Chapter Three
Three Months Later
I can’t believeI’m doing this. I mean, I can believe it since I’m here, on US soil. But I can’t believe it actually happened.
After the first month of radio silence, I started to get worried that my plan wasn’t going to come to fruition. I knew the chances of a wealthy man looking for a trophy wife in the Houston area were slim, but I held out hope because Texas was one of the wealthiest states. But then, after almost two months of me sweating it out, I received the call.
Ian Thomas, age thirty-eight. Brown hair, green eyes, works as a COO for a Fortune 500 company, and is looking for a trophy wife.
We spent the next three weeks emailing and then eventually texting back and forth. He explained that he wasn’t actually looking for marriage. He needed someone to be by his side for several upcoming events and wasn’t interested in hiring an escort. He needed it to appear real and felt the best way for that to happen was for a woman to move in and play house.
I not only respect his honesty, but it makes me feel better since I have zero intention of marrying this guy, and once I prove to my dad that I can be the CEO he’s looking for, all bets are off.
Because the service we used—and he paid for—would only match people who seemed to work together, the specifics were left to be handled between us. We agreed to a one-year fake engagement, and in exchange, at the end of the year, I would receive a whopping ten mil.
To most, that would be a lot of money, especially for only a year’s worth of time, but I was raised with wealth, and my trust alone is in the high nine figures. So, his ten million is chump change, and if I can convince my dad to hire me as the CEO, I’m dropping this guy like a bad habit, and he can keep his money.
Of course, since I was pretending to be a ditsy gold digger, I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I happily agreed … after insisting on a vehicle, a whole new wardrobe, and an allowance—you know, since I have to play the part.
And last week, he officially asked me to move to Texas. I was shocked to learn that he wasn’t actually in Houston, but in Rosemary—the city I had been born and raised in. I was a little concerned about moving in with a strange man, but the service we used ran thorough background checks on both parties before allowing them to use their service.
Since I had already quit my job, I hired a realtor to rent out my flat and paid a shipping company to bring all my stuff to the States and store it in a local storage facility. If I get the position—which I can’t imagine not getting—I’ll be permanently relocating to Rosemary since Kingston’s headquarters and distillery are here.
I step off the plane, and the Texas heat nearly takes my breath away, my body having grown used to the cooler temperatures in London. But since I plan to stay, it’s something I’ll have to get used to.
“Good morning, ma’am. Did you have a good flight?” a gentleman holding a sign with my name asks.
I flew private, so of course I had a good flight. And it was even better, knowing Ian was footing the bill for it.
“Fabulous,” I say, using the same high-pitched voice I used the few times Ian and I spoke over the phone. After spending several weeks watching reruns of The Real Housewives, I’m confident that I can pull this off.
In my Burberry stilettos and matching wraparound dress that accentuates all of my best physical features, I saunter toward the awaiting town car, letting the driver grab my luggage. The drive from the airport isn’t long, and I use the time to set up the phone I purchased before coming here, which has a US number.
As we drive through Rosemary, I can’t help but stare out the window. So much of the city has changed while I was away, yet it still feels the same. When I ran after my mom’s death, I always knew I’d have to come back eventually, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming sense of nostalgia I feel as we pass the Kingston building. I make a mental note to visit Mom’s grave since I haven’t been by since we laid her to rest. I’ve thought about going a million times, but that would mean going home, and it just hurt too much.
When the driver pulls up to the elaborate wrought iron fence and we wait for the gate to open, I take a moment to check out my surroundings—the place I’ll be calling home for at least the next several months. The long driveway leads up to a two-story home with a three-car garage. For the area it’s in, it’s on the modest side, but it’s still beautiful in its own right.
The driver pulls around, stopping in front of the large mahogany double doors, and I take a moment to reapply my blood-red lipstick.
I’m not a huge makeup person, but Mom always said, “Red lipstick is the weapon for savage women.”
I’m not sure if she made up the quote or read it somewhere, but she always wore red lipstick, and in turn, so do I.
The driver rounds the car as I put my lipstick away and mentally psych myself up.
When he opens the door, taking my hand to help me out, I murmur, “Thank you,” just as the front door opens and a gentleman, dressed to the nines in a power suit, steps out.
His dark brown hair is messy in that way that only men can get away with, and the scruff on his face is neatly trimmed. I saw a picture of him from the matchmaking service we used, but it didn’t do him justice. It looked like a mug shot, whereas in person, he looks like a goddamn GQ model.
