One day fiance, p.1
One Day Fiance,
p.1
One Day Fiance
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Landish
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
Also by Lauren Landish
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Excerpt: Drop Dead Gorgeous
About the Author
Also by Lauren Landish
Big Fat Fake Series:
My Big Fat Fake Wedding || My Big Fat Fake Engagement || My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon
Standalones:
Drop Dead Gorgeous || The Dare || The Blind Date
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts
The Tannen Boys:
Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country
Dirty Fairy Tales:
Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After
Get Dirty:
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets
Prologue
Connor
Ten Years Ago
The vaulted marble ceilings aren’t soundproofed. I know that personally because I dropped a pen in here and it sounded like a pistol shot that had everyone looking at me.
That’s what makes this room at the Metro Museum of Fine Art difficult—how damned quiet everyone is. I’m the youngest patron in here . . . well, if you don’t count the two boys who are with a woman who’s definitely their mom in the middle of a school day.
Honestly, the two blond boys look like they’d rather be anywhere else right now. Shoveling up dog poop in the back yard might be preferable. Even shoveling up the neighbor’s dog’s poop.
But Mom is a trooper. Despite looking like she’s about to scream in frustration from talking to the two breathing brick walls that are her children, she’s continuing to soldier on.
“And this one is of Robert I, King of Scotland,” Mom drones, reading the placard. “He was famous for . . . Timmy!”
“What?” Timmy, who’s looking at his phone, asks. Mom can’t see it from here, but I can just make out the picture on his screen. He might be studying something, but it sure as hell isn’t art except in the eyes of a plastic surgeon. Obviously, puberty is trembling in his loins. “Come on, Mom, can’t we just go? Seriously, I’ll Google what I need to get the assignment done!”
“Yeah, Mom,” the younger one, who’s too young to worry about his brother’s interest in girls but obviously finds art intolerable, whines. “You promised us McDonald’s if we came for two hours, and that was like, five whole hours ago!”
Well, that’s pretty much impossible unless they arrived at eight in the morning, which I seriously doubt. But I can see Mom’s about to give in, and for some reason, I decide to intervene. Sliding over, I lean against the brass railing that keeps patrons from touching the displays and clear my throat. “Your mom’s right, you know. This is fascinating stuff.”
The kids look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I can see Mom giving me a wary eye too. I’m being helpful, but I’m also a stranger. Her mama bear instincts are tingling.
But she’s got nothing to worry about from me. “I’m serious. I mean, look at this guy here, Robert I. Or as most people call him, Robert the Bruce. Forget Braveheart, this guy was a bada—” I catch myself. “A leader and warrior. Now I don’t know about you, but I think sword fights, winning against overwhelming odds, and literally becoming king of all you survey and all that is pretty cool.”
“Really?” Timmy asks, lowering his phone a little more, and I nod.
“There’s a famous story about him. After struggling for over a decade for his crown and Scottish independence, he had a chance at the Battle of Bannockburn to finally push back the English threat. Even though he was outnumbered, he led his army into battle. During the fight, he found himself alone, his armor ripped up, his shield gone. His forces were on the edge of fleeing. All he had was his battleaxe. Suddenly, a mounted English knight in full armor charged at him, lance pointed right at his heart. Now imagine, you’re standing, exhausted, muscles weak because you’ve been fighting your butt off, and the medieval equivalent of Iron Man on a tank comes charging at you.”
“I’d probably crap my pants,” the little one says, and I laugh.
“Me too. But Robert stood his ground, dodged, and took the English knight down. That’s what this picture here is showing. The sight was so dramatic that his forces rallied, pushing the English back and winning the battle.”
The boys are entranced, and Mom silently mouths ‘thank you’ to me. I give her a nod, but for the boys, I shrug. “Now, I know that’s not as cool as Naruto, maybe, but in some ways, I think it’s cooler. Because this guy was real.”
I walk away, and a moment later, Mom catches up with me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper, glancing back at the boys who are eagerly reading about the next picture. “You might let Timmy use his phone to find interesting info and have him share it with you and his brother instead of the other way around. It’ll keep his fingers and mind busy and save you from exhaustion.”
Mom looks like she might swoon and ask me for a ‘personal tour’, but I’m not here to entice a married woman. My target is the woman in the corner of the room who’s watching all of this while keeping a watchful eye on the patrons and the art.
“Do you think you could . . . you know, give me a hand?” Mom asks me. “Just ten minutes, please?”
