The Proposal (Faking It Book 1) Read online

  He sits. “I might grab some in a minute.”

  “I’m—you can’t—” I break off, realizing I’m definitely not playing it cool now. “I’m meeting someone.”

  He thrusts out a hand. “I’m Michael.”

  “But…” I glance around, like there has to be someone else coming. Or like someone is playing an elaborate joke on me.

  But I’ve learned that’s the way of the universe lately. Everything feels like an elaborate joke on me, designed to make me wonder why I ever even get up most mornings.

  “You’re Brianna, right? I talked with you on the phone this morning.”

  Common courtesy has me reaching out to shake his hand, though inside I’m sputtering expletives.

  “I’m…I didn’t.” Grr! Why can’t I get a grip on myself? I breathe in deep and try again. “Yes, I’m Brianna. I didn’t realize when I saw you last night that you were looking for a wedding. Or wedding stuff. Whatever.”

  “I didn’t realize it either.”

  I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s complicated, and part of the reason I’m here.” But instead of explaining, he stands and gestures to the door of the shop. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a coffee. I’ll get you another one, too. What are you having?”

  I tell him, though I’m sure it’s a terrible idea that I’m here. I’m positive he bought drinks for me and Deb. So…what? He was cheating on his girlfriend or fiancée? Or maybe he just felt sorry for the woman selling her wedding.

  Or maybe…maybe he’s helping out a friend or a sister. Maybe they need wedding items and he’s the lucky one who gets to screen the psycho selling her wedding dress.

  I’m not sure, but I remind myself how much I need the money. The least I can do is hear him out.

  When Michael returns, he sets my coffee in front of me and takes his seat again. He crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair like we’re old friends. Like he’s already comfortable with me.

  That’s when I notice…he looks familiar. I’ve seen him before. Maybe at a meeting or maybe even in the coffee shop? No, that’s not it. I’ve seen him somewhere else.

  “You’re staring,” he says.

  I drop my eyes and flush. “Sorry. You look familiar.”

  “I was wondering if that would come up.”

  “What?”

  “You might have seen me…around.” He grins. “Like in the papers. Or on a magazine. Michael Parsons.”

  “Shit—you’re right. I did see you on a magazine. Wait…” I search my memory. “They were talking about your fiancée—you are getting married.”

  “Well—wait…that’s a bit of an embellishment.”

  “But you’re looking to get married?”

  “You could say that,” he answers.

  A little too cryptic for my taste. But it isn’t my business. In fact, if I’m treating this like business, I just need to close the deal.

  “I have set prices for each item on the list, but I’m willing to negotiate,” I say. Something flickers in his gaze—surprise maybe—but I don’t stop. Business. “I’d prefer to sell as much as possible as a package, but again, I’m willing to negotiate.”

  He angles his head, thinking. Doing more than thinking. It looks like he’s trying to figure me out. Then he nods. “I’m willing to buy the entire package at the price you name.”

  I blink, shocked. “You are?”

  “Yes. On one condition.”

  My stomach clenches. So, there are going to be negotiations after all. I straighten my shoulders. I can do this. “What’s the condition?”

  “You tell me why you’re selling your wedding.”

  4

  She’s holding back, I can tell. I can see the anger in her eyes when she talks about her ex and him cutting out on her a week ago. But she doesn’t go into details. Damn. I expect for her to bash him, and I wouldn’t mind—he deserves it—but she only coolly tells me he’s out of the picture and she was left with the debt for planning the wedding.

  And most likely a broken heart. I don’t have to be a genius to know most women wait for their weddings their entire lives. Once they’re engaged, they live and breathe wedding dresses, tulle, flowers, honeymoons, veils, and cakes. Their entire lives become their weddings.

  But Brianna doesn’t give anything away. She just sits calmly, sipping her coffee, and assessing me over the rim of her mug. With eyes the color of chocolate—melted milk chocolate.

  Damn. I hadn’t seen her eyes in the bar last night. My fault, really, as I’d been distracted by her long legs, her tiny waist, and yeah—her breasts. I’d nearly gotten a hard-on showering this morning because I’d thought about her long, honey blonde hair swishing over her shoulders, just touching the tops of her breasts…

  “That’s all,” she says, snapping me back to attention. “My sad story.”

  She says it with a wry grin, clearly making fun of herself. I like it. That she can make light of something that had probably broken her heart. That she didn’t run away at my weird request.

  But then, I’m not a threat. After all, she thinks I’m engaged. Or with someone.

  The ridiculous thing is, her story, her presence—all of it—has pretty much guaranteed I’ll be with someone by the end of the day. I want Brianna. And clearly, she needs me.

  Or my money, at least. But we can negotiate.

  “So she’s not your fiancée?” Brianna asks. Before I can answer, she grimaces. “No, wait—that’s none of my business. I just spilled my guts to you, of course, but you didn’t say you’d reciprocate, so really—”

  “Hold on.” Her eyes lock on mine. “I’m making it your business.”

  Those chocolate eyes narrow. “Why?”

  “Because I’m hoping you’ll help me with something.”

