Mari

“If you need anything, dial seven on your phone. Marta will be able to assist you. I’ll be in my study. You’re welcome to join me once you’re settled in.”

Hudson disappears, closing my bedroom door behind him, and I bask in the surrealness of this moment. One minute I’m quitting my job, the next minute I’m plucked from my world, given a Pretty Woman-esque makeover and a lavish bedroom suite easily twice the size of my shoebox apartment.

Circling the room, I pass by the east window, taking in the view of the city from what feels like the top of the world. It’s raining now, little drops beading against the crystal clear glass. Two bedside lamps flank a king-sized bed fit for a spread in Metropolitan Home magazine, and I run to the foot, sinking down in the middle. The bedding is cashmere soft and smells faintly of lavender linen spray.

A knock at my door pulls me from this magical moment, and I scramble to my feet.

“Yes, come in,” I call.

The door swings open and Hudson’s driver stands there, Henri Bendel bags in his arms.

“Your things, Miss Collins,” he says.

I step out of the way, ushering him in. For a moment, I’d forgotten all about today’s shopping excursion. I’ve never been a materialistic person, and I never want to be. But nothing beats having a personal stylist pulling pieces shaped for my body type in colors meant to flatter my hair and skin. If it weren’t for Elle, I never would have known that fuchsia was my color. And if it weren’t for Manuel at the Fekkai salon, I never would’ve thought lopping a couple of inches off my hair and changing up my part would alter my entire look for the better.

On this ordinary Monday, this modest Midwestern girl was queen for the day, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

“Thank you, Rocco,” I say when he returns with another armful of bags, placing them near the dresser.

A few minutes later, dozens of paper shopping bags cover the hardwood floor, and I hum softly to myself as I hang my new wardrobe in the walk-in closet and organize about a dozen shoeboxes along wooden shelves.

When I’m finished, I pass the dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror. At first pass, it doesn’t immediately register that the girl staring back … is me. I stop, giving myself a curious glance. Twisting a tendril of hair and tucking it behind my ear, my gaze falls on my faded red lips. The day is already starting to wear off, and the second I strip out of this Dior pencil skirt and Chanel blouse and wash the rest of this makeup off my face, my Cinderella moment will be over.

But that’s okay.

I don’t want this experience to change me.

I’m fine the way I am. I like myself, unlike most women I know who are my age. And besides, when I move back to Nebraska and have my baby, no one’s going to care which labels fill my closet or whether or not my shoes have red bottoms.

Turning to leave, I hit the light switch on my way out and stride down the hall toward Hudson’s study.

He’s right. We have to spend time together and get to know each other’s annoying little habits. One erroneous statement and this entire thing could come skidding to a halt, and then all of this will have been for nothing.

I pass a portrait gallery, one I’ve never noticed before. I’ve roamed these halls dozens of times before, always dropping off his dry cleaning or signing for packages when Marta’s out running errands. Never once did I envision myself living here. The faces staring back in the photographs must be his family. And soon they’ll be my family—at least on paper.

Weird.

Everything feels brand new, like I’m seeing this place for the first time all over again: the view of the city from his living room windows, the glossy marble kitchen, the floor-to-ceiling fireplace, the custom chandelier in his foyer. Every square inch of this place was planned with purpose and intention, which isn’t surprising considering Hudson’s eye for detail.

Making my way to his study, I linger in the doorway and watch him work. He doesn’t notice me. He’s far too concerned with the sketch he’s working on, placing the pencil between his full lips at times and dragging his hands through his hair.

I’ve never taken the time to watch him work—at least not like this.

He’s actually kind of sexy when he’s in the zone, all serious and contemplative.

“Don’t they make software that does that for you?” I interrupt his focus with a playful question.

He drops his drafting pencil. “My computer’s at the office. Besides, even the best CAD program is no substitute for some good, old-fashioned hand-sketching.”

He rises, presenting his paper in my direction. It appears to be a home of some kind, one with vintage familiarity that would look perfectly content resting on a beachfront lot.

