A Not So Meet Cute

JP presses his fingers to his temples. “Hold the fuck on. Let me get this straight.” He looks up at me. “You ran into Dave Toney on the street and told him you were engaged to a girl from Georgia and that she’s pregnant?”

I wet my lips. “That would be correct.”

We’re sitting on my front porch, beers in hand, as I break the news to my brothers that I not only fucked up, but I ROYALLY fucked up. I didn’t tell them yesterday after I saw Dave on the street, because honestly, I needed a second to process what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Now that I’ve had more than twenty-four hours to think about it, I realize that, yes, I’m going to need some assistance from my brothers to get me out of this one.

Breaker rests his beer on the armrest of his chair and asks, “What the hell were you thinking?”

I shrug. “I saw an opportunity, and without thinking, I took it.”

“Claiming your non-existent fiancée is pregnant with your child isn’t an opportunity, that’s a big fucking mistake. Dude, you have to have dinner with them in three days.”

I grip my hair and pull on it. “I know. Fuck, what am I going to do?”

“Uh, tell him the truth, that you’re a liar,” JP says.

“Because that’s going to secure the deal.” I roll my eyes. “I can’t do that. If I tell him I lied, our reputation is going to be tarnished. No one will want to work with us.”

“You couldn’t have thought about that before you went and made up a fake baby and fiancée?” Breaker asks. “Shit, man.”

Yeah, I fucking know.

I couldn’t sleep last night, because all I kept thinking about was how the hell I was going to get myself out of this situation. Honestly, I have no idea what came over me.

The property, yes, could be a huge profit for us, especially with what I’ve lined up idea-wise, but it’s not as if this deal will make or break the company. I think there’s just a part of me that needs to get what I can’t have. And that, right now, is those properties. I have my eyes set on them, and apparently, I’ll do just about anything to secure them.

Even if it means putting our business on the line.

And that made me feel sick to my stomach at three o’clock this morning. My brothers and I have built Cane Enterprises into the conglomerate it is today with a lot of hard work, a lot of right moves, and a lot of reinvesting.

That one little mistake yesterday—it could cost us all that hard work, especially if word gets around.

“Do you have any friends that are single women?” Breaker asks.

“I barely have time to hang out with you two; do you really think I have time to nurture a friendship with a woman?”

“Hey.” Breaker holds up his hands. “Don’t get snarky with me. You’re the one who came up with this great fucking idea.”

Sighing, I stand from my chair and set down my beer.

“What are you doing?” JP asks.

“Going for a walk. I need to clear my head.”

“Fine,” Breaker says, standing as well. “I’m going to order food while you do that. And you know what? I’m getting fucking ice cream too, because this is one of those ice cream moments.”

“Cookies and cream, dude. I’ve been craving it,” JP says as they both go into the house.

I jog down the few steps from my porch to my sidewalk and head out toward the street. I use the door in the guard gate, rather than having to open the entire gate, and then turn right.

It’s just past six. I came home early, because I couldn’t stand sitting at the office any longer than I had to today, and it’s because on my computer screen, in big bold letters, was an e-vite to Dave Toney’s house for dinner with the missus. Yup . . . the missus.

It was a bleeding reminder of how I lost my damn mind yesterday. At the age of thirty-five, you’d think I’d have the ability to stay more . . . calm, but that wasn’t the case. The pressure got to me.

Maybe it’s because I feel the need to be the best. Turning thirty-five has made me realize that I’m still young and have so much potential, and if I continue to make the deals I’m making, we could easily become the youngest billionaires in the business.

Money shouldn’t be a motivator, but hell, the prestige of it is.

I grip the back of my neck in frustration. Dad is probably looking down at me, laughing his ass off, thinking I got myself into one hell of a situation this time. Growing up, even though I was the oldest, I was also the troublemaker, the one who pushed the limits. Not the typical firstborn personality, but I’d push and push and push until I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and Dad would just sit back and laugh while I attempted to become unstuck. I always succeeded, but this time around, I’m not so sure I’ll be able to.

I’ve performed my fair share of miracles, but finding a woman to fall in love with me, accept my proposal, and get pregnant in three days seems like a bit of a stretch.

If only a girl could just fall right in my lap, willing and ready to go through this ruse with me. Someone, anyone . . .

I turn the corner and almost run straight into a confused ball of brunette.

“Oh, sorry,” I apologize as I grip both of her arms to keep her from toppling over into the grass.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” she snaps at me while pulling away.

“Jesus,” I say, holding my hands up. “It was an accident.”

She steadies herself and then adjusts her long, brown ponytail. I quickly take her in. She’s a small thing, petite, head barely reaches my chin. Her skin has that California glow to it that tells me she has time to hit up the beach or pool, and the definition in her arms makes me believe she has time to go to the gym as well. Probably some housewife out for a walk, trying to get her steps in before the husband comes home from a late night at the office.

When she turns to face me, though, hell . . . I’m struck in the goddamn chest as her light green eyes meet mine. A seafoam color, so light that it’s almost startling against her natural, thick black lashes.

Damn.

Her eyes quickly roam my body and then meet mine again, but this time, she’s not hostile, more . . . frustrated.