  “I’ll give you the entire wedding experience—that was the deal, right?” She grins. “But it’s going to cost you.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  She smirks. Of course, anyone who knows me knows that money isn’t a problem. Brianna isn’t stupid, she knows I’ll pay whatever she wants—it’s pocket change. She just doesn’t know what else I want right now.

  “Okay, what do you want help with? Figuring out how to ask her? I might not be the best help—remember? I got dumped.”

  I don’t miss the hint of bitterness in her tone. And for a brief moment, I find myself wanting to reach out and touch her. To comfort her. To tell her not all men are like that, she just wasn’t with the right one. That things don’t have to be like that.

  Especially if she takes me up on the offer.

  “What’s your dream proposal?” I ask.

  She lifts her eyebrows, surprised by the question. “Why?”

  “Just curious. In case I need to ask someone to marry me sometime soon.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well, just be sincere. I…” She looks away, watching people cross the street. She’s playing it pretty cool, but I see a suspicious glitter in her eye. “I like to be surprised. It doesn’t have to be dinner or something fancy, just a moment—one sincere moment where we can look in each other’s eyes and know we’re making the right choice. The rest is just details.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  “That easy. So, are you going to ask her soon?”

  I rub the back of my neck, trying not to laugh. Brianna has no idea what’s coming—I almost feel bad for keeping her in suspense. But the other half of me is certain she’ll say no. Which would be a damn shame because I’m actually beginning to like this woman.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.

  She leans in, her lips curving. “Yes.”

  “There is no fiancée. No girlfriend, not even a potential girlfriend.”

  Her eyes cloud with confusion. “But…the magazines—”

  “Were wrong. And the papers, too. I…sort of made her up. Someone general. I was sick of my family and my partners nagging me about settling down, so I
said I already had. Sort of. And from there, well…the story took on a life of its own.”

  “Wait…there isn’t anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Then—then why do you need all my wedding stuff?”

  “Because I’m hoping there will be a wedding.”

  “With…who?”

  I lean back in my seat, my eyes locking on hers. I feel the heat in them, the way my body is responding to hers because she’s still leaning toward me with questions on her face. Hell, I want this woman.

  “That’s the part I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  5

  I’m dreaming. I have to be. As I stroll back to my apartment, I’m pretty sure I’m either going to get lost or get hit by a car because I can’t seem to get my mind to focus on anything but Michael.

  And his proposal.

  He wants a fiancée. No, he wants me as his fiancée.

  I met him to sell him my dream wedding but instead he wants me to keep it—and have it with him. At least, I think so. I really didn’t sit and ask for details. I’d been too shocked for that, and halfway through the discussion, he’d gotten a business call.

  I used that moment to excuse myself. Better than calling him crazy.

  Who found their wife through a flyer in a dive bar? Especially Michael Parsons, business mogul and hottest bachelor in town. Or at least before he got a fake girlfriend.

  But damn it, I’m actually considering taking him up on the offer. Not only do I get to keep my pretty wedding, I get reimbursed for the cost of all of it. He’d said there was more, but I didn’t stick around to find out what it was.

  My luck, he’d say he wanted a baby out of the entire thing, too, and then I’d know I was in a Lifetime movie for sure.

  These things don’t happen in real life. But then I don’t think men walk out on their fiancées in real life all that often either, and look what had happened.

  I’m a magnet for strange men.

  Deb is going to die when I tell her. And then she’s going to order me to never see Michael Parsons again on account of his clear lunacy.

  Only a minute after I walk into my apartment, my phone rings. It’s Deb.

  “Hey,” I say, dropping my purse on the counter in the tiny kitchen just inside the doorway. “I’m alive.”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

  “My brain was about to explode.”

  Deb speaks in her no-nonsense voice. “You’re not making sense. Tell me he wasn’t crazy.”

  I choke on a laugh. “No, I don’t think so. Delusional?” I laugh again. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. No. I’m just—no. He was a perfect gentleman.” He didn’t even touch me. He wants me to marry him, but he didn’t even touch me. Perfect gentleman. “He wants to buy my wedding stuff. All of it.”

  “Wait—what? Every single thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “That’s the funny part.”

  “Girl—you need to stop being so cryptic.”

  I look around my tiny kitchen, trying to figure out how much food I have. “Come over for dinner and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Okay…but you’re scaring me.”

  “I’m scaring myself, too.”

  I end the call with her and sigh. I’m scaring myself because I’m considering this. More than considering it, I’ve almost made up my mind. Of course, I need to iron out the details. And force Michael to get a background check, and then—

  Who am I kidding? This is ridiculous. I don’t even know the man! Sure, he probably isn’t a serial killer. He’s too busy running a multi-million-dollar company. But he could be an ass like Chet. He could be a lot of things.

  I open the menu drawer and pull out the one for the local Chinese place. I need junk food for tonight. And a lot of wine.

  Then maybe I’ll get my head on straight and get Michael Parsons out of my mind.

  ###

  When my phone rings at eight the next morning, waking me from a hazy sleep, I grumble at it. “Stop ringing.”

