CHAPTER TWELVE RIGGS

CHAPTER TWELVE

RIGGS

Emmett: Alaska looks mighty nice this time of year. Perfect temperature.

Riggs: I’ll buy you a one-way ticket.

Emmett: Are you ever going to tell me what your problem with the place is?

Riggs: No.

Emmett: Am I getting a wedding invite?

Riggs: Also no.

Emmett: I still don’t buy that you decided to settle down and give up the variety.

Riggs: Good, because my relationship is not for sale. Get your utensils out, buddy. You’re about to get a big piece of humble pie.

“Talk me through the logic of buying your fake fiancée a real diamond again.” Arsène snapped his fingers when we were at a jewelry store. It had been a week since Poppins and I had the ring conversation. My best friend waltzed around the white marbled space, squinting at diamond bracelets and emerald necklaces.

“She’s so uptight she might get a heart attack if someone notices she’s wearing a fake.” I drummed on the glass counter irritably, waiting for the salesman to return with some samples.

“And you care about her getting a heart attack because .?.?.??” Christian cocked his head sideways, wrinkling his forehead.

“She’s unemployed and uninsured. Her hospitalization alone would cost more than an entire wedding.” I scanned my phone, scrolling through messages.

“Look at you, you hopeless romantic,” Christian tutted sardonically. “Is it possible that you like her just a teeny-tiny bit?”

“You’ve met her.” I shot him a bewildered look. “Does she seem like my type?”

“Your type is anyone with a pulse—no matter how faint and shallow—so the answer is yes,” Arsène deadpanned.

Putting aside the fact that she vomited into my bag, blackmailed me into marriage, and referred to me as the village idiot at least twice a day, Duffy also had a quasi boyfriend. I didn’t dislike her, but I sure wasn’t her number one fan. More than anything, she possessed the one trait I despised about people the most—she was money hungry.

“She’s gorgeous,” I admitted gruffly. “But would also marry a convicted child murderer if he had his own yacht. She’s the definition of a gold digger.”

“And you play the poor Oliver Twist,” Arsène finished, fingering an expensive pair of earrings for consideration for his wife. “Which means there’s no risk of her falling for you. Not that there would be if she knew you were a billionaire. You have fewer boyfriend qualities than a bottle of Flonase.”

Ever since Arsène fell in love and decided to marry the widow of his girlfriend’s side piece, he’d fancied himself the twenty-first century’s answer to Romeo.

“Thanks for the unasked-for opinion. I’ll be sure to ignore it.” I parked my elbows on the counter. The salesman came back with an array of engagement rings arranged on a white satin pillow.

“There you are, sir. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

I did have a question—What the fuck am I doing?

I still couldn’t believe I was getting married.

“Looks like you’re a little overwhelmed.” Christian eyed me. “You sure you’ve thought this whole thing through? Marriage is baggage. Real or not.”

“I’m not afraid of marriage.” I began plucking up the engagement rings one by one and examining them. “But, like hard drugs, I prefer to stay away from the concept.”

“Because—also like hard drugs, it gets you addicted.” Christian pointed at a silver ring with a cushion diamond.

I needed to find something not excruciatingly expensive. Didn’t want to blow my cover as a billionaire to a woman who would marry a no-show mouth breather with an oral sex name just so she could afford to shop on Fifth Avenue.

Arsène pushed his face into the pillow of rings with a scowl. “Which one screams Daphne Markham to you?”

“Dunno.” I skimmed through all of them. “Is there anything that looks like it would look good on a thirty-year-old divorcée with two children and a time-share in Aspen Highlands?”

Arsène chuckled. “Aren’t you a lucky bastard?”

I knew she wanted something mouthwateringly gauche, with a diamond the size of her head. But I also knew she’d tell immediately if I got her something expensive, and I wasn’t in a hurry to please her.

“She’d probably hate an heirloom ring.” I scrubbed the stubble on my chin. I pushed the pillow with the rings toward the salesperson. “Which means that’s exactly what she’s going to get.”