“What’s that for?” I ask. I’ve only ever seen him work on commercial projects.

“My cousin has tasked me with designing her Cape Cod estate,” he says. “What do you think?”

I move closer, taking the paper from his hands and examining it carefully. “I don’t know the proper terms for any of these things, but I like the roof lines. And I like the shake siding. I think it’s called shake, right? And I like how the front porch wraps around the house so you can always find a shady place to sit no matter where the sun is in the sky. The double front doors are a nice touch, and those little windows above the garage. It’s homey yet it makes a statement. If I were driving past this house, I think I’d slow down a little and take a longer look.”

“Perfect.” He takes the paper back. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.”

Placing his drawing aside, he grabs a jacket from the back of his office chair and slips it over his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Out.” He lifts a brow, adjusting his sleeves and straightening his posture.

“I thought you said we needed to spend time together?”

“I’m just grabbing a couple of drinks, Mari. It’s my Monday night ritual. The Cypress Taproom on Houston has a table reserved for me.”

“I don’t care if the Queen of England has a table reserved for you at Buckingham Palace … you’re not going out without me.” I fight a smart-assed grin, letting my words slice through his cold demeanor. “You want authentic, Hudson? This is authentic. I’m your girlfriend now. Fiancée. Whatever. You can’t go out for drinks and leave me at home. It’s rude. People in relationships don’t do that.”

He smirks, rubbing his jaw. “I suppose you have a point.”

“I know I have a point,” I spit my words. “You don’t get to pull me out of my world, dress me up like some doll, and sit me on a shelf in your apartment until you’re ready to play with me. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”

Hudson places a palm in the air. “Don’t lecture me, Mari. Please. It’s inappropriate.”

“What’s inappropriate is the fact that you insisted I move in with you immediately because we needed to spend as much time together as possible and the second I was settled in, you were going to run out of here to grab some drinks by yourself.”

“Point. Taken.” His jaw clenches, his gaze steely. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard. Not accustomed to my social obligations being attached to anyone else’s. Would you like to join me?”

“No thanks.” Not that I could if I wanted to anyway. I hold my chin high. “We’re staying in tonight. Like a regular, boring couple.”

His expression fades. Clearly the idea doesn’t appeal to him.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend, Hudson? Like a serious, long-term relationship?” I ask.

“Once,” he says. “In college. It was awful.”

I chuckle. “Figures.”

“So what do we do now?” he asks.

Sighing, I glance up at the ceiling and deduce that there’s only one appropriate plan of action in this moment.

“You’re going to have to teach me how to live in your world,” I say, “and I’ll teach you how to be a good fiancé.”

Hudson smirks. “Obviously. I meant what do we do now … as in tonight.”

“Oh.” My cheeks warm. “Right. We could change into some comfortable clothes and sit on the couch and watch Netflix?”

He stares straight ahead, unable to mask the disgust on his face.

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “Don’t you ever just zone out and binge watch some really addictive TV?”

“I don’t have time for … Netflix.”

“You do now.” I take him by the arm and lead him to his living room. “Where’s your TV?”

“Not in here.”

“I forgot. Rich people don’t keep their TVs in plain view.” I roll my eyes, releasing my hand from his arm. “Is it in your room?”

“I have one in the master suite, yes,” he says. “I’ll have to see if I can find the remote. Not sure where Marta put it …”

“Okay, go find it. I’m going to change out of this skirt and into something I can lounge around in. And you should too. I’ll meet you in your room in ten minutes, and then we’re watching Orange is the New Black.”

“Orange is the new what?”

“It’s a show. You’ll like it. Trust me.” I stifle my laughter. The idea of Hudson Rutherford watching a bunch of imprisoned women fuck each other over (and occasionally fuck each other) makes me giggle. It’s so not his style, but damn is that show addictive.

Padding back to my suite, I close the door behind me and change into a set of matching silk pajamas—navy with white piping—and wash up for bed. When I’m almost finished, my phone buzzes on the dresser.

My best friend.

“Hey, Isabelle,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay? You never cancel on me.”