  It does. And then it starts back up again.

  I snatch it off the table and answer in a groggy voice. “Hello.”

  “Morning.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Michael. You sound hung over.”

  I flop on my back, fighting the shiver that wants to run through my body at the sound of his voice. So deep. So confident. I wouldn’t mind waking up to that voice every morning for a while.

  No! I made my mind up last night. No Michael Parsons. No wedding.

  I need to move on.

  “Do you think drinking four glasses of wine would cause a hangover?”

  He chuckles. “Maybe. For you? Probably.”

  “Are you saying I can’t hold my liquor?”

  “I’m saying you’re tiny—and you probably didn’t eat much either. It’s inevitable.”

  Tiny? I snort, then slap a hand over my mouth. “I’m not tiny. And I can eat like a pig.”

  There. That’ll teach him. I’ll show him I’m the last person he wants to marry. Which doesn’t matter anyway because I already made up my mind.

  “I’d like to see that,” he says. “How about today? A picnic?”

  “I—what?” I sit up in bed. Okay, so maybe I’m not as hung over as I thought. Just conflicted.

  “Lunch. At the park. We can talk.”

  That sounds nice. Normal. Shouldn’t he be inviting me for lunch on his yacht? Or his helicopter or something?

  “I…there’s nothing to talk about.” I stand and walk to my closet. I’m supposed to work this evening, but before that I should be building my graphic designing empire. It’s not going to build itself.

  “We didn’t get to finish yesterday. I’m sorry about that. It was an important phone call and I was hoping you’d wait, but I know you had things to do.”

  I didn’t have anything—I was just reeling. “It’s fine. I got the gist of your…proposal.”

  “A pun. I get it. Funny.”

  I frown. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m telling you, I understand what you were saying and it’s—”

  “Crazy?”

  I stop with my hand on a silky shirt—one I never wear because I’ll either get coffee on it when I work or because I’m usually being lazy around my apartment in sweats.

  “Yes. Crazy. And…you can probably get any girl you want to marry you.”

  “I want you.”

  The certainty in his voice, the slight huskiness there—it hits me right in the center. Hell—no matter how this ends, Michael Parsons is still sexy.

  “It’s…” I swallow. How do I explain this to him? And why the hell am I not just telling him no? I had my answer last night. It should still be the same this morning.

  “A picnic,” he says. “Not an engagement. Just a date. Come on, Brianna. You wouldn’t say no to me if I asked you on a date any other day, would you?”

  Damn it. He’s right. “No. Maybe. Probably not.”

  He chuckles. “That means yes, right? Yes for the date, I mean.”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  “Good. The park across from the coffee shop we met at okay?”

  “Sure.” I can walk there.

  He tells me a time and I end the call. Fine. A picnic. That’s all. At least it’ll be interesting company.

  And…I reach out to touch the fabric on the shirt in my closet. Silky shirt, it is. Because I might think Michael Parsons is crazy, but he’s crazy sexy and I want him to think I’m hot.

  Right before I tell him I refuse to be his wife.

  6

  She said simple. If she were going to be proposed to, she said simple and sincere, so that’s what I’m going to do. A picnic is as simple and sincere as it gets.

  I’m ready for her when she arrives, but she stops just outside the awning I’ve set up and stares at the table and chairs. Her hair curls over her shoulders and h
er shorts show off her long legs. Her blouse hugs her figure just right, making it hard for me to see anything else but her.

  “This isn’t a picnic,” she says.

  “Then what is it?”

  “An overt display of excessive wealth. Or maybe you have a little too much time on your hands.”

  I laugh. “I definitely don’t have too much time on my hands.”

  In fact, I had to rearrange my schedule to make this work. And that’s also one of the main reasons I don’t have a girlfriend. I never had time for it in the past. No, I never made time. My colleagues could understand that part of it, but never my family. My mom and dad have been married for twenty-five years and my sister for five. They’re all still happy and wondering why I choose not to be.

  It’s hard for them to understand that work does make me happy. But I’ve never tried it another way, and I do envy them having someone to come home to each night.

  “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the table.

  She looks self-conscious as she sits at the round table. “People are staring at us.”

  I glance around. “I guess. I don’t really notice anymore.”

  “I wish I could be more like you. I care way too much what everyone else thinks.”

  I grin at her, already having trouble keeping my hands to myself. “They’re just jealous we get champagne.”

  “Champagne?” Her eyes come back to the table. “And flowers?”

  I pour her a glass while she runs her finger along a petal of one of the roses. “This is a nice date.”

  “Nice enough you’d consider talking to me about the rest?”

  She narrows her gaze on mine. “I thought this was just a date.”

  “Not for me. I’m still committed to this idea.”

  She sips her champagne, then closes her eyes briefly. “Damn. This is really good.”

  “Be my wife and you can have champagne every day.”

  She chokes, and then laughs. “Tempting. I imagine you’re pretty used to getting your way.”

  I am. “I’m not above negotiation.”

  “A marriage…” She swallows, and I see she’s still having trouble with the concept. “It shouldn’t have to be a negotiation.”