Fake It: A Fake Fiancé Romance Read online

  Fake It

  A Fake Fiancé Romance

  Allie Hayden

  Copyright © 2021 by Allie Hayden

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Molly

  2. Carlyle

  3. Molly

  4. Carlyle

  5. Molly

  6. Carlyle

  7. Molly

  8. Carlyle

  9. Molly

  10. Carlyle

  11. Molly

  12. Carlyle

  13. Molly

  14. Carlyle

  15. Molly

  16. Carlyle

  17. Molly

  18. Carlyle

  19. Molly

  20. Carlyle

  21. Molly

  22. Carlyle

  23. Molly

  24. Carlyle

  25. Molly

  About Allie Hayden

  1

  Molly

  There’s a huge New Year’s Eve party downstairs. My room on the third floor overlooks the fake-snow-covered lawn. Calabasas doesn’t get real snow in the winter. It feels like the entire city is here. Just a sea of amoeba shifting around in an overgrown petri dish. Between the lasers and booming music, focusing on my thoughts is next to impossible.

  My dad and older brother are responsible for this grand affair, bringing on new meaning to the word “excessive.” They go all out for extravagance. I’m talkin’ outdoor ice rinks, sledding for the kids, vodka by the crate, celebrity appearances, and entertainment for the masses.

  As is the number of stars in the sky—so is the value of my family’s infinite net worth—billions upon billions upon billions, maybe more.

  Money doesn’t come for free, though. In fact, it’s the reason for this proverbial knife in my chest. It’s only a matter of minutes before my dad wants me to “git up on that stage” and sing. You heard me, sing. On a frickin’ stage.

  No one’s ever said no to my dad. The only person who has was my mom. Since she’s no longer with us, there’s no one to stop him from executing his so-called genius plan.

  Apparently, making a fool of myself in front of all the single bachelors during the biggest party of the year is a surefire way to find me a man. Earth to Dad, a Tinder profile would involve far less embarrassment, and probably get me the same result—if not better.

  “Relax your shoulders.” Our live-in housekeeper, Cassandra, repositions my arms. She is a tall Parisian lady who’s worked for our family for as long as I can remember.

  I try to relax my jaw. My hair is tied back so tautly, I bet I’d rip the ends out if I moved the wrong way. Sitting in front of my vanity mirror, I watch as Cassandra fixes up the last touch of my makeup. Her life’s purpose is to glam me up from head to toe.

  “Are we almost done? I swear it feels like there’s icing on my face.”

  Cassandra is the feminine ideal. Her hair is always done up, her breasts are always fluffed, and she walks everywhere with her hips swaying in orbit. It’s no wonder when my friends come over, they ask me about her. If anyone could replace me as heiress, it’d definitely be her.

  After disappearing then reappearing through the doors, Cassandra comes back holding two pairs of shoes. As if I have a choice, I flash begging eyes at the kitten heels. She looks at them and laughs, tossing them over her shoulder. Her other hand is holding the most monstrous six-inch stilettos I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh, Molly. You are such a funny girl.”

  I sigh heavily, as much as one can sigh with a dress as tight as mine around her. I’ll give it to Cassandra, though, those shoes do match my outfit better. Shameless vanity is always a liberty at the Stanleys, even for the housekeeper.

  Cassandra gets the shoes from hell ready and kneels down in front of me. “They’re not that bad, yes?” she says. “They give you a bit of height. Now, don’t slump. Keep your back straight, and please, sit up tall. Act like a Stanley, proud and dignified!”

  Proud and dignified? More like arrogant and pretentious.

  I groan. “I was in the middle of reading Diane Grossman, and you know I’d rather be doing that.”

  “Well, if you can find someone sexy, maybe your dad will uh—how do you say?—make haste and fuck off, yes? Then you’ll be able to read all the books you would like.”

  “Why do I need to be in a relationship at all? I’m perfectly capable being single.”

  “Molly, please. Don’t be so negative. There are many handsome men downstairs. You know there is the one boy, the one who lived next door a long time ago. His name—Carlyle something? Carlyle Cartier?”

  “I must’ve been like, what, sixteen? I barely remember anything about him,” I lie.

  “You know the saying we have in French culture. Girls just want to have fun.” She winks.

  “They certainly do. But there is a time and place.” My older brother, Xander, shows up at the door. “Moll, you look nice.”

  My gaze is concentrated on the mirror. He comes closer and looms over us. Cassandra’s face goes bright red as she fumbles to gather the makeup on the table.

  “Do you mind tending to our guests downstairs, Cassandra?” Xander deadpans. “Perhaps you can refill the punch. Last I checked, it were running low. And I think Jesse said he would like to speak to you.”

  Jesse is our younger brother. One time, Xander found him kissing Cassandra in our basement wine cellar, and since then, he’s been tormenting her about it.

  She hurries herself, picking up the last of her tools and scurrying out of the room.

  I’ve been so rebellious toward dating lately. The only guys I attract apparently are the rich and pompous ones. Every guy who comes into my life reminds me of my straightshooter older brother or my overbearing father. Instant deal breakers.