Ian takes a step forward, his hands resting casually in his pockets, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As his gaze ascends my body, taking in every inch of me, I stand still, letting him check out what he’s paid for, knowing that I’m a beautiful woman. I eat healthy, work out regularly, and have a naturally curvy body with ample cleavage that almost looks paid for, but isn’t.
When he’s done checking me out, his emerald eyes meet mine, and I suck in a sharp breath, overcome with a bout of lust I wasn’t expecting to overtake my body.
Until this moment, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I figured I would play housewife in the morning and evenings, and while he was at work, I’d do my own thing. But what I didn’t think about is the fact that I’m going to be living with a wealthy, powerful, gorgeous older man who expects me to meet his needs—and that includes sex.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no virgin. I have my own needs, and I’m no stranger to having them met. But usually, once the orgasms have subsided and we’re both left sated, we go our separate ways. Except now, there’s nowhere to go.
“Sir,” the driver says, his voice cutting through the sexual fog. “Her bags.”
“Thank you. That will be all.” Ian nods once, and the driver scurries back into the car and takes off.
Leaving my bags for Ian to take, I square my shoulders, jut out my breasts, and saunter up to him, ready to play my part. I stop directly in front of him and lean in, placing my hands on his biceps and kissing his cheek. I let my lips linger just a tad too long, knowing I need to seduce this man if I’m going to convince him to play the part of my doting husband in front of my dad—I’ll deal with him finding out I’m a businesswoman and not an actual trophy wife later. But it’s a double-edged sword because during that time, I inhale his masculine scent. It’s woodsy with a hint of spice that flows through my veins and straight to my lady parts, like a direct hit of dopamine.
Holy shit! How the hell can a man smell so sexy?
I stumble back, needing to clear my head, and Ian raises a brow. He’s shrewd—noted.
“Stacey,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and masculine as he speaks the nickname I gave on my résumé, not wanting to use my real name, “welcome home.”
I swallow nervously at his choice of words. It’s doubtful he meant anything by it since he’s made it clear this is temporary, but the word triggers something deep inside of me. The last time I had a home was when my mom was alive. Since the moment she took her final breath, I’ve felt like I no longer have a home.
Images of family dinners and holidays flit through my brain, and I immediately push them aside. This isn’t my home. It’s a means to an end. A temporary dwelling, where I’ll sleep and eat while showing my dad that I’m capable of doing what he couldn’t do—run a company successfully without destroying everyone around him. Just because he made mistake after mistake doesn’t mean I will.
Ian clears his throat, and I realize I haven’t said anything in return, too lost in my thoughts.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Your home is lovely.”
He tilts his head to the side, and I have no idea why he’s looking at me in confusion until he says, “You sound different in person than on the phone.”
It takes me a second to wrap my head around his words, but once I do, I curse myself to hell. I forgot to use my trophy-wife voice! Shit.
“I do?” I squeak out, playing dumb.
“It’s a good thing,” he says with a grin. “I like your voice better like this.”
“Want to show me around?” I ask to change the subject.
“Of course,” he says, walking around me to grab my bags.
When we enter his home, I stop in the foyer and take it all in. The color scheme is black, white, and gray. The living room is large with a ridiculously big flat-screen TV, plush black leather couches, and a wet bar that rivals a real bar. I don’t have to see the rest of the house to know this is the quintessential bachelor pad.
“Do you have a pool table somewhere?” I ask, half joking.
He chuckles. “I do. In the billiards room.” He shrugs. “I also have a pool, a hot tub, a gym, and a kick-ass outdoor grill.” He leans in, and before I can hold my breath, I inhale another whiff of that damn scent. “When I’m not working, I enjoy having some of my close friends over to barbecue and watch a game. Do you enjoy watching sports?”
“I once dated a guy on the lacrosse team, and that was fun to watch,” I blurt out. “But aside from that, I couldn’t tell you anything about any sports.” I cringe at my word vomit, but in my defense, the delicious smell of him is getting to my head and making me dizzy—and maybe stupid.
Ian barks out a melodic laugh as he steps around me. “Well, since you’ll be living here for the next year, I’m sure I can teach you a thing or two about sports.”
He shoots me a playful wink that goes straight to the apex of my legs, and I internally groan at the way this man is affecting me. I’m Anastasia Belle Kingston-Webb. I don’t let men affect me.
Jesus, get it together, woman!
He shows me the rest of the downstairs, and despite it having a bachelor-pad vibe, it’s tastefully done.
