5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Marcy
I sat in the booth across from Patrick at our latest preferred meeting spot, an old school, family-owned restaurant with a mile-long menu and hard-to-beat prices. One of his former court clients owned the place or their brother did. Something like that. He was always finding well-worn places like this and the food was always good.
“What’s up?” I asked him after the waitstaff filled my coffee cup within seconds of sitting. Just as quickly, she’d disappeared into the kitchen.
The oddest thing happened next. Patrick didn’t answer so much as made a collection of sounds. He shifted nervously in the squeaky pleather seat. He might have mumbled words, but they certainly weren’t human words.
I squinted at him. “You aren’t on drugs, are you? You don’t do drugs. Is it prescription? That can be incredibly dangerous if you mix—”
“I’m not on drugs.” He cleared his throat. Cleared it again.
“Drink some coffee. You’re making me nervous.” The dude looked energized but off-kilter. Like a kid hopped up on sugar, prepping for hyperdrive. “Did my brothers do something to you?” Always my first line of questioning.
He shook his head no and sipped his coffee. He was always so darned put together that any time his proverbial feathers were ruffled it gave me pause. As kids, he was always the cleanest of us, with the fewest scraped knees and absolutely zero scars. His parents probably paid for laser treatments to erase any unseemly marks on his pristine alabaster skin.
Like usual, Patrick was more dressed up than down. A short-sleeved, sky-blue button down and light gray pants. His casual style veered toward polo shirts and khaki shorts rather than T-shirts and athletic pants like my brothers. As an adult, the cleaned-up look suited him. He had a tailored style. Always a recent haircut, always clean-shaven. That made Patrick who he was, and I liked how he stuck to his guns on his aesthetic even when his buddies teased him over it.
The waitstaff re-appeared, took our orders, and left with a quickness. Another reason this place was great. At peace again, Patrick leveled a look at me. “I have an idea that could be amazing, but I need you to listen to everything first before you say anything.”
“Okay.”
He straightened. “Yesterday, I had the meeting with the campaign strategist and—”
“Ooh! Did they come up with a brilliant strategy?”
“ Let me tell you first and then you can ask questions.”
“Roger that.”
“Okay, so the young and green problem can be…solved, so to speak, with an optics shift. It involves being married, which clearly, I am not, but it sounds like getting engaged is enough to satisfy voters according to Bea Clark’s research. That’s the campaign strategist. She showed me charts and everything. Anyway, they had this wild idea to pair me up with someone. Like a fake fiancée.” His hands flew up in a stopping gesture. “I know, right? She was sitting right there and a terrible match, even for a farce. We know nothing about each other and…the whole thing was weird and underhanded. But it got me thinking, there’s one person who wouldn’t be a terrible match and bonus: she’s known me from the days when I believed Gnarls Barkley to be the coolest music duo on the planet and she still talks to me.”
This was fascinating on a level I had not expected. “Go on.”
“If I were to move forward with the campaign, I’d need to be engaged—to pretend to be engaged at least. I told them I would only agree if I could choose my fiancée. By my own rules and standards.”
Definitely not the conversation I’d expected. I figured we’d cover the usual topics: him gleefully dishing about boring legal podcasts and me telling him my latest baking obsessions. (Bread. It was always about bread.) Or maybe we’d geek out over our favorite non-American reality dating shows. A teaser for the latest season of Let’s Talk Casually just dropped on Netflix and—
“Marcy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking for a fiancée.” His light brown eyes met mine. “And I’d like that fiancée to be…you.”
Oh. Oh .
“For fake—pretend, or whatever,” he added quickly. Nervously. “See, here’s the thing. You texted me about the trust money. The marriage clause—and by the way, what’s with people wanting everyone to marry up?” He shook his head, but before I could blink, immediately dove back in. “Bea Clark said it’s about trust in campaigns. A single guy doesn’t elicit trust. And for you, you’re not able to get your money for another two years unless you get married.”
He sat back, a look of pure satisfaction settled on his features.
When I didn’t respond, he leaned forward. “This solves both our problems. It solves two problems at the same time . ”
I stared at the guy I had known through his long and painful Gnarls Barkley phase. Through summer camping trips and family vacations where he served as an ally to me if I was outnumbered. Matteo, Robby, and my cousin Lucas, a forever mess of loudness, fighting and action, and then Patrick, who’d join them, but always pulled a punch if it might hurt someone else more than him. Who cleaned up without being asked. Who laughed at my dumb jokes and taste tested just about everything I’d ever baked.
This guy was asking me to be his fake fiancée to win a small-town election.
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.
“What? What part is funny?” Patrick had the nerve to look offended.