I look over at the two boys, knowing it’s ten minutes I don’t really have but relenting anyway. I talk the boys through two more paintings, including the one they were apparently here to see, until the mom reluctantly says they have to go. As they leave, she silently mouths ‘thank you’ to me again, and I give her a nod and a shrug like it was nothing.
But it was more than nothing. It was my way in, my foot in the door, so to speak. An opportunity I couldn’t have planned any better. I feel a presence behind me, and I turn to see the woman from the corner giving me a smile. “Bravo. I love when someone can get the next generation excited about art history. Do you volunteer here? Or go to school nearby?”
There are a couple of ways I could play this. I could turn on the charm. If my goal were to have this woman’s ankles around my shoulders and her screaming my name tonight, that’d be the best play.
And while that admittedly sounds enticing, it’s not my goal. So I shrink down a little, wilting into my shoulders and walking the line of shy and confident. “No, just a fan of classical portraiture. Especially the English masters.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the new exhibit coming, then?” the woman asks, ready to nerd out a little with a fellow art geek.
Perfect.
“Yes, I can’t wait. I’m excited to see the Rossetti piece in person,” I reply a little shyly, like I’m nervous about talking about a famous picture of Venus in the nude. Truthfully, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Dante Gabriel Rossetti or his work, even if it is the most famous piece in the traveling exhibit.
What I care about is that it’s in the prep room with the piece I am interested in.
“I just hope I can get back when the crowds won’t be intrusive,” I comment, sighing. “You know how it is. Really studying a piece, appreciating all the small details, is hard with others around.”
The woman looks me up and down, assessing me. I play more into the role that I’m trying to portray, that of a legitimate art fan in a nondescript hoodie who couldn’t hurt a fly. To that point, I push my fake glasses up on my nose and flash an awkward smile as I slick my gelled hair over, though I know it hasn’t moved a centimeter since this morning.
The woman considers for a second, then gives me a little smile. “I do think your volunteer tour deserves a little reward. Come with me.”
Damn, this is working smoother than I thought! But the easiest way to get to an art nerd’s heart is by being a fellow art nerd. They’ll talk about brushstrokes for hours.
I get it, it’s like gearheads with their cars and compression ratios, or cooks with their spices. But I see the mechanics, the details, not the affection they so often glorify. I’m motivated by something a lot different from the passion that drives their interest.
I follow the woman into a back hallway, acting like I don’t know where we’re going already and haven’t mapped out where the closest exit points are. Truth is, I know the map of this building like a video game nerd kno
I cover my mouth with a hand, feigning a gasp. Venus, in all her nude glory . . . if somehow a Greek goddess were a pale-as-cream, auburn-haired Brit with semi-ecclesiastical overtones. But I still act like it’s the greatest thing since grilled cheese sandwiches. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” the woman asks, obviously agreeing wholeheartedly.
I look at the art as though it’s magical, and truth be told, it is one of the greats. Rossetti’s skill and accuracy in things like the texture of Venus’s hair is amazing, and I can see why people are drawn to it. I shift my feet, looking at it from different angles but actually stealing glances at the tables and walls around us.
There it is . . . my mission. It’s not even part of the upcoming exhibit but is back here waiting for cleaning and reframing. Which is perfect since that means people won’t ask questions at first, assuming some other department has it.
It’s small, no larger than a piece of notebook paper, but its value has nothing to do with its size. It’s desired, and that’s all that counts.
It’s time for phase two of my plan. Placing my hand over my chest, I tap a button on the Bluetooth headset taped to my chest, calling a preprogrammed number on the phone in my back pocket. Seconds later, the direct line to the prep room rings.
“That’s weird,” the woman says, surprised. “Nobody ever calls here.”
She suddenly looks uncertain, knowing I shouldn’t be back here, so I give her the push she needs. I hold up my hands out wide, then pointedly put them in my pockets. See? Harmless.
“It’s all good, I’ll stand right here, won’t touch anything. It’s just . . .”
I look back to the painting with a bit of shine in my eyes, and she whispers, “I know . . . I’ll be just a second.”
As she scurries off to answer the call, I think, Good, a second’s all I need.
Quick as a fox, I grab the small canvas from the nearby table and slip it under my hoodie, letting it lie flush against my back in the special pocket I wore in case I was successful. I’m already bent over to examine the signature in the corner of the Rossetti piece when she gets back.
“Sorry, they must have hung up.”
I shrug, straightening up. “It’s okay. I was enjoying the moment, just me and the goddess of beauty here.”