“An heirloom?” Christian glowered at me. “You need a family to have heirloom pieces. Your ass is lonelier than a brain cell in Congress.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Arsène clapped my shoulder. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Are we going to rob a nice elderly lady?” Christian inquired calmly. “Because that’s the only way he is getting this woman a family heirloom.”

“Granny needn’t worry.” Arsène turned around, heading for the glass door. “We’re going to a place where you sell your soul for a few bucks.”

“Wall Street?” Christian and I both followed him reluctantly.

Arsène laughed, already hailing a taxi. “Pawnshop hopping.”

Seven Brooklyn pawnshops and one purchase later, I returned to my love nest with Poppins, a.k.a. the woman who vomited into my messenger bag, then had the audacity to tell me I was uncivilized for throwing it into a public trash can because it would leave a terrible smell.

I pushed the door open. Her voice filled the apartment like soap bubbles. She seriously had the poshest accent I’d ever heard, including the royal family.

“.?.?. no, Kieran. Mooning thy neighbor is absolutely not a form of courting.”

“Why?” I heard a male voice rising from the speakerphone in the kitchenette.

“Because it’s harassment, isn’t it?” Duffy leaned against the counter, sipping lemon water. She hadn’t noticed me yet. “Besides, she won’t fancy you for it.”

“Why not?” Kieran demanded. “I have a great sense of humor, and an even greater arse.”

Wait, wait, wait. That was Kieran, her twin brother? Why did he sound like Michael Caine? She sounded like a gently bred, privately educated princess, and he .?.?. like the person who cleaned her chimney.

Then the penny dropped. Duffy didn’t come from money. Of course she hadn’t. That was why she was so obsessed with it.

“Honey, I’m home!” I sauntered in, deciding to mess around with her a little. After all, it had been four hours since I’d last done so.

She raised her head from her gargantuan gallon of water and stared at me like I’d just handed her over to ISIS.

“Who’s this?” Kieran probed on the other line.

“No one.” She shot me an intimidating Don’t you dare talk look, sprinkling it with violent hand-waving gestures.

“Her fiancé.” I popped open the fridge and grabbed one of her green juices.

“Hey, mate. I’m her older brother, Kieran,” the person replied without missing a beat.

“Twin brother,” she amended. “He was born a few minutes before me.”

“That was because she was arse first.”

“That explains a lot.” I downed her lettuce juice or whatever it was in one go. “Riggs. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for breaking the law for my sister.”

“My pleasure, just needed an excuse.” I winked at Poppins, saluting her with her empty green-juice bottle. She grumbled something inaudible to her gallon of water.

“So, why are you doing that, anyway? Marrying her, I mean,” Kieran asked. “Insanity? Boredom? Are you a minger?”

I let out a raucous laugh. Hard to believe these two shared a womb. He was a working-class hero, and she—a Kate Middleton wannabe. Oil and water.

“I need a fake wife to get my boss off my back.”

That piqued his interest. “She’s making a move on you?”

“He wants to send me to Alaska for eight months.”

All this time, Duffy was standing there like a decorative plant, her phone angled toward me, hating every moment of my conversation with her brother.

“Well, mate. Good news is, you won’t have to miss the frigid weather, sharing a roof with my sister.”

We both laughed. Duffy jerked her phone back.

“All right, I’ve actually got some plans this evening, so you’ll have to continue this little bonding session later.”

“Later when?” Kieran asked. “I bet Briggs could give me apt advice on how to lure the neighbor into my bed.”

“It’s Riggs,” Duffy ground out. “And I wouldn’t trust him to take care of a dead cactus, let alone give out love advice.”

“Can a cactus really be dead? Or deader than it already is?” Kieran pondered aloud.

“It can,” I supplied. “If you overwater it.”

“Stop talking. Stop bonding. Just .?.?. stop.” Poppins shook her head exasperatedly.