“Everything’s fine.” I purse my lips together. She’s never going to believe this.

“Is it the baby?” she asks.

I place my hand on my belly. I’ve been so caught up in everything today that I almost forgot …

“The baby’s fine,” I whisper.

“Why’d you cancel?”

“I’ve accepted a new assignment from my boss.” I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes, waiting for her lecture. “It’s kept me a little … occupied.”

“You said you were going to quit.” Isabelle sighs into the receiver. “That asshole doesn’t deserve you. You do way too much for him and for what? A laughable salary? Underhanded insults? And you said you caught him staring at your ass once. What a fucking unprofessional douche. Never even met the guy and I hate him.”

“He wants me to marry him,” I whisper.

Isabelle is quiet on the other end. That’s never a good sign.

“It’s a business arrangement,” I say. “He’s basically paying me to take him off the market.”

“Um, why?” Her voice is laced with irritation. She’s not going to understand, so I’m going to have to make this crystal clear.

“His parents are pressuring him to marry some girl and he doesn’t want to. So he’s marrying me instead. I’m spending the summer with him and his family and then we’re going our separate ways. At least physically. Legally we’ll be married for a while. Not sure how long. It’s all kind of complicated and it’s all happening so fast.”

“Mari, you can’t do this.”

“I thought so too, but he sweetened the pot pretty damn good, and I’m not exactly in a position to walk away from what he was offering.”

“Fine. Sell your soul.”

“Izzy.” My heart sinks. This isn’t like her. I know she means well, and I know I’ve filled her head with hundreds of Hudson Rutherford horror stories, but I need her support now more than ever. “Please understand. I’m doing this for my future—for the baby’s future. I’m not selling my soul. He’s not forcing me to do this. It’s really not that big of a deal at the end of the day. It’s just acting. I’m playing a part. Everything’s going to work out.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” she asks.

“I … I don’t know?”

“What are you going to do if someone discovers that you’re not really in love, that you’re faking this relationship? What if it blows up in your faces? And oh, my God, Mari. Does he know you’re pregnant?!”

I exhale. “No.”

“Mari! Why didn’t you tell him? Holy shit. This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“Izzy, stop. It’ll be fine. I’m five-foot-nine. I doubt I’ll be showing much by the end of the summer, and I’ll just wear billowy tops and flowy dresses. It’s not like he’s going to see me naked. We’re not taking it that far.”

“You’re being wayyyy too optimistic about this.”

“For five million dollars, wouldn’t you be optimistic about this?!” I ask, my voice quick and hushed.

She’s quiet once more.

“He’s paying you five million dollars to be his fake wife?” Isabelle asks.

“Yep.”

“There’s got to be a catch,” she says.

“Nope. No catch. He’s just a desperate man with deep pockets.”

“Well. Shit. Um. Okay. Yeah. Do your thing. I hope it all works out for you. And if you need me, I’ll be here.”

“Really? I have your support?” I ask.

“Do you even have to ask that, Mar? You’re my best friend. You could do a lot worse than fake-marrying your asshole boss and I’d still have your back.”

“For a minute it sounded like you were trying to talk me out of this.”

“Of course I was trying to talk you out of this. I think it’s insane. I think it’s a terrible idea. And I think it could potentially end very badly for you. But for five million dollars, I guess you have to do what you have to do.”

“It’s definitely a gamble,” I say. “But we’re doing it. I’ve signed the contract. It’s happening.”

“There’s a contract?”

“Of course.” I pull my phone from my ear and check the time. “Anyway, he’s expecting me in his room right now, so I’m going to let you go. Call me tomorrow?”

“In his room?” She ignores me. “I thought you said you weren’t going to have sex with him?”

“I’m not. We’re going to watch Netflix,” I say.

“A week ago you hated this guy. Hated him. And now you’re going to chill in his bed and watch TV.” Isabelle exhales. “This is just … weird.”

“Wait ‘til you see the engagement ring. I’ll send you a picture later,” I laugh. “It’s so over the top and so not me and you’re going to die.”

“I can only imagine.”