genuine.

“This is where you live?” she says as we pull up to the curb, so loudly that even Andrew, my usually professional beyond a shadow of a doubt chauffer, stifles an amused laugh.

“Not here,” I say, as I step out first and hold the door open for her to follow me onto the curb. I point up, past the ornate main entrance. All the way to the top of the skyscraper. “Up there,” I say, and I chuckle at her slack-jawed stare.

“Have I mentioned this is like something from a movie?” she asks, yet again, as we cross through the golden lobby. The doorman waves, and I greet him by name as he swipes us into the elevator and hits the floor for us.

As the doors glide shut behind us, Melanie looks around, startled. “We forgot our bags,” she says, reaching for the elevator doors. But there are no buttons on the inside of these elevators. They glide upward of their own volition, the destination already in mind.

“Don’t worry about that,” I reply. “Andrew will pass them off to the doormen to bring up in a few.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling, too. “I’m starting to think you’re spoiled, Xander.”

“You have no idea,” I respond. Then I offer a wink. “But don’t worry. I plan to spoil you too. After all, you are my fiancée.”

The word lands between us heavily, and makes her shift on her feet, the excited smile suddenly fading from her face. I frown, wondering what upset her. I’d meant to just joke about our arrangement. Instead, I seem to have struck a nerve. But before I can ask what’s going through her mind, the elevator reaches the top. My floor. The doors open, and whatever was eating at Melanie must be forgotten as she spins toward the apartment.

“Oh, my god.” She steps out, mouth open, and walks slowly through the entrance.

I follow her, unable to contain my grin. I spent a lot of time making sure this apartment looked exactly right. Now, I’m glad that past me did all that work. I don’t bring people over often, but it’s worth all the effort just to trail Melanie through the place now, seeing it with fresh eyes, the same way I’ve been watching her experience the city ever since we landed.

She oohs at the marble entryway, fading into the Brazilian hardwood floors of the main room. She ahhs at the fireplace and makes appreciative sounds over the leather couches, the fluffy rug near the fire and the more delicate Persian ones that accent the sitting room. She grins at the dining room, with its oversized chandelier and simple furniture, and literally gasps when she walks into the kitchen, with its enormous marble countertops and more appliances than she’s ever seen before.

I know this, because she quizzes me about them all, from the food processor to the coffee machine to the wine fridge with individual settings, to maintain the correct temperature for every bottle of wine within it.

“I didn’t take you for a foodie,” she says, grinning over her shoulder at me.

I shrug. “I enjoy cooking,” I respond. “It calms me.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement when they fix on me again. It’s the kind of look that makes me want to throw our plans out the window and keep her inside all night with me. It makes me want to take her straight back to the bedroom and fuck the rest of the night.