When I sketched out a plan for my two weeks on Oysterberry Bay Island, I figured I’d start my first Monday tackling something that’s always scared me. There’s nothing like making Monday your bitch to start the week on a high note, and if you fail at making Monday your bitch, you blame it on Monday being Monday, and start over on Tuesday.
It’s not like having a major failure on a Friday and then having to suffer through the weekend with regrets.
But instead of heading to the dock in Sprightly, the little town on the other end of the island, for the sailing excursion I booked with a gnarled old sailor guy who promised he wouldn’t let me drown, Marshmallow and I have snuck into town early for a lot more grocery shopping than my credit card would prefer, and probably more than I should carry back on the bike I used to get across the island.
I have a fake boyfriend’s family to charm.
And there is absolutely no better way to do that than with down-home cooking.
Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not much of a chef, but considering it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Hayes wants to be alone, this will probably work to his advantage, and then I’ll be rewarded with more free time to explore the island and get in that sailing adventure later.
I’m pushing the bike down the dirt path along the rocky shoreline while Marshmallow dances in and out of the waves when a golf cart approaches. I start to move to the side of the path, then realize who’s in the cart, and my heart does a slow somersault.
The past twenty-four hours have been so unexpected and strange that if I hadn’t snuck out of the bedroom where Hayes was sleeping early this morning, I wouldn’t believe it’s all real.
Yet here he is, driving a golf cart with Amelia Shawcross seated in the passenger seat, her thick black hair billowing in the breeze and her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a second golf cart with three of Giovanna’s bodyguards following them closely.
Hayes is scowling as he pulls the cart to a stop in front of me. “Darling, I told you not to leave the estate without security.”
The last thing Hayes said to me last night before passing out cold was Bubbles melt in the mermaid boat, and he didn’t mention security once before that.
But I smile at him, and it’s not actually hard to find that smile.
Even scowling, he looks less grumpy than he did yesterday. Or maybe I’m projecting a belief that he needed more sleep, or maybe it’s that he came to get me himself instead of just sending security, or maybe it’s that the dark scruff growing out on his chin and cheeks, coupled with the black jeans and Henley, make him look more rugged than fancy, and a scowl on a rugged man is from a way different place than a scowl on a billionaire finding an unexpected nearly-naked guest in his bathroom.
And now I’m thinking about how he wasn’t wearing a shirt when I made him let me into his bed last night, and wondering how naked he was, and once again debating with myself if I can use this change in my own plans to ask a favor of him as well.
“We were out of food.” I gesture to the bike handles, laden with canvas bags of groceries, hoping I don’t look like I’m mentally stripping him, because I’m not.
My favor has nothing to do with finding him attractive. It’s just a thing. That’s it. “No strawberries. But I did get more cheesecake.”
“This is what Charlotte is for,” Amelia tells me.
“Oh, but I love the market. It’s so quaint and charming, and they have a nut butter maker, and I got a sample of the most delicious fresh almond butter that I’ve ever had in my life. Don’t worry—I got a jar to share, because you have to taste this. It’s so good. And the market also let Marshmallow in with me, and no one minded when he carried my mangos around the store for me.”
Hayes makes a noise that might be a simple hiccup or might be regrets laced with dear god, don’t ever speak of your mangos again as he slides out of the golf cart. “Come, Begonia. Sit. I’ll load up the bike—”
“No, no, I’ll ride it back, if you’ll take the groceries. And I’ll start brunch when I get home.”
Amelia doesn’t say anything else out loud, but I’m pretty sure she’s once again thinking that’s what Charlotte is for.
Poor Charlotte.
She’s clearly in love with Hayes, and he has no idea.
Or maybe he does, and he’s very, very good at playing obtuse.
And maybe she’s not actually in love with him, because maybe she has better taste than that, but has great admiration for him because he’s…good…at something she admires.
Whatever that is.
Feel sorry for the man for clearly having a rough few days? Yes.
Admit he’s attractive in a rugged, grumpy way, and possibly not the horrifying bear I thought he was yesterday? Maybe.
Want to fall in love with him?
Absolutely not. Love and I are on a break, and when we decide to give it a try again, it won’t be with a man who makes me sign a contract agreeing to be his fake girlfriend.
I want to be wooed, and I want to be someone’s equal.
Not gonna lie though—I also want someone to pop my post-divorce cherry, and I am nothing if not in tune with signs from the universe.
In all the time since I left Chad and started this journey toward being single, this is the first time I’ve wanted to consider having sex again.
Sleep in the same bed with someone? Of course. I don’t like being lonely. Especially at night.
But sex? Nope.
“Get in the golf cart, Begonia.”
After he fell asleep last night, I extracted myself from beneath his head, climbed onto the other side of the king-size mattress, and slept so-so for about six hours, our bodies continuously drawing closer together until I’d jerk awake and scoot to the other side of the bed again, his deep breathing as constant as the rolling tide outside and the soft breeze fluttering the curtains surrounding the balcony doors.
And I thought.
And this morning, slipping quietly through the aisles of the grocery store, listening to the whispered gossip around me, I thought some more.
This is fake.
It can be a lot of fun.
And maybe, just maybe, whenever this farce is over, both of us will have gotten something out of our arrangement.
Goodness knows I’ve already gotten more than I bargained for.
I met Jonas Rutherford’s mother. And she thinks I’m dating her other son. And Amelia Shawcross is staring at me.
This is way more adventure—in a peopling kind of way—than I thought I’d ever get in my whole life.
So I’m all in with this fake relationship thing.
Still, knowing what I’m supposed to do and why, coupled with what I want to ask him to do, makes it more difficult to slip my arms around this man’s shoulders. So does the way my heart kicks up when I go up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his scruffy cheek. “No. Walk me home instead.”