“Your sister can’t get enough of me.” I slapped the towel Duffy had allotted to me over my shoulder, sauntering to the bathroom. “Anyway, I’ll have her text you my number. We’ll figure it out. Hot Neighbor will be rolling in your sheets in no time.”

“Cheers, mate.”

After a quick shower, I strolled back into the living room and noticed Duffy was all dolled up. She wore one of her Duchess of Boredomville dresses, and her hair was plaited. It was unfortunate that the more proper she tried to look, the more sexy-librarian fantasies sprang into my mind.

Poppins didn’t only look like a naughty nun; she also looked mighty guilty.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” She avoided eye contact, securing her earrings in front of a small hallway mirror.

I hoped she didn’t barf into any more of my stuff. That was one quirk too far for me.

“What’s with the face?” I stopped in front of her, shirtless, running the towel over my hair. I was muscular in a sinewy, athletic way, and she was the first woman I’d come across who didn’t try climbing me like a tree when I flashed my six-pack.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Did you pee in my shoes or something?”

Her jaw fell open. “Why would I wee in your shoes?”

“Because you seem like a vindictive creature, and pissing you off is an untapped talent of mine.”

“I can’t believe you’re pushing forty.” She massaged her temples. “No, I didn’t wee in your shoes.”

“Why’re you looking all guilty then?” I patted my back dry, pondering what I should DoorDash tonight. Nothing in this place was edible. Other than my roommate.

Poppins finally noticed the fact I wore nothing but a towel to my waist and gulped audibly. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“I’m touched.” I bowed my head. “And you’re about to be touched, too, if you’re asking me what I think you’re asking me.”

“Please stop acting like a man whore.”

“Then please stop staring at me like I am one.”

She ducked her head, twiddling her thumbs.

“You know what?” She let out a nervous laugh. “Forget it.”

She grabbed her purse, shot up to her feet, and ran to the door. She made it halfway before swiveling back on her heel.

“Okay, fine! A bunch of former colleagues from WNT invited me over for goodbye drinks. I was wondering if you wanted to be my date. We could take a few pictures. Be seen in public. This could establish our .?.?. eh .?.?. relationship.”

My mental hard-on dropped to half mast. My crap-o-meter, however, was dinging so hard it was about to shoot out of the atmosphere.

They decided to be nice to her all of a sudden, for no apparent reason? Un-fucking-likely.

“Your date,” I repeated dully. I was still hoping there’d be nakedness involved when she asked for a favor.

“Fake date,” she corrected with a prim nod.

This was a good time to remind her that these people had seen me with Gretchen and may have some questions, the primary one being—What the fuck?

No part of me wanted to tag along to this get-together, but an annoying (and unwelcome) sense of protectiveness tackled my conscience to the ground. I wasn’t prepared to send her to the lion’s den knowing she might get eaten whole. She could use a win. Especially as she seemed to be struggling with some confidence issues. Otherwise, she wouldn’t adopt a fake accent to go with her secondhand designer clothes.

“Fine.” I sighed. “But don’t forget to take pictures and file them. I’m not gonna suffer through these hipster assholes in vain.”

“Oh, Riggs, thank you!” She ran to me, but when she actually got to me, she stopped, her gaze colliding with my naked chest. Her cheeks reddened. She punched my bicep clumsily. “You’re .?.?. uh .?.?. the best.”

“But it’s gonna cost you.” I jabbed a finger in her direction.

She took a step back, her mouth pulling into a hard line. “If you think I’m going to hand out sexual favors every time you—”

“I’m not that desperate, and you’re not that hot.” I made a cross sign with my hands, lying blatantly. She was all seven deadly sins combined, once you fished her out of those Elizabeth Bennet dresses. “I mean you’ll literally have to pay. I’m broke, remember?”

Her face relaxed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll buy you a pint or two, sure.”

“Food too.”

“Don’t push it, boy toy.”