  “Are you almost ready, Ms. Superstar?” Xander quips, sitting on the bed.

  He places the glass in his hand next to the wire sculpture on the table. The stench of liquor singes my nose hairs.

  “Can I finish this?” I reach for the glass.

  “Go for it. You need it more than I do. Don’t drink too much, though, you still need to get through the song. And after that, rabid men.”

  Jeez, way to put it subtly, Xander. I seriously have no idea why our dad isn’t worried about my thirty-two-year-old and still single older brother. He repels girls like a hornet’s nest, and Dad just sees it as him being picky. Me? Apparently, I’m undatable.

  I push a breath out and chug the rest of the alcohol.

  I gulp. “Yeah, right.”

  A small burp escapes.

  “If you need anything, just let me know. Perhaps another drink to conquer the stage fright?”

  I purse my lips and hold out my pointer finger.

  “What?” Xander asks. “One? You want another one?”

  I place a fist over my mouth, fighting the tightness in my esophagus. My body involuntarily yanks forward, and I clutch my stomach. “I need the washroom—you—downstairs—go.”

  Nausea claws at my throat. My body’s urging me to get rid of the burning liquid in my gut. I have to force down some bile. I stumble to the guest room just down the hall. My washroom is being renovated, or else I wouldn’t make such an effort just to turn out my insides.

  “Are you okay?” shouts Xander.

  “Go away! Go downstairs!”

  The knob could not turn fast enough, but I make it to the toilet and lurch myself forward and sink to my knees. A pungent smell invades my nost
rils and I heave a few times, making sure everything is gone. Thank god. That’s the last time I drink whiskey.

  I throw open the only window, and the smell of walnut and pine come into the room. Instead of the noisy chatter heard from my balcony, there are just remnants of idle talk and the soft rustles of swaying trees.

  Just a few hours until January and still no snow, which is normal for Calabasas. I’ve lived here all my life. There’s always one hell of a view. Dark purple clouds, streaks of light, and the Milky Way. If I could lie underneath the sky and stare at the stars forever, I’d probably die happy. The moon is high up, and I would love nothing more than to soak in the last few moments of the year coming to a close by myself.

  I’d better get outside and get the best seat in the house—the rooftop. Not without putting my shoes underneath the windowsill before I go. Sorry Cass, I’ll come back for them later. My bare feet hit the cold roof shingles and I tippytoe toward the ledge to dangle my legs over the top. The horizon looks good here. I can see the ocean and the beach isn’t too far away. It feels like so long ago that I enjoyed watching the constellations like this. If my mom had never gone to Europe after me, would any of this be happening?

  Meow.

  I straighten my spine. There’s a sound coming from below me.

  Meeooow.

  There it is again. In a low crouch, I crawl toward where it’s coming from. Just below, there’s a kitten stuck in the drainpipe; his claws are desperately trying to grasp onto the roof—he’s about to fall in.

  Another frantic meow.

  I extend my arm out but the poor thing can’t get to me. Channeling my inner kitten messiah, I hold onto the ledge and plant my foot firmly on the drainpipe. I lower myself down and plant my other foot too. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  “Here, kitty…”

  The ridge is steady enough for me to find my balance, and I grab him by the nape of his neck. He’s light enough to plant on my shoulder, and he climbs his way up to safety. Not without stepping on my face first. And not without staring down at me with his little clever eyes that say, Hey, stupid girl, you might want to consider saving yourself next.

  When a spy in a movie saves someone and gets into a sticky situation like this, they’ll swing their feet up and anchor themselves to the wall and pull themselves up. So, all I have to do is mimic that exact motion and pull myself up. I get the first move done and swing my body.

  But my foot doesn’t latch on the wall. Instead, I stub my toe and lose my grip, grabbing onto anything in sight. Thank god. Something.

  Twenty feet in the air, and about to fall to my demise, but at least the cat is saved.

  I can die a hero, right?

  2

  Carlyle

  The Stanleys sure know how to throw a party, but no idea how to invite people with self-control. The only washroom available downstairs is trashed to oblivion. Not sure if I’m supposed to be upstairs, but I figure while I’m here, I’d rather piss in a diamond toilet than a pigsty.

  Except for the busy housekeepers and attendants, the house is mostly quiet compared to the wild celebration outdoors. No one seems to notice me walking in and going up the stairs. Equally, no one seems to notice the real human feet dangling outside the hallway window. That’s not normal. That’s someone who needs help, fast.

  I fling open the window and reel the stranger in. I can’t believe it. I know her—Molly Stanley. I’d recognize that strawberry blonde hair anywhere. Her face, her eyes, her lips, they’re all the same. The only difference is her cheeks, which used to be chubby, but she’s really grown out of her shell. The rest of her features are uncanny.

  She’s one of the last things I remember about California. Maybe I’m staring too much, or maybe her now-womanly lips are causing a stir inside me I can’t quite explain…

  Her eyes blink open. “Oh my god—you saved me! Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I let her go and look down to see makeup all over my shirt.