His muscles bunch, but he mimics my movements and settles his hands on my hips. “It’s not safe to wander off the estate by yourself when you’re dating me.”
I smile brighter and slip my fingers through his hair. “Are kidnappers going to dash out from behind that rock and carry me off to torture me behind the lobster shack?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“There is a possibility some nosy busybody with a camera will take our picture and perpetuate this crazy story where the world’s last single billionaire is madly in love with a divorced art teacher from Virginia. That would probably be a serious hit to your reputation.” Thank you, market tabloids, for filling in more details to his story while I waited to pay for my groceries.
The world’s last unmarried, male, heterosexual billionaire.
With Jonas getting married to his actress girlfriend, his single cousin, Thomas, dying in a horrific car accident, and Mathias Randolf, the software billionaire, eloping in the Caymans—with friends and family present, including Hayes—all within the last two weeks, that means I truly am fake dating the world’s last single man with a ten-figure bank account.
I’m the only thing standing between Hayes and the dozen women I overheard wondering if he was single and wanted to meet them or their niece or granddaughter.
And Amelia Shawcross.
And who knows how many others?
“My patience is in short supply, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Then you definitely have to walk me back to your place. Just breathe that air. Isn’t it amazing?” I suck in a huge breath, demonstrating how to breathe for him, not because he needs it, but because I never would’ve said this to Chad, and I need to practice saying the things I want to say when they don’t cause anyone harm.
Chad would’ve said, Get in the cart, Begonia, and I would’ve said, Yes, Chad while thinking He’s such a stick in the mud, but at least this way we don’t argue over it.
Peace over happiness.
What good was the peace when it robbed me of the little joys in life, like a few extra minutes of breathing in the fresh salty air while my dog chases sea birds and tries to catch the waves in his mouth?
Hayes’s nostrils quiver, like he’s trying to test the air without letting on that he’s following instructions, and just like last night, when he laid his head in my lap and let me help him relax, a tight band around my chest eases.
My pulse is still running high, and there are goosebumps racing across my skin, but the nerves aren’t about if I’m doing this fake girlfriend thing right, or if I’ve agreed to a deal with someone who actually wants to hurt me.
I think he’s doing the best he can with whatever demons are haunting him, and for one small moment, I’m giving him peace.
I like giving people peace.
But I’m done doing it at the expense of my own happiness.
“Hayes, your mother wants to know if she should send Charlotte into town for coffee, or if we’re bringing some back,” Amelia calls.
I lean around Hayes and smile at her. “Everything’s set in the pot in the kitchen. It’s my special coffee-of-the-month-club coffee. From Ecuador this month. And it’s delicious. All she has to do is hit the power button.”
She doesn’t smile back.
I lift my eyes to Hayes. “People in your social circles do know how to hit the power button on a coffee maker, right?”
“If not, there’s always Charlotte.”
I blink. “Did you—did you just make a joke?”
“No.”
His delivery is so straight-faced, I crack up. “Well, you should’ve. Jokes lower blood pressure too.”
“So does getting home and getting to work. Get in the cart.”
I stroke my fingers into his hair, pretending I don’t notice when his entire body goes stiff against me, and definitely pretending I don’t notice a new pressure on my belly right below where his belt sits. Is he easily turned on, or has it just been that long for him too? “Walk me home. It’ll take an hour, and it’ll clear your head before you disappear to do all of your work and leave me to entertain your mother and your ex-wife.”
A strangled noise rumbles from his throat. “She is not—”
“Grade school wives who are super successful all on their own don’t often come back when you’re still single at your age, and when they do, they definitely don’t get on a plane with your mother at the drop of a hat to go check on you at a secret hidey spot just because they had nothing better to do,” I whisper. “She’s here because she wants you.”
“Congratulations on your powers of observation.”
“Walk with me. It’s what a boyfriend would do.”
He doesn’t sigh out loud, but his expression looks like my mother’s when she wants to, and she’s had so many reasons to sigh silently at me in the past few months. He doesn’t beat you, cheat on you, or degrade you, Begonia. I don’t understand why you’d throw away a man like that when there are so few good ones left.
“Amelia.” Hayes releases his hold on my hip and turns, one hand still gripping the bike. “We’ll be walking home. Please take the groceries.”
Her lips purse. “Are you sure that’s safe?”
“I have the mayor on speed-dial if anything happens.”
I can’t see Amelia’s eyes, but I’m positive they’re twitching.
As they should be.
You’d think a woman with glowing magenta hair couldn’t be incognito in a small town, but apparently no one recognized me as the tourist staying at the big island estate today, since I had brown hair the last time they saw me, and I got to eavesdrop on all the shoppers talking about everything from Hayes’s affair with the mayor here two years ago to how long Giovanna might be planning on staying, given the amount of luggage she brought with her to, yes, who would also like to date him.
And I’m betting Amelia knows the part about Hayes dating the mayor here.
“There’s no room for the bike on the cart,” Amelia says. “And there’s no room in the security cart either.”
“We’ll walk it back,” I tell her. “Along with—Marshmallow!”
There he is.
That’s my dog.
Soaking wet and leaping up into the driver’s seat of the golf cart and trying to kiss Hayes’s second-grade wife.
“Down,” Hayes orders before I can take a full step toward the cart, and miracle of miracles, Marshmallow hops off the seat.
He also shakes his whole body right in the space between us all, coating every last one of us in sea water and sand.
Amelia’s nostrils flare.
That muscle in Hayes’s square jaw twitches.
And Marshmallow flops to the ground at my fake boyfriend’s feet, gazing up at him with blatant adoration coming out on every tongue-lolling pant.
Poor Marshmallow.
We are so out-classed here, and he has no idea.
Probably best that way.
I should get back to working on not caring too.
