Fake Marriage Box Set

Penn flipped on a lamp next to a comfortably worn couch. "I just got the sense that you are determined to make it to a big house like that one. I didn't think you'd settle for the apartment above the garage."

"I don't know. Maybe I haven't decided yet," I gulped.

"Well, let me give you a little advice," Penn said. He moved closer and caught my hand. "Don't think about practicalities or settling. Just do what you love."

I shied away from him and feigned interest in an old oil painting. It was a tumultuous depiction of a sailboat in open water, and somehow the bright white of the hull comforted me in the midst of all the foaming, dark-blue waters. Steady and bright and able to sail through the storm.

That's how I felt every time I sang.

"What'd you study in college?" Penn asked, flipping on more lights. "Musical performance?"

I scoffed. "No. I wanted to make sure I was spending my money on a career that would pay off my student loans."

Penn tipped his head and considered me. "Did you pay your own way through school?"

I shrugged off the second question and only answered his first. "I studied hospitality. I'm applying to work at the Ritz-Carlton tomorrow."

"But you really want to sing," he said.

My laugh sounded hollow. "Singing's just for fun. And since I'm planning to live in a house like that someday, I'm going to stay focused on work."

He followed my gaze out the window to the mansion. "Did I mention there's a music room?" he asked. "It's one of my favorite rooms here. There's a whole wall of records. In fact, I bet we could find that song you sang tonight."

He headed towards the door, but I hesitated. I felt like a trespasser in that house, sure that each step would cause some catastrophe that would keep me in debt for the rest of my life. One careless elbow and I would owe his boss a priceless statue or antique vase.

"Unless you're tired," Penn said, but opened the door and held out his hand.

I took his challenge and let him lead me back into the luxurious glow of the mansion. He didn't stop on the first floor until the staircase. There, he glanced down at my high heels and said, "You can take those off and go barefoot if you'd rather."

I battled between being comfortable and being appropriately dressed in such elegant surroundings. My aching feet finally won out, and I slipped my shoes off. Penn plucked them from my hands and tossed them by the newel post. I cringed as their non-designer label was revealed, but he didn't notice. Instead, he held out his hand.

Our fingers laced together somewhere on the next flight of steps. I was stunned by how perfectly my hand fit in his, though I was terrified he could feel my jumping pulse.

Penn led me through the house, punching light switches and opening doors with a casual ease that I envied. He was never once stunned into silence by the priceless artwork or wide-eyed by the million-dollar furnishings.

Part of me wanted to play the part, pretend for a night that I was the rich person who owned such a lavish palace. I wanted to float through the rooms as if I owned them and take each expensive detail for granted.

Instead, I padded through the rooms barefoot and was barely able to keep my mouth from gaping open. The more I saw, the more a sure feeling took root in me. I didn't really belong in such a mansion, and the opulent surroundings weren't really what I wanted.

"And this is the music room," Penn announced. He tossed open the door and slapped on the lights.

A small dais stage complete with a microphone lit up like a beacon. "Does that ever get used?" I asked and pointed with a shaky hand.

"My boss loves to entertain, and he's usually got a little jazz combo or some fancy soloist performing here," Penn said. He caught my other hand, and the gold flecks warmed in his eyes. "Please tell me you want to try it out."

"Me? No. There's no music. I couldn't," I stammered.

Penn squeezed my fingers and pulled me across the room. He found a hidden switch, and an entire bookshelf moved to reveal a state-of-the-art sound system. "Any song you want. Just name it, and I can cue it up on th

is," he said.

I freed my fingers from his grasp before he felt the cold sweat that broke out on my palms. "Didn't you say there was a wall of…oh, there."

Penn grinned. "See the tablet on the wall? It's a catalog. Type in any album you can think of, and it will give you the precise location."

I smiled, relieved. "I always loved Billie Holiday."

He typed on the tablet and then pulled over a wooden ladder. Penn scaled the ladder with the ease of a practiced climber and pulled out the album. When he jumped back down next to me, he grinned again. "Did I mention that we can adjust the levels so you can sing along or sing by yourself with her band?"