  “I’m so sorry! My housekeeper, she’s always putting way too much makeup on me. It was all her idea. I mean, the dress, the everything. Let me help you with that stain, though. I’m sorry.”

  She’s not getting away without talking about the surprise of finding her dangling off the side of the roof. I cross my arms over my chest and loom over her. “What were you doing out there like that? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

  “What! No—it’s not like that. I fell is all.”

  “You fell? From a third-story balcony?”

  “Well, it’s a long story. I was trying to get away from my brother. Then he fed me this whiskey that made me sick. Then there was this cat on the roof. It’s a silly reason for why I was out there on the roof. I was trying to save this cat.”

  That’s a good enough explanation for me. Molly has grown up a bit. She used to speak with a lisp, but now I can understand her completely. Not to mention, she’s kind of cute.

  “I know, it’s a dumb reason. Trying to save a cat. But I swear to you, it needed my help. Hey, you look really familiar.” Her eyes widen. “Carlyle?”

  “How’s it going, Molly. It’s been a while. Seems like you’re still yourself, still horsing around. Did you manage to save him?”

  She nods.

  “You’ll have to humor me sometime—”

  “I need to be somewhere. I have to get going. Thanks again, really.”

  Still the same girl. Without explanation, she turns around and leaves, tripping over her dress and disappearing down the hall. I’m left with a sour taste in my mouth. Not sure what I’m supposed to do after that situation. But I remember I need to bleed the lizard. There goes my good deed of the day.

  She said she was trying to save a cat. I hope that’s not a euphemism of some kind. Dangling outside of a window, that is definitely not normal, but also, none of my business.

  The entire party is hosted on the lawn, and the patio is rigged up to look like a night club. I duck through the outside path to dodge the groups of people. It takes me some time to find Tristan and our lady-friends, but I find the snowflake booth just in time for a round of drinks.

  Tristan hands me an unknown shot, slurring his words. “Ay, mate. Yer back. Take this and catch up.”

  He’s sitting in the middle of two girls, arms wrapped around them, looking like they were about to include him in a three-way. I pound the drink back and realize it’s my least favorite. Tequila. Reminds me of high school.

  What a night.

  I grab a lime.

  “Carl!” The blonde I met earlier throws herself at me, wasted to the point of no return.

  I nudge her over to Tristan, who’s happy to deal with her. Sloshed girls are not my thing. They turn me off faster than ungroomed bush. I grab one of the beers on the table and use it as a chaser for the lingering taste in my mouth.

  Hands up my inner thigh catch me off guard, and Tammy (I think), one of the brunettes, breathes down my neck. Her breasts are up against my arm.

  “Crazy party, huh? This house is probably, like, twenty rooms. Maybe more.” She winks. “I betcha we could find an empty one before it strikes midnight.”

  I weigh my options. Who knows what the night will entail. I could get it in with this girl, or…what if I run into Molly again?

  Suddenly, the lights go dim and the music fades. The chatter dies down as the room turns pitch black. Something’s happening.

  “Everyone, please. Settle in.”

  My eyes are adjusting to the darkness when a flash of light illuminates the stage. A man in a suit walks up to the microphone stand. I recognize him as Xander, the Stanleys’ eldest brother.

  “Good evening. Thank you all for making it out tonight. I hope you’re enjoying the wine—it’s all the way from Napa. Special ordered for our closest friends and family.

  “There are a lot of things to celebrate tonight. We’re coming into the new year, onto new business, new money, and new ventures. I really, truly, couldn’t be happier any
where else but here with all of you tonight. I’m expecting each and every single person here to get messed up on my family name. Happy New Year’s, everybody! Cheers!”

  Xander turns and disappears into a thick fog after toasting the crowd. Amidst the haze, a woman’s silhouette forms from the smoke. The figure of a band slowly rises from the floorboards. The drummer starts a slow roll.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” a sultry voice says over the intercom, “Molly…Stanley.”

  My jaw is on the ground.

  “Looks like we’re about to get a performance,” Tammy whispers in my ear. “If we slip out now, we can get away without anyone noticing.”

  “I’d rather watch,” I breathe.

  Molly is standing up there in the shiny dress I saw her in before. She’s mesmerizing. From her lips comes the most spellbinding melody I’ve ever heard. I don’t know the words but somehow, I understand their message. More profound than any song in any era.

  The sound of her voice is intense. Something about the stage, something about how her singing echoes in the evening night. She reminds of a canary in a steel wire cage.

  An artist uses their music to express an implied emotion, not to release their own. I’d been playing piano for many years, and that expression has been ingrained into me thanks to my wise teacher. The way Molly breaks into the pathos like I’ve never heard a melody sung before makes me believe she’s longing for something.

  Only a trained ear can hear it. But I’m sure of it.

  I turn toward an irritating nudge at my elbow.

  “Hey, should we get a drink?” Tammy’s balloon-sized knockers rub into my bicep. “I’m starting to sober up and it sucks. You want to go get a drink at the bar?”