Man, she was going to blow a gasket when she realized I was going to order appetizers too.

An hour later, we were at a swanky restaurant on the Upper East Side. Duffy introduced me to her former colleagues, Sadie, Warren, Dalton, and Amber. I immediately forgot who was who, refusing to waste any memory space on these professional pretenders. The men wore the uniform of smart pants and rolled-up dress shirts. The women looked like they were auditioning for a Netflix real estate show. A cross between the vulgarly rich and sex workers.

It was obvious from the get-go they just wanted to see where Duffy had landed, postmeltdown. They expected a broken mess a week after her train wreck departure.

Our table ordered appetizers and bottles of wine. Duffy sipped on a glass demurely.

“Thanks for including me,” she murmured into her wine. The only reason she came was to establish a history with me. I appreciated a good hustler when I met one.

“The pleasure is ours, girl.” One of the women threw her friend a When is she going to break down in tears? look. Her cleavage was so generous it made Bill Gates look like a cheapskate. “We were actually super impressed with how you handled Gretchen the other day.”

“Yeah. She had it coming.” One of the men nodded, nibbling on his antipasto bruschetta. “I mean, the woman had some nerve, accusing you of stealing her garments.”

“You’re not even the same size. She gained so much weight this year.” One of the women stabbed at her cocktail’s ice cubes with her straw, leaning forward. “Is it true, by the way? Is she a size six now? One of her stylists told me she could barely squeeze her into a size four pencil skirt the other day. Keto, my ass. This woman eats carbs. Probably every day.”

Poppins frowned. “Gretchen’s problem was never the size of her body. It was always the size of her gob.”

No complaints here,but I had a different experience with Gretchen’s oral skills.

“So, are you going to sue her or something?” one of the talking heads wondered. This was officially the Mean Girls Olympics.

“No.” Duffy reached to smooth out her folded napkin on the table. “I know I overreacted. I shouldn’t have .?.?. you know, gone bonkers. I was under a lot of pressure.”

The entire table nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear Duffy wasn’t on suicide watch and wasn’t going to spend the entire dinner shitting all over her former boss’s reputation, everyone quickly lost interest.

I knocked down two more glasses of wine, wondering why people held a liquid that was made by people stomping on fruit barefoot to a higher standard than a perfectly hygienic beer made in a brewery. Maybe my new neighbor, Charlie, would have good input on that.

“So, are you guys, like, together?” Clone Woman One motioned between Duffy and me with her finger.

Poppins looked ready to barf again. “Quite.”

I draped my arm over Duffy’s seat, grinning winningly. “We’re very much together. I mean, how could I resist the temptation? Duffy did dump her long-term boyfriend for me.”

If I was going to lie through my teeth, I was going to have a good time doing it.

Duffy slammed her heeled foot over mine under the table, unimpressed and unafraid to break my bones.

“Why’d you break up with BJ?” Clone Man Two asked.

“Was it because he was a mouth breather?” Clone Woman Two inquired.

“Was it because he wore a trilby in the winter?” Clone Woman One shuddered.

“He didn’t breathe from his mouth, and I thought the trilby was sort of adorable.” Duffy kept her composure as she answered their questions. “As for your main question, I suppose we grew apart. I do wish him all the best. He is in Nepal now.”

“Nepal? I love Italian food,” Clone Woman One exclaimed.

“That’s Napoli,” I drawled into my drink.

No wonder Duffy didn’t collect any friends at WNT. These people had the combined IQ of a trash can.

“Wow. You’re so smart,” Clone Woman One purred, batting her lashes at me. “Guess it’s true what they say. All the good ones are taken, huh?”

After this inspiring conversation, Duffy insisted we all take pictures together. The scene seemed as organic as synthetic grass, with my fake fiancée insisting we all squeeze into a few photos and smile. Luckily, these people loved taking photos of themselves.

“Hey, weren’t you in Gretchen’s office the other day?” Clone Man Two snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “Shit, it’s you! I’d recognize those forearms anywhere.”

