Fake Fiancée

“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.

“So is the date set yet?” Carrie asked.

A snort came from Isabella, and I sent her a glare. Don’t mess this up for him, I conveyed. She stuck her tongue out at me, and Mimi popped her on the leg. Isabella flinched and ended up spilling a bit of champagne on the front of her shirt. I giggled. I’d woken up in a bad mood, knowing I was coming here, but I loved my little family.

I focused back on Carrie and smiled as I lied through my teeth. “We’re planning on late next year, but no venue has been chosen. The draft is in January, so as soon as we know what team he’ll play for, we’ll be moving . . .” my voice trailed off.

Max would be leaving Atlanta—and me—soon.

“I’m the maid of honor,” Isabella told her with a smug smile, reaching over to the tray on the ottoman style coffee table. She grabbed the champagne bottle and poured herself another glass.

“Yes,” I said.

“Be sure you spell my name right too, Isabella Monroe. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A and M-O-N-R-O-E.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t exactly warmed up to Max since he’d sprung the proposal, but she was trying because I asked her to. I was committed to the fake fiancée stuff because I wanted Max to have everything he wanted. Mimi, on the other hand, continued to sing his praises.

Carrie made a note and moved on with her pre-approved questions, and I answered as best I could. My traitorous eyes kept drifting over to the fishtail dress. The model was a statuesque blonde and her hair had been swept up in a disheveled but utterly appealing style. A simple chiffon veil was attached somewhere in her hair. It trailed to the floor in a pool of white.

“You like that one?” Carrie asked softly, and I blinked, realizing that she’d put most of her stuff away and we were just having a regular conversation.

“I do.”

Mimi reached over and squeezed my hand. “Try it on, hon. It won’t hurt.”

“Oh, you’ve found one you like?” Bette exclaimed coming up behind us. She clapped her hands excitedly making me jump. I imagined she’d been hovering somewhere watching us the entire time. “Which one?”

I nudged my head at the blond model.

She sighed, her hand over her heart. She really was the perfect shop lady. “Ah, yes, Blythe Couture. Very elegant—and not everyone can wear that style, but you certainly could, Miss Blaine.”

“Oh, please try it on,” Carrie said in awe. “Just to say that I saw Max Kent’s fiancée try on a dress . . . it would make for a great line in my article . . . even if it’s not the one you end up wearing.” She blushed.

I twisted at the ring on my finger, thinking. Reaching over to the ottoman, I poured myself a full glass of champagne and gulped it down.

“I’ll do it,” I announced, much to the pleasure of Bette who beamed. I sent Isabella a pointed look as I stood and followed Bette to a dressing room. “Pour me another glass of champagne, girl. I’m gonna need it after this.”

Max

ON THE WAY HOME FROM our game, I texted Sunny after her interview to check in on her.

Can I see you tonight?

I need to study.

I exhaled, my fingers typing. We lost tonight. I need someone to talk to. I need you.

I settled for watching the passing trees out the bus window when she didn’t respond right away. I imagined her staring at her phone, debating. It was apparent she was pushing me away since we’d had sex in the basement—and there was nothing I could do about it, not while I was right in the middle of football.

I’ll bring sushi, I added, my hands gripping the phone tightly.

Okay.

I sat back, relieved I’d get to be alone with her, yet part of me still fumed at our first loss of the season—all my fault. I’d thrown two interceptions—freshman year shit. I scratched my gruff and leaned my head back on the vinyl of the bus seat.

I’d like to blame it on my twitchy ankle I’d gotten from the library a few weeks ago, but the athletic coaches had checked me out that day, put some ice on it, and it had been good. They told me to keep it easy for the rest of the week, so Coach had me sit out a few hard practices. The result had me feeling rusty, and today it had showed.

“Mate. Chill. We lost. We still have Appalachian State next week. Easy peasy,” Tate said from across the aisle.

I raised my head up. “I let us down. That guy came out of nowhere and snatched it . . .” Whatever.

“It was double coverage, dude,” Ryn said from the seat in front of me.