“Come on. It’s a crackpot solution to both our problems. Just forget the town. It’s too weird to enter into covenant marriage to impress a couple hundred people.”
“There are two-thousand and twenty-seven residents.”
“Okay, fine. My comment still stands.”
“And it’s not covenant marriage . It’s not real. It’s an engagement that will lead to nothing.”
“Please, Patrick. Woo me further.” I batted my eyelashes.
He closed his eyes for a beat. He was headed for lawyer mode. “Bea Clark stated how the public, generally speaking, holds traditional views of their governance. They want mayors and governors and the like to be married because it means they understand family. Families vote. And the Ribbens—they practically weaponized the word family. I don’t stand a chance when they’re painting me as an outsider, a lecherous lawyer, and worse, I’m single.”
The usually serious Patrick was taking this very un-serious proposal quite seriously. Here I’d thought we’d be chatting about dating shows. Not inventing one.
“Well, this doesn’t solve my problem. My family doesn’t want me running a bakery. Period. So if I get engaged to get the money? They’ll be disappointed with the outcome.” No matter how much I wished they wouldn’t be. I picked up my coffee. End of ludicrous discussion.
“But they do want you married.”
The cup stalled halfway to my mouth. I lowered it back to the table.
Nonna, in particular, wanted me married. Settled, she’d said. The push toward marriage was stupid and archaic, but what if…what if this was exactly what my plan needed?
She’d said the money was intended for a head start on life to use as I pleased. That blow of disappointment over a bakery would be softened to warm butter if I was fast-tracked toward the wedding aisle. With a fiancé they knew and liked.
Let’s be real here. The Russos loved Patrick.
Patrick leaned his elbows against the table. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I couldn’t believe I was thinking it. I should have kept on laughing, ate my food, which had just arrived in front of us, and let him pick up the check.
But there was something here. Something tugged at my brain like Biscotti tugging a blanket from my lap. “Nonna wants me married more than she wants to tell me what to do with the money. I asked her if there were stipulations.” I gestured to show off empty hands. “Even though she’d be disappointed at me working long, hard hours in a business that could fail, I’d be married while doing it. That’s what she really wants.”
It was possibly genius. This really could solve my problem.
“Well, we’d be engaged until your trust released,” Patrick clarified. “We’re not going through with getting married.” He dug into his food.
“Oh, sure. Right. Of course.” My cheeks flamed. We weren’t actually getting married .
The tiniest pinprick of disappointment hit. A chill ripped through my insides until the hairs on my arms rose. Ridiculous. Me? Married to Patrick? I think not. I shoved that supremely misplaced disappointment aside and stuffed a forkful of eggs into my mouth. Breakfast for dinner was the best dinner.
More questions gathered as I chewed. I took a swig of coffee. “Nonna might not release the funds based on a proposal. She said married. Not engaged.”
“How about I look over the trust. It’s not my area of expertise, but I know a few estate attorneys. Maybe the purchase of a ring with the intent to marry can carry the weight we need.”
“A ring.” A ring sounded so…tangible. Actual. And wearable. A thing I would see and feel every day to remind me I was headed toward a legally binding contract with another human.
Was I ready to be legally bound to another human? Even as a sham?
“You want an engagement ring, don’t you?”
Legally bound. “What woman doesn’t?”
“You don’t talk about jewelry all that much. I’m not sure I’d know what you like.”
I rolled my eyes, attempting to center myself. Sarcasm usually worked. “We would pick out the ring together, obviously. I doubt anyone these days buys a ring for a proposal without first consulting the recipient. Or at least have done some hardcore sleuthing prior to ring shopping. I’ll choose one myself.”
He looked at me, his eyes sparkling. “So we’re doing this? We’re getting engaged?”
A gasp sounded to my left. “Did I just walk in on a proposal?”
Our waitstaff, Angelina, according to her name tag, held one hand over her mouth while re-filling my coffee with the other. A total pro.
“Uh—” Patrick’s fair skin went red and splotchy as was his style when embarrassment flooded in .
This idea was more than wild. It was downright Jurassic. I never would have guessed I’d leave this diner starting a new phase of life: betrothed. With my oldest and possibly best friend.
If I said to heck with this and left, what would my life be? I was stuck in an unsatisfying job I wouldn’t leave unless something big rocked my world. A dream and a goal waited in the wings, along with a trust filled with money eager to be spent. Once I could access it.
And I could please my family, at least in theory, while setting up my success. Maybe I’d underestimated myself. Once they saw my passion in action, they would accept the bakery business. I’d make sure of it.
Besides, this was Patrick’s idea. I’d just blame him like my brothers did if this all went sour.
I turned to Angelina. “You heard right. We’re engaged.”