Mister Fake Fiance

She smiles. “Oh, I know. But I’d like to.”

There is no escape. I manage a dignified nod, praying that her coffee is better than her cookies. “Okay. Thanks.”

Survival instincts wailing in protest, I go to my room, swallow four aspirin and put on a white shirt with the company logo, then shove my legs through a pair of shorts. I start to return to the kitchen, but reconsider. I should at least make myself smell better, especially when Erin smells so divine, like she always does.

So I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face and make my way downstairs. Hopefully, Erin hasn’t found the coffee beans yet. It’s safer for everyone that I man the machine.

Too late. The kitchen smells like fresh java.

“Oh good. You’re just in time.” She smiles.

I say nothing, but watch her putter around in my huge kitchen. It’s weird to see her in an informal setting. She’s pretty in the morning sun. And when she moves to grab a mug, her body stretches, lengthening her lean, shapely legs. They’re her best asset. I’m sure she knows, which is why she showed up in a pencil skirt with a small slit on the side for her initial job interview. It worked, too, especially because I was in a bad place mentally and emotionally. I told myself that everyone needs to start somewhere, even though the reality was that I liked her legs too much not to hire her.

Still, I’ve always behaved professionally around her. The company doesn’t forbid interoffice dating, but nobody needs to have their boss ogling them or acting like a hormonal idiot.

“Here.” Erin hands me a mug with a wide smile.

My answering smile is hopefully not too full of nerves. “Thanks.” I take a tentative sip and let out a relieved sigh because the coffee tastes okay.

Honestly, though, anything short of septic would be acceptable. “So. What are you doing here?”

“Your mother called. She said she sent you a package, and it’s important that you receive it.”

Huh. Mom didn’t say anything about that. On the other hand, it isn’t the first time she’s tasked an assistant of mine with something. But my last assistant was my cousin, so whatever Mom asked Jan to do could be construed as a family favor of sorts. Erin, on the other hand, isn’t related, so Mom shouldn’t heap stuff on her behind my back.

For an optimistic second, I wonder if Mom’s sent me a care package. Her brownies could make sworn enemies fall in love and bring peace to the world. I’ve been missing them since I moved to Los Angeles a year ago. But she doesn’t need Erin here for that. So what’s this about?

“I’m sorry. She really shouldn’t have,” I say. “Next time, just tell her you’re busy.”

“I don’t mind. I am your assistant, after all.” Erin says it without a hint of resentment that her weekend got interrupted. “I enjoy being useful.”

She is either an amazing actress or really is telling the truth. “Well…thanks.”

The bell rings. The loud jingling noise says somebody is at the house gates.

“Oh, great!” She perks up. “Must be the package your mother was talking about. She told me to let them in immediately because it’s heavy.”

Erin hits the button on the security console in the living room to unlock the gates before I can. She seems a bit too eager. Probably thrilled to pieces she can go home soon.

Two men in pale blue uniforms carefully bring in a very large brown package. It’s big enough to fill up a wall, and sort of flat, like a TV.

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This doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way Mom sent me a TV. She knows I have four already, and there’s certainly no reason to call Erin about it.

I take another sip of my coffee, hoping the caffeine will make my brain work better. Maybe then I can figure out what my mother is up to.

“Great. Please bring it this way.” Erin gestures at them as she starts moving. “Up the stairs.”

The men follow her with the package, carrying it like a priceless piece of art. I swallow more coffee, tagging along to the landing, watching with curiosity and a little apprehension. I’m not a perv, but I have to admit that that pencil skirt looks damn good going up the stair—

“Into the master bedroom,” Erin says as they turn a corner.

What? Annoyed, I start up the stairs. Erin will probably get lost anyway. There are seven bedrooms on the upper level. Even though she’s been to the mansion a few times to help with some urgent projects, she’s never been upstairs before.

But by the time I get to the top, my bedroom door is open and long shadows are spilling into the hallway. Mom must’ve given her the layout of the place. My mother is nothing if not thorough, a normally admirable quality I find very irritating at the moment.

“Right there is where it should go,” Erin says.