“Sorry, I’m just . . . ugh, I’m lost. And I shouldn’t be telling a complete stranger I’m lost because that’s an invitation to take advantage of me. But my phone died, and I can’t remember which way to go.”

“Oh, so you don’t live around here?”

She scoffs. “I’m wearing four-year-old leggings from Target. Trust me, I don’t live around here.” And then, as if she remembers something, she says, “Uh, I mean, I’m from here. I, uh . . . I’m posh and all those things.” With a deep exhale, her shoulders slump and she rests her hands on her hips. “Who am I kidding? This was a stupid-ass idea, and now I’m lost and hungry and my mom is going to call the cops if I don’t come home soon.”

Oh shit, how old is this girl? I assumed old enough to look at, but if her mom is worried . . .

“Being that it’s a school night, I can see why she’d be worried,” I say. “You can use my phone if you want.”

She stands taller. “School night? How old do you think I am?”

I grip the back of my neck. “I don’t know. You said your mom would be worried.”

“Because she’s an overprotective mother and I’m a twenty-eight-year-old loser who gets lost in a rich neighborhood while trying to find a rich husband.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Uh-huh.” She folds her arms over her chest, which props up her breasts in that already spectacular sports bra. “Tried to look for a rich husband today. Not a gold digger, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just seeking revenge for a high school reunion. You know the deal.”

“I’m unfamiliar with needing to find a rich husband.”

“So, you’re not gay?”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. This girl holds nothing back. “Do I seem gay?”

“I mean, if you want to lay down stereotypes, then, no, you look more like an alpha asshole you might find in the boardroom. It’s the haircut and watch.”

I glance down at my watch and then back at her. The watch is really expensive. “I get the alpha in the boardroom, but why the asshole?”

She scans me, her nose scrunches, and she says, “Your cologne. Smells too good. Nice guys never smell that good.”

“From this brief conversation, I’m going to assume you found no takers in your rich husband search.”

“Nope.” She pops the P. “You’re actually the first guy I’ve run into today. Imagine that. Received plenty of judgmental stares from the ladies around here, though.”

“It’s probably because of your four-seasons-ago-Target leggings,” I joke.

“Yeah, they can totally tell that kind of stuff.” She tilts her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I answer, sort of enjoying this odd encounter.

“You’re rich, right?” When I don’t answer, she rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m not going to pull out a nail file and try to stab you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I read this article on how to snag a rich guy, and I feel as though one of the suggestions was wrong.”

I stick my hands in my pockets and casually say, “I have money.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you just have it.” Shaking her head, she says, “Okay, you’re loaded, let’s go with that—because it’s obvious. I want to know, do rich guys like braids?”

“Braids?” I ask, confused.

“You know.” She points to the side of her head, where there’s a small braid stretched across her head and then tied into her ponytail. “Braids. Do you like these?”

“Uh, I mean . . . sure? It’s not like I’m super excited about it, but I don’t hate it, either.”

“I knew it,” she whispers while snapping her fingers. “That article was total clickbait. I could tell by the millions of ads on the page that kept popping up every time I scrolled down. Duped again.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.”

I rock on my heels. “So, looking for a rich boyfriend, huh?”

She eyes me skeptically. “Yes.”

“You know, I’m single.”

I know, I know. What the hell are you thinking, Huxley? This is a random girl on the street, looking for a rich boyfriend. For all you know, she could very well be a gold digger. She could be bad news. She could be a decoy for someone to drive by with a van and rob you. It’s happened before in this neighborhood.

And, from the way her leggings fit tightly against her flat stomach, it’s a solid guess that she’s not pregnant, therefore making this plan of mine exponentially worse. But I don’t see any other options at the moment.

She’s single, and she’s a woman, the only two requirements I’m truly looking for at this point.

Still looking skeptical, she folds her arms over her chest. “You’re single.”

“Yeah. Single as they come.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . .”

Yeah, why are you telling her this, Huxley? Why are you telling a complete stranger that you’re single, with the intention that you can use her to your advantage?

Because she seems to need help like I need help, and if I’ve learned anything about business, it’s that business deals can go a long way if made properly, if they can benefit both parties.

And I very well might have a business deal in the making.

“You know, I think we should go grab something to eat.”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “Okay, what kind of creep are you?”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

She motions at me with her finger. “I told you I’m looking for a rich boyfriend. You should be running away. You should probably be calling the cops to escort me out of here and back to my mom’s modest bungalow. There’s no way in hell you should be asking me to grab something to eat. So, what’s your game, man?”

She’s spunky, outspoken, unlike any girl I’ve met, that’s for sure. And she’s right. I should be scared. She seems to have the kind of tenacity that would bring a man to his knees, but she also is a qualified candidate for what I’m looking for, and I’m three days away from a dinner date. I’m willing to roll the dice.

“I have no game—”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Wow, she really calls it like it is.

“Just tell me what your endgame is.”

“Fine,” I say, seeing where this is going. “I might be in the need for a fake fiancée.” I’ll keep the pregnant thing to myself for now.

“A fake fiancée?” she asks. “Why?”

