Chapter 2

2

MASON

T he restaurant felt oddly empty even with the sea of waiters preparing the formal, private dining room. A long, rustic wooden table had been decorated to the nines with candelabras and other festive things I hated. I stared blankly at the cornucopia, the centerpiece that vomited sparkly pumpkins and leaves, wondering if it was really necessary. But none of this was really up to me. If it had been, I would be in my apartment overlooking Central Park with a beer in my hand, watching the game. Alone. Just how I liked it.

“What do you think?” a male voice asked over the rush of silver flatware being arranged on the table. Ellison, the ma?tre d’ for the restaurant and the man I went to when I needed this space to be anything but its usual rugged self, slid up to my side in a slick black-on-black tuxedo, not a single hair on his head out of place.

“Do you think it’s too much?” I asked. “The decorations, I mean?”

The man looked around. “Isn’t that kind of the point? It’s a Thanksgiving dinner. It should feel festive.”

I nodded and scanned the table again. Twenty seats. Twenty crystal wine glasses from Tiffany’s. Twenty matching champagne flutes. Everything was a wash of rich burgundy and burnt orange, which I believed were colors associated with fall and Thanksgiving. I thought, at least. “I want whiskey served first, with the appetizer. Top shelf, the original recipe stuff.”

“Bottles one and two, perhaps? It is a special occasion. I can fetch them from the vault.”

I shook my head. “Whoa, not those.” Sighing heavily, my eyes moved from one end of the table to the other, imagining where my father might decide to sit. “Grab bottle twelve. That was a good year.”

Ellison nodded and moved quickly out of the private dining hall. I shut down the entire restaurant for this tonight, not that we’d be open anyway. It was Thanksgiving, after all. A time to sit around a table with family and say what you’re thankful for or whatever.

My worst nightmare come to life. It had been years since I celebrated anything with my family, and never here, in the kingdom I built off a single recipe given to me by my grandmother.

The recipe that inevitably tore the family apart.

I checked my watch for the fifth time in the last ten minutes and turned to look at the door leading out to the street. It was a quiet night in New York City. The sprawling metropolis always simmered to a low boil during Thanksgiving. I was doing what everyone else in the city must have been doing right then—waiting. Waiting for family to arrive. For food to finish cooking. For their dates to show up, late, apparently.

I eased my hands in the pockets of my tailored tuxedo pants. My white dress shirt was set aglow by the soft echoes of light coming from the dozen or so candles decorating the table as I walked along it one last time and into the main area of the restaurant, waiting.

Where was she?

I’d sent Fia specific instructions for the evening. Number one, she was expected to show up to these events on time, always punctual and ready to go. Second, she’d been instructed to wear all black tonight. I had a dress sent over to wherever she lived in the East Village. The list went on, of course, detailing the events I needed her to attend, but I never once mentioned why.

I glanced again at the main table before walking toward the entrance and fought back the overwhelming nerves blinding my senses. I was a businessman, not a social butterfly. That was why I had called in the favor Colin owed me. I trusted his judgment, but now I had doubts. His little sister was almost ten minutes late.

Her tardiness set my teeth on edge. It was disrespectful. Irresponsible. And, quite simply, really damn annoying.

A flash of pink lit up the front doors. A dark-haired young woman knocked on the glass door like something was hunting her down and this place was her only chance for refuge. A hostess walking by stopped to let her in.

“The restaurant is closed,” I began to say, but then I recognized the woman, and my words turned into a frown.

Fia. Young, beautiful Fia. Her dark hair was thick and bouncy as she stepped inside, giving her long, black wool trench coat to the hostess with a smile that could light up Times Square. I’d only met her the one time, at the horrible Christmas party two years ago, when Colin brought her as his plus-one. I’d glanced at her once while making the rounds before going back to my drink in peace, letting the party I hosted go on without me.

But now she was here, and her dark brown eyes were locked with mine. Shit. I thought I’d thought this through. I could have put an ad out for a stand-in girlfriend for the holidays on one of those websites for Sugar Babies that the wealthy, not-so-single men in my circles loved to frequent, but I chose something closer to home instead, and now I might be in trouble.

Fia’s eyes caught the light of the chandelier in the center of the restaurant as she beamed at me, turning those dark brown wells of emotion into something brighter, something a lot like the fine whiskey I’d spent my life meticulously crafting.

“Darling,” she drawled dramatically, batting her long, thick eyelashes at me. She strode up to my side, reaching out like she was going to take my arm. “I’m so sorry I’m late. This blowout took longer than I expected and the stylist?—”

“No one is here yet.” I looked down at her, and her hand dropped and the practiced, loving smile on her face shattered, revealing, I assumed, her true nature. My gaze scanned her outfit, a tasteful dress with long sleeves and a wrapped waist that showed off her curves. “What happened to the dress I sent to your apartment?”

