Fake Marriage Box Set

“Of course, I am,” Misty said, tossing her hair. “I'm your best friend. Now get going. And just try to have a little fun tonight, would you? You haven't been on a date in ages.”

I shook my head but didn't reply to that one.

Out on the curb, Andrew was waiting in a flashy red sports car, exactly what I might have expected for him to be driving. I slid into the passenger's seat, smiling over at him. “Hey.”

He smiled charmingly back at me. “You look gorgeous,” he told me.

I blushed and ducked my head. “Thanks. You look good, too.”

The suit was pretty much the same as the one he'd been wearing at work the previous day, although maybe a slightly darker shade of blue. He probably had two dozen suits all in similar shades, all perfectly tailored to fit him. I snorted as I got a mental image of what his closet would look like.

“What?” he asked, glancing over at me.

“You fit all the stereotypes, don't you?” I asked. “A hot, young billionaire with a flashy sports car and way too many tailored suits. You've probably got a penthouse apartment in one of the hottest downtown buildings, all the latest electronics, a cleaning lady-slash-cook for the nights when you actually bother to stay home, and, I don't know, a vacation house down in Hawaii.”

Andrew laughed. “Actually, I live in an actual house, not just an apartment. It's got really great views of the lake. And I don't have the vacation house either, although my dad is currently living in the Bahamas, so I guess that's close enough. And you forgot one thing: access to the hottest clubs in the city.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, how did I forget that one.” God, he was arrogant.

I hated to say it, but there was something about that arrogance that was appealing, though. He was handsome, and he was confident, and there were worse ways to spend a night than being taken out to an expensive restaurant by a handsome man. A handsome man who thought I was attractive enough to be there on his arm.

I smiled a little as we pulled in to the valet service and Andrew came around to open my door for me. “Thanks,” I said as I unfolded myself from the low seat.

“No problem,” Andrew said, flashing me another of those charming smiles and leading me into the restaurant with a hand at my lower back.

We were shown to a cozy table towards the back, with sweeping views of the city below. I gaped at the view for a moment, desperately wanting to pull out my phone and snap a few pictures, but I didn't know if that would make me look out of place amongst all these posh people who probably dined at places like this three times a week.

I bit my lower lip, glancing over at Andrew. Then, I decided, what the hell. I was probably never going to go on a date like this again, so who cared if these people thought I was some uncouth barbarian? I'd never see them again. I pulled out my phone and snapped some pictures.

When I turned back to face Andrew, he was smiling over at me. “This view never gets old,” he said. “And I've been coming to places like this since I was ten or something.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Your parents dragged you out to French restaurants when you were ten?” I asked. “You must have hated that.”

Andrew laughed. “My dad,” he corrected. “Yeah, I think I survived off burgers and french fries at most of the places. But he wanted me to be involved in the business from an early age. I know there are a lot of people who think that I wasn't ready to take over the company, but what they don't realize is that I've been in 'business school' for my entire life, practically.”

“That must have been tough,” I said. “Did they at least give you coloring sheets when you got stuck at fancy meetings like this?”

“You know, they never did,” Andrew said. “Never gave me wine, either.”

“What a shame,” I said, giggling a little.

Andrew handed me the wine menu. “See anything on there that strikes your fancy?”

I swallowed, looking over the menu and trying not to think of the bottle of Riesling in my fridge back home, which I had bought on sale at the grocery store for thirteen bucks, a “splurge” over my usual eight-dollar bottle.

“To be honest, I don't know the first thing about any of these,” I admitted, feeling suddenly out of place, like a child playing dress-up with her mother's things.

Andrew raised an eyebrow at me and plucked the menu out of my hands. “Well, you at least know what kind of wine you like to drink, don't you?”

“I'm not picky,” I mumbled.

“Well, we'll want to match it with whatever you plan on ordering,” he said, sounding exasperated as he snapped open his food menu. “So perhaps we should start there.”

I swallowed and looked over my own food menu, searching for anything that I could identify and pronounce, other than a croque monsieur. I snorted, imagining what that would look like.

“What?” Andrew asked, looking quizzically over at me.

“I don't know what most of this stuff is,” I said, waving at the menu. “Except a croque monsieur. And I can only imagine what you and everyone else here would think of me if you took me to this fancy French restaurant for dinner and I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich.”