I glance around at our surroundings. “I don’t tend to talk business in the middle of the neighborhood. If you’re interested in talking about this, then why don’t you meet me at the Chipotle on Santa Monica and Beverly in an hour?”

“Chipotle?” she asks, dumbfounded. “You’re rich—supposedly—and that’s where you want to meet for dinner?”

“I like burritos,” I say with a shrug. “Plus, anywhere else isn’t going to accept someone wearing four-seasons-ago leggings and a sports bra into their establishment.” Even if the sports bra makes her tits look amazing.

She doesn’t answer right away, instead, takes her time, but when she does answer, she says, “That’s fair. Care to direct me back to my house so I can put on something more suitable for Chipotle?”

“Sure.” I pull out my phone and open the Google Maps app. I hand her my phone and let her figure it out on her own. “My name is Huxley, by the way.”

Her eyes flutter up to mine. “Huxley, huh, that’s an interesting name. Any inspiration from Huckleberry Finn?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” When she goes back to the phone, I ask, “And you would be . . .”

“Lottie,” she says, zooming in on the phone and gaining her bearings as she glances around the streets.

“Lottie. Any inspiration from a lollipop?”

Her brow raises when she looks up at me. “No. It’s actually short for Leiselotte. But no one, and I mean no one, calls me that. Not even my parents.” She points at me. “And don’t even think about calling me that. Got it?”

I hold up my hands in defense. “Got it.”

“Good.” She hands me back my phone and says, “I know where I’m going now. I’m about a mile away.”

“Will an hour be long enough for you to get back?”

“Do you think I’ll be crawling?”

So fiery.

So fierce.

“No, just not sure how long it would take you to, you know . . . shower.”

Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Are you implying I stink?”

Jesus.

I drag my hand over my face. “No, I just . . . I don’t know what you need to do to get ready.”

She holds up one hand. “Trust me, it won’t take long. I’m not here to impress anyone.” She takes a step back. “Chipotle, in an hour.” She points at me. “You’re buying.”

And then she takes off at a jog, and for some reason, I keep my eyes trained on her heart-shaped backside.

Business. Opportunity. Cane. That’s what I need to focus on, because Little Miss No-One-Calls-Me-Leiselotte might be just the woman I need. Smart. Quick on her feet.

Desperate.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’re leaving?” JP asks from my dining room table. “And why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?” I ask as I adjust the cuffs on my button-up shirt.

“As if you’re about to go on a date,” Breaker answers before taking a sip of his beer.

“Because I am.”

Both of my brothers sit up in their chairs and set their beers down on the sandalwood dining room table, to which I have no attachment. My designer purchased it because it goes with my “design aesthetic.”

“What do you mean, you’re going on a date?” JP asks. “You were just outside, trying to dig yourself out of the mess you’ve made with Dave Toney. You went on a walk, and now you’re going on a date?”

“Yeah,” I say as I slip on my shoes.

“How?” Breaker asks.

“Ran into her on the sidewalk. She was looking for a rich boyfriend. I happen to be rich. Therefore, it works out perfectly.”

“What?” JP asks, his voice disbelieving. “Hold on. You met a girl on the sidewalk, she openly told you she’s looking for a rich boyfriend, and now you’re taking her out?”

I finish tying my shoe, stand, and adjust my slate-grey shorts. “Yup.” They’re about to open their mouths when I pin them with a steely glare. “Do you have any better ideas? Do you have any other women lining up for the job?”

“Is she lining up for the job?” JP asks.

“She’s aware that I need a fake fiancée.”

“I don’t know,” Breaker says. “This seems like a really bad idea. Going out with someone you don’t know.”

I give him a confused look. “Dude, that’s what dating is all about, going out with someone you don’t know.”

“But this is different. She wants a rich boyfriend, you need a fake fiancée, who’s to say she’s not going to take advantage of you? How do you know she won’t agree to whatever you have going on in your head but then do something like go to the media and fuck up our reputation?”

I stuff my phone in my pocket and say, “That’s why we pay our lawyers an extreme amount of money, so they can create contracts to prevent that from happening.” When Breaker still looks uneasy, I say, “Listen, I didn’t give her my last name, and she didn’t seem to recognize me either, so I’m going to feel her out and see if she’s interested. If so, I’ll get Harvey to draw up an NDA, as well as an agreement for both of us to sign.”

“I don’t know,” Breaker says, leaning back in his chair now. “This seems really fucking risky.”

“Then tell me what I should do. Do you have another plan of action?” I ask, arms spread.

“Tell Dave that your fiancée isn’t available this weekend. That she’s away for the next two weeks. So, the dinner date needs to be postponed. Although, I wouldn’t have lied in the first place,” Breaker says.

“Too fucking late for that,” I say in a huff while grabbing my keys. Not to mention, I want this deal done and dusted. Not waiting another fucking two weeks, when I’d probably be no closer to finding a fake fiancée. On my way to the garage, I say, “Be back. Lock up if you leave.”

I hate to admit that they’re right—this is crazy, slightly stupid, and incredibly risky, but I also dug my hole. I might as well lie in it.