“Hello, I’m Fia.” She glared as she stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you.” The little lift of annoyance in her tone made me pause before taking her hand and giving it a single shake.

“Mason—”

“I know who you are,” she cut in, shaking her head as she crossed her arms over her chest. Scanning the room, she turned her head to look through the archway leading toward the immaculately decorated table and sighed, glancing up at me. “The dress didn’t fit, and it was a little matronly, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was fine.”

“It was ugly.” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Look, this is a super weird thing to ask someone to do, you know? Pretending to be your girlfriend for the holidays. I feel like, given the circumstances, you can at least allow me to dress myself.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to her. She was right. This wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I had to. I didn’t have much of a choice. “Thank you for donating your services to the cause. This dress is fine, but it’s… very pink.”

She caught the slightly uncertain hesitation between the words and rolled her eyes to mine. “I’m doing this because I owe my brother a favor, and apparently, he owes you a favor, too. So, I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? And pink is my favorite color, so expect to be seeing it a lot more, darling .” She shrugged her shoulders and proceeded to step away from me, eyeing the restaurant at large.

Colin had told me all about her, of course. Fia was a photographer and kept herself relatively busy, but she generally made most of her income over the summer shooting weddings. Colin mentioned she was fiery and a little hard to please, but he didn’t mention anything about her looks, and I’d been too far in my own head to notice much of her at the Christmas party two years ago. I watched her walk the length of the table, adjusting napkins. Her dress hugged every single ample curve, and my mouth went a little dry when she bent just a touch to pick up a random piece of fruit that went with the centerpiece.

She was beautiful. A masterpiece, really. Long, dark brown hair that burned a deep mahogany in the candlelight. Suntanned skin and freckles across the bridge of her nose. Maybe I was looking at her too closely. This was my best friend’s little sister, after all, and this was supposed to be a professional type of arrangement.

“Are we engaged?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me. Amber light splayed across her heart-shaped face, highlighting the straight bridge of her dainty nose and the roundness of her lips.

I cleared my throat. “No, we’re not.”

“Where did we meet?”

“Just use the Christmas party. Colin will also be here tonight and it’s obvious you’re related. He would have introduced us, and we have been seeing each other exclusively for two years.”

“And still no ring?” Her soft, slightly mischievous smile burrowed into my chest. While it had always been easy for me to keep people at arm’s length, Fia seemed like the sort that had the ability to get under my skin. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“Do you plan on proposing?” she asked, taking a few steps in my direction. Her heels, the same color as her dress, clicked across the expensive as hell wood floor as she closed the distance between us. “We’ve been together for two years, after all.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Someone might ask. I’m sure, since I’m being introduced as your long-time girlfriend, people will assume we’re madly in love. Something like that should be on your mind.” She smiled and shook her head. “Get your act together, mister.”

I wondered if the staff had turned up the heat in the building because it was suddenly stifling. “Sure. I have a three-carat diamond ring in my safe at home. I’m just waiting for the right moment to pop the question. But you don’t know that yet.”

She hummed, shaking her head as she reached up to adjust my tie. Her touch wasn’t expected, but I didn’t step away like my mind told me to. “Anyone marrying you would have six carats, don’t you think? You’re obviously good for it.” She adjusted my collar, smoothing her hands over my tuxedo jacket. “And you’re proposing on New Year’s. Because I love fireworks.”

“That’s not going to work,” I managed to bite out even though my mind and body were at odds. “I can’t fake an engagement when this ends on New Year’s Day.”

“I’ll say no, don’t worry,” she said, grinning. “Then you’ll be back on the market, and whatever girl you’re trying to make jealous will feel bad for you and jump back into your arms.”

“Is that what you think this is about?” I choked out, but a couple walked through the entrance, greeted by the staff.

Fia stepped away, smiling devilishly as she turned toward the guests arriving for the dinner party. Everyone was bundled against the chill in the air in fur coats and dressed to the nines.

“Why else would you be doing it?” She threw me one last look over her shoulder, tilting her head toward the table. “I hate the cornucopia. It’s a little much, don’t you think?”

Her expression underwent a great change. That undercurrent of mischief was replaced by pure, unadulterated delight as she hurried to greet the guests now funneling into the restaurant. She made introductions, playing the perfect hostess, like I picked her out of a holiday catalog from the nineteen-sixties.

Maybe Colin was onto something when he recommended her. He said she was a good actress.

I stepped toward the group now walking toward the table, nodding my hellos but keeping my mouth shut. Fia was doing all the talking, and so far, that was enough. But then, he arrived and my breathing stopped.

Eyes identical to mine swept the room before landing on mine and dropping to the woman now standing at my side.

Fia glanced at me, then at him, and recognition bloomed across her face. “You must be Mason’s dad. I’ve heard so much about you! It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Fia Webster.”

Dad held my gaze for a second before giving Fia a polite but dismissive smile. “Robert O’Leary.”

This would be her real test.

Convincing my father that this charade was real.