Fake Fiancée

We’d had our magical night in the basement, and it had been everything, but since then I’d decided to give him some space until he figured out exactly what we were. Shit. I didn’t know what we were. Perhaps sex only complicated us. I didn’t know. What I did know was that he had a ton of pressure on him, and I didn’t want to mess with his head like Bianca had.

Thankfully there hadn’t been any more crazy incidents or flowers left on my stoop. We still didn’t know who the culprit was though. There was no video footage from the stairwell, just views of the library entrances and exits. Campus police had pored through them, along with my manager Pam, but there was nothing suspicious. It was frustrating—and scary. If the culprit had planned it, it meant they’d been waiting for me to finally make a trip down to the basement. My hope was that it was a harmless prank decided on a whim by someone who didn’t even know me.

A pretty young girl in her mid-twenties with long brown hair rushed toward us from across the street. “So sorry I’m late,” she gushed with a sheepish grin. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Carrie Longmire with WBBG Channel 7, and I also freelance with the Atlanta Gazette for their Lifestyle section. Millicent asked me to write the article about your engagement.”

“Of course.” I shook her hand and introduced Mimi and Isabella. Max had informed me of this a week ago, and I’d agreed. I was seeing this darn thing through to the end for him.

We went inside the mirrored double doors and one of the shopkeepers met us immediately, a huge smile on her face. Of course, Millicent had prepped the owner of the boutique of our arrival.

After air kisses and introductions, we made our way through the store to a small posh sitting area surrounded by a wall of mirrors. Mimi and Isabella both took a glass of champagne that was offered by the sales girl. Carrie declined.

“Miss Blaine, would you like a drink?”

I shook my head, my gaze bouncing off the heavy crown molding of the ceiling, the beautiful gold filigree wallpaper, and the wraparound leather seating. This place was insanely beautiful. And the dresses were a sea of billowy soft whites and creams that glittered under the sparkly lights of the diamond-drop chandeliers.

It wasn’t real, I reminded myself. I gnawed on my lower lip, fighting back tears—God, it was so entirely stupid to get emotional, but since the night we’d been together, I was walking a tightrope with emotions, and at any moment I was going to fall and break into a million pieces.

The saleslady brought me back with a clearing of her throat, making me start. “If you don’t want champagne, I’d be happy to run to the back and grab you a water or a soda?”

“I’m fine, but thank you.”

She nodded and ushered for us to sit down.

“Based on the phone interview we had, Miss Blaine, we’ve put together a few styles we thought you might enjoy.” With a clap of her hands, a myriad of tall and stately models emerged from doors inset inside the mirrored walls.

I sucked in a sharp breath at the visions in white. Elegant dresses with sweetheart necklines, strapless ones with pearls and beads, and a couple of quirky styles with lace and chiffon bell sleeves. One of them, a timeless body-hugging fishtail design, caught most of my attention. Sparkling crystals had been sewn into the material, dripping in a V design to the floor. I imagined pairing it with a purple and pink bouquet and bridesmaids dressed in slinky silver dresses. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered.

Each model did a pirouette in front of us and then walked back to stand in a line.

“Gorgeous,” Mimi gushed. “I always wanted a big wedding for your mom but she eloped.”

“Is there a particular one you like?” the saleslady asked me.

“No, Bette, but thank you.” I softened the next part with a smile. “Do you mind if we go ahead with the interview now? The girls can change if they want, and we can browse your store afterwards.” I hated the thought of them just standing there while we talked.

Bette looked horrified at my words. Ugh. I was failing at this horribly. I wasn’t acting like a typical bride.

“Yes, that’s fine, but the girls will remain,” she said. “They are here for you. Please let me know if you’d like to see any of the girls in another design.” She marched off, her back straight.

“Damn,” Isabella whispered to me under her breath as she peered at me over the rim of her champagne glass. “Rich people really know how to shop, snooty saleslady and all.”

Carrie, who’d been quiet during the entire viewing of the dresses, beamed when I turned my attention to her.

“You ready?” I asked.

She nodded and pulled out a voice recorder and a pad and pen. She started in with her questions, first beginning with how Max and I met. We’d worked on our “meet-cute” story since that first day in A&P and had decided to stick as close to it as we could. In other words, we’d met at a frat party briefly and had reconnected over the summer when we bumped into each other at the coffee shop.

“What’s Max Kent really like?” Carrie asked, twirling her pen. “We’re all dying to know.” Her face flushed. “I’m a big fan of his too.”

“Oh, you like football?” Mimi asked eagerly. She’d talk to a fencepost about sports.

Carrie shrugged. “No. He’s just hot.”

“Oh.” Mimi settled back down.

So much for that.

I rambled off some answer about how smart Max was. Other answers came to mind—soulmate, incredible lover, brave, tender—but I pushed those aside. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">