When we get upstairs, he stops at the first door on the left. “This is my room.”
I peek inside, but don’t walk in since he hasn’t done so. It has the same color palette as the rest of the house, only unlike the rest of the house that looks barely lived in, his king-size bed is a bit messy, telling me he actually sleeps in here and made his bed himself.
“Since we don’t really know each other well and our engagement isn’t real, I figured you’d be more comfortable in one of the guest rooms,” he says as he closes the door to his room and walks a little farther down the hall.
He opens the door on the other side of the hallway and steps in, rolling my luggage behind him. “This is your room. If you need or want anything changed, just let me know. It has an en suite bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, checking the room out.
“I was thinking we could go to dinner tonight, and maybe tomorrow, if you’re up for it, we could go on the boat.”
“You don’t have to work?”
“I, uh …” He clears his throat. “I took the weekend off so we could get to know each other … in person.”
He smiles shyly, and my heart rate picks up speed.
“The truth is, I’ve never done anything like this before, and I had no idea what to expect. I wasn’t even convinced you’d show up.”
I laugh and nod in agreement. “I get it. I can’t believe I actually got on the plane. The last time I did something this crazy was when I was in high school and begging for my dad’s attention—” I snap my mouth closed and mentally smack myself for once again not being careful with what I say.
“Well, now, you can’t leave me hanging,” he says with a grin. “What was this crazy thing you did?”
“I, uh …” My cheeks warm at the thought before the words even make it out. “I got drunk at a charity function, and a bunch of my friends and I went skinny-dipping in the pool … that no one else was swimming in.”
I cover my face with my hands, and Ian laughs.
“Damn, does that mean I can expect you to go skinny-dipping in my pool when you want my attention?”
I groan and shake my head. “Not happening,” I mutter from under my hands.
“Well, a man can hope,” he murmurs.
When I get the courage to look at him again, he’s staring at me, his green eyes soft and curious.
“What?” I ask, wanting to know what he’s thinking.
“I thought you were going to be this airhead trophy wife. No offense,” he adds quickly. “But you’re different.”
“Different good or different bad?” I ask even though I shouldn’t care one way or another. I’m using this guy as much as he’s using me. Who cares how he sees me?
“Good,” he says. “Definitely good.”
It shouldn’t, but the way he says those words, while looking at me with appreciation and approval, pleases me.
“I know you had a long flight, so I’ll let you get situated, maybe take a nap. How about dinner at six?”
“That sounds perfect.”
“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask,” he says.
Then, he leans in and kisses my cheek. It’s only a brush of his lips, so soft that they barely touch my flesh, but it’s enough to send shivers of pleasure racing through my body and leave me wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Once he’s gone, instead of napping, I call my dad, wanting to get the ball rolling.
“Hello?” he says, not recognizing the number.
“Hey, Dad,” I say back.
“Anastasia! Are you in town? That area code is local.” The excitement in his tone causes a lump of emotion to clog my airway.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “I am. Remember that guy I told you I was seeing?”
To help set the scene so it doesn’t look as fake as it is, I’ve mentioned seeing a guy when we talked the past few times. I wasn’t sure if this would actually happen, but I figured, worst-case scenario, I’d tell him we broke up. But since I’m here, I can move forward with my plan.
“I do,” he says slowly.
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything because I wasn’t sure how serious we were, but he lives in Texas. In Rosemary actually.”
“And you’re visiting him?” Dad asks, no judgment in his tone.
“Actually, we’re engaged … and I moved here.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so happy for you. What about your job in London?”
“I quit.”
“Wow, he must mean a lot to you. What did you say his name is again?”
“Ian Thomas.”
Dad thinks for a second, then says, “Doesn’t ring any bells. So, any chance of seeing my daughter since she’s in the same zip code and possibly meeting the man who’s stolen her heart?”
“I’d like that,” I say. “I’m not sure when, but this week, maybe you and I can do lunch.”
“I would love that. Thank you.”
We talk for a few more minutes and then hang up. As I set my phone down, instead of feeling the usual pain toward my dad, today, guilt settles inside my belly like a dead weight. I don’t know if it’s because I’m lying to him about falling in love or because I’ve been gone so long and he sounded genuinely happy to know I’m back while I have ulterior motives that he isn’t aware of, but something deep inside me tells me that I need to proceed with caution before I make decisions I can’t take back.
All of this started with my dad’s choices that destroyed his family. The last thing I want is to, as he said, make the same mistakes he made.