And just like that, in a crapalicious turn of events, our cover was blown.

Instinctively, Duffy slipped her hand under the table and squeezed my fingers. Her palm was small, hot, and sweaty.

I felt a smidge of solidarity toward her. Enough to throw Gretchen under the bus. I mean, the woman did ask me to sacrifice my life and freedom and marry a complete stranger for her career’s sake. That classified as her throwing me under a tank.

“Yeah.” I slipped an oyster into my mouth. “Came to give her a piece of my mind. Nobody treats my lady this way.”

“You did?” Clone Woman Two fanned herself dreamily.

“Duffy had been hurt and upset over Gretchen’s behavior, and I wasn’t gonna sit there and watch her take it.” I used my arm on Duffy’s armrest to stroke her hair. Amazingly, she didn’t light my limbs on fire.

“Ohmigod, she was such a nightmare to our Duffy. It was terrible to watch.” Clone Woman Two pouted. Then, without being prompted, she added, “You know word around town is that she’s cheating on her husband?”

Duffy jerked in her seat with a gasp. I had to physically pull her down by the shoulder before she hit the ceiling.

“What? Who told you that?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.

“Heard it in a barre class.”

“Doubt anyone would put up with that woman unless he’s legally obligated to,” I chipped in.

“So true.” Clone Woman One nodded.

“Ugh, Duffy, you have the best taste in men.” Clone Woman Two sighed.

“Okay then.” Clone Man One glanced at his watch. “Guess it’s time to wrap it up. I have a six a.m. spin class tomorrow.”

“With Julio?” Clone Woman Two cooed.

“Yes!” He clapped. “He is doing a new Madonna special.”

And this, ladies and gentlemen, was why I didn’t stick around in New York City more than absolutely necessary. The amount of brain cells I lost just by sitting here listening to privileged middle-class, overpaid pretenders was too damn high.

“Duffy, it was so good to see you.” They all stood up, collecting their jackets and purses. “Thanks so much for dinner. And it goes without saying—if you ever need anything, a recommendation letter, a reference, a good word, all you have to do is ask.”

Poppins and I were left there with these words of encouragement. And the check.

Clone Woman Two also slid her number into my hand. According to my nonbinding arrangement with Duffy, I could call her. But somewhere in the back of my head, I’d already decided not to mess with anyone affiliated with my fake fiancée. She only had, what, three, four people in her life? It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, and she didn’t deserve to have another crappy partner. Even if it was fake between us.

Plus, somewhere in the back, back, back of my head, all the way in the storage room, I still thought there was a minor chance of us bumping uglies at some point, and messing around with an ex-colleague of hers would kill that chance with a blazing fire.

“These are the people who give us the news?” I shot her a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t touch them with a bag of Fritos.”

She closed her eyes and groaned. “I can’t believe they left me with the check.”

“I can. They’re assholes.”

“You knew it was a bad idea, didn’t you?” She sucked in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Experience breeds wisdom, Poppins.” I shrugged indifferently. “Scars are great reminders to avoid future mistakes.”

“Do you think they know about you and Gretchen?” she asked as she flagged the waitress for the bill.

“Nah.” I stood up, tapping my front pocket and stretching with a yawn. “They’d have interrogated us to death. Be right back, doodie calls.”

“You did not just say that.” She speared me with a wrathful glare. “‘Doodie calls.’”

“Problem?” I curved an eyebrow.

“Sometimes I think you insist on aggravating me.”

“You really think highly of yourself, don’t you, my secretly working-class fiancée?”

I slipped away to take care of the check. Then, I returned, calmly tugged my fiancée by the arm, and whispered in her ear, “How fast can you run on these heels?”

“Why?” Her back stiffened.

“We’re dining and dashing.”

“No, we’re n—”

But then I started running, and she had no choice but to follow me.

After all, I did take her Kate Spade purse ransom.