She smiles, but that uncertainty is creeping back in. She’s remembering that her job isn’t to have art nerds in the unsecured back areas of the museum. I’ve overstayed my welcome, which serves me just fine because I’ve accomplished my mission.
Or most of it.
Just one last phase . . . the clean getaway.
“Do we need to get out of here before I get you in trouble?” I ask softly, looking around like someone might’ve shown up in the few seconds she was on the phone.
“Yeah, probably so.”
“I understand. Thank you for showing me the piece, though. You made my day, my month, probably my whole year.”
She has no idea how true that is, but the warmth is back in her voice. “Well, you made those kids’ day, so it seems only fair.”
One more aw-shucks smile as I duck my head, and I follow her back down the hall to the main display galleries.
“Thanks again,” I say as she peels off, and I walk through the rooms, slow and steady, pausing to read a few wall plaques here and there and making sure I don’t look suspicious in the slightest. I even see the mom and kids out front, eating their promised burgers, and offer them a wave as I head down the street.
Even if they remember me, it’ll be as the nerdy art guy who was friendly and kind.
Not the guy who just stole a painting worth thousands of dollars.
Chapter 1
Poppy
He clutched at the large bulge in his jeans, squeezing it like a promised treasure. “I’m going to put this in you,” he says, “and you’re going to like it.”
Ugh. Rereading the sentence, I swiftly repress the urge to gag and instead jab the Delete button with my finger, breathing through my mouth, only until I get back to a point that I don’t feel like it’s utter trash.
“Great,” I say as I realize where I am. “Four hours of work and a grand progress of . . . fifty words?” I pull up my word counter and double-check. “Fifty fucking words? Fiddle-dee-FUCKSTICKS!”
Ugh, even that’s more words than I’ve written in the last fifteen minutes. I thump my fist into the middle of my forehead, resisting the urge to click Undo on all my deletions. Yeah, it’s terrible, but at least it’s something. And something is better than nothing.
Or at least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself as I get up from my kitchen table ‘office’ and walk over to my fridge, where I grab one of my pre-made sippy cups of black iced tea. I’m tempted to grab one of the wine coolers that I’ve got in there instead, but the calendar stuck to my freezer door reminds me that I’ve got a deadline.
As if I needed any more pressure. After the success of my first book, Love in Great Falls, I got cocky. And when Bluebird Publishing House came to me, offering not just a per-book deal but an actual advance, I took it.
That was two advance checks and dozens of talks with my agent ago. Now I’ve got a deadline looming, and as my Great-Aunt Hannah used to say, it’s time to piss or pounce. But that’s a lot easier to say when you’re not suffering from the inner fear that your follow-up second book isn’t remotely in the same galaxy as your first.
I flip off the freezer calendar like it’s the one that’s done me wrong and this isn’t all self-induced stress. “Way to put pressure on yourself, Poppy. Hello, looming deadline.” I take a long drink of tea and look back at my laptop, the mostly white space of my current page staring back at me. “Or dooming lead line.”
Ugh. If I’m talking to myself, I know I’m losing my shit. A little yipping sound from the couch reminds me that I’ve at least got someone to talk to.
“Why can’t I write like J.A. Fox?” I ask my couch as I approach, looking over the top at my two fluffy white Pomeranians, Nut and Juice. They’re brothers, pups that I got from a neighbor who suddenly realized her own Pom wasn’t sick but pregnant. I told her I’d take one to help her out but somehow ended up with the two runts of the litter. Now, the two, who really do look like a pair of pom-poms, are much bigger, healthy . . . and noisy.
Nut, who’s currently trying to turn his brother into a sister, stops his tussling to look up at me, grinning his doggy grin. Juice, who’s underneath, also looks at me for about two seconds before deciding to go all UFC on his brother and flip him, sending the two tumbling off the sofa and back to their nearly constant playful battle.
“Shoulda known I couldn’t depend on you two,” I tell them as Juice pounces away from Nut.
My pups ignore me as always, and I stretch my tense shoulders, catching a whiff of my ripe, aged cheddar smelling armpits and gag again. “Whew, shit on toast!” I gasp, quickly lowering my elbows to my sides. “I stink.”
It’s one of the perks of being a writer. Yes, I call it a perk. I can sit there and not have to worry about personal hygiene when I’m trying to hit a certain deadline. Hell, most days, I can spend the day wearing what I want. December, and I want to work wearing a Snuggie? I can do it. July, and I want to work wearing nothing but panties? Can do that too.
