Faking It For Mr Right

I can guess what I look like, striding through the pharmacy doors in slippers and a robe, my face drawn and sick. Especially when I slap the pregnancy test down on the checkout counter.

“Good luck,” the woman checking me out murmurs after a single glance at my appearance.

I wonder what kind of luck it is I’m hoping for. The kind that’s going to cause the least amount of issues for me, I guess. My heart sinking all the way down into my stomach, I stuff the test in the pocket of my robe and pad back across the street to the apartment, where the front desk man lets me up into the penthouse.

Luckily, Devan must sleep through the ding of the elevator doors. I cross into mine and Xander’s bedroom—funny how quickly I’ve come to think of it like that, as if I really do live here now, as if it actually belongs to me, or I to this place. Then I shut myself in the bathroom and pee on the stick, as directed.

I keep my eyes closed while it develops. I pray, though for what, I’m not sure. For a miracle? For a sign about what I should do now?

When I open my eyes again, though, my stomach churns afresh with a whole new sense of nausea.

Fuck.

I’m pregnant.

11

Melanie

My knee jitters up and down as the car winds along the quiet streets. We’re far out of the city, up north and east in an area I haven’t even heard of, but which looks from the window to be the area where the ultra-wealthy retreated after deciding the Upper West and East Sides had gotten too pedestrian for their tastes. The mansions that line both sides of the car windows have sprawling lawns—at least compared to similar houses within the city limits.

Xander reaches over to rest a hand on my knee, which stills at his touch. He flashes me a smile. “Relax,” he murmurs. “My father is going to love you.”

I force a smile in return and nod, before my gaze drifts back out the car window. If only that were the only thing I had to worry about. If only this whole mess hadn’t just gotten about a hundred million times more complicated. Xander didn’t sign on for a wife and family. He signed up for a fraud. He’s paying me to be here, to pretend to love him while I meet his father, so he can acquire whatever inheritance or monetary gain his father is most likely holding over his head.

He’s not looking for a real relationship, much less a child.

I resist the urge to press a hand to my stomach as the car swerves along a long, curving road, farther and farther from the bright lights of the city, out into the wealthy suburbs.

At least the nausea has died down a little bit. I bought a ton of home remedies for my upset stomach, lying to Devan and telling her I had a stomach bug. It’s the first time I’ve ever really lied to her face. It doesn’t make me feel great about the whole situation. But what else could I do? If I told her the truth, she’d insist I have to tell Xander, and if I tell Xander, well…

My head swims. So much for not feeling too nauseous anymore. I shut my eyes to stave off the worst of the motion sickness.

The truth is, I have no idea how Xander would react if I told him. And I know I’ll need to eventually, one way or another. Whatever happens with our fake engagement, this pregnancy is very much not fake. But for the moment, at least—for a few more shining, precious days—I just want to keep playing pretend. Because it really has been like living in a movie, and I don’t want the credits to roll just yet.

Yesterday, we spent a day hanging out with Devan, exploring the park, keeping everything lowkey since I told them both I was feeling sick from something I ate. But Xander splurged for a carriage ride through Central Park for us all, then bought us ice cream from his favorite stand and regaled us with stories about eating ice cream there when he was a little boy.

He charmed even Devan, and I know that takes some doing, because she’d been suspicious about him before.

After we saw her onto her flight back, Xander wasted no time spoiling me next. Right in the car, in fact, with the privacy screen up and the windows tinted dark so no passersby could see inside.

He claimed he couldn’t wait to keep his hands off me. Something he proved yet again the minute we got back to his apartment building. We’d barely let the elevator doors close behind us before he was tearing my shirt off, pushing my skirt up around my waist.