The Holiday Fakers (Hideaway Harbor #2)

Chapter 1

PIPER

“Brody King and Secret New Woman Caught Loved Up at Hipster Hangout!” screams the Google Alert on my phone.

My thumb moves faster than you can say clickbait, but when the photos accompanying the headline flash onto the screen, my heart slams to a stop.

Whuhhht?

The chaos of the Brooklyn coffee shop is drowned out by the roaring in my ears.

I can’t breathe.

The world around me shatters, crashing me into a new reality. One where Brody King, famous model, infamous actor, and the man who walked out of my life twelve years ago, is loved up with … me?

“Piper, you okay?”

The barista’s dark brows are slanted with concern.

I gape at her.

“Bad news?”

Shoving my phone away, I force the corners of my mouth up. My fake smile doesn’t work, because she immediately thrusts the empty coffee cup with my name on it behind her at a colleague, then leans forward.

“What the hell happened to you?”

I move closer, my thick scarf toppling a pile of cellophane-wrapped Christmas cookies at the edge of the counter.

“What’s the date?” I whisper urgently.

“December thirteenth. Have you missed an appointment?”

“Do I look the same to you?”

I spin in a circle, my purse swinging wildly, knocking one of the cookies to the floor.

“Uh …”

I rescue the cookie and pop back up again. “Do I look any different?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Are you sure?”

I turn again, slower this time, like I’m my five-year-old niece showing off a new outfit.

Her nose wrinkles. “Did you do something with your hair?”

I shake my head, then a flash of adrenaline shoots through me, stronger than any caffeine.

“Wait a minute. Do elves exist? Wizards? For real? I mean really real.”

Her eyes snap wide. “No, no, definitely not. You got lost down another online rabbit hole?”

I scan her face. “Is the world the same as yesterday?”

“That’s kind of a deep question. It’s not possible for it to be exactly the—”

“Hey! This gonna take all day?”

I whip around at the biting tone of the woman standing behind me.

“Sorry. I—I’m sorry,” I say, then turn back to my favorite barista as I fumble in my purse for my wallet.

She leans in, folds her hand over mine, and gives me a sympathetic smile.

“It’s on the house,” she says quietly, then yells over her shoulder, “don’t forget the extra cinnamon!”

“Thank you,” I manage, my eyes prickling at her kindness, then push a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar before she can stop me.

It’s lunchtime, and the place is filled with worker bees.

They jostle one another like they’re in a roller derby as they hurry inside, stand impatiently in line, then rush back out into the cold with steaming coffee and the panini of the day.

Pigeons flap and fight over dropped crumbs on the icy sidewalk.

Grabbing my gingerbread latte, I weave through the press of bodies and find a free booth at the back. I slide to the far end, facing the wall, and pull out my phone. No one can see me, yet I still cup my free hand over the screen as I stare at the images.

A photo of me exiting Espresso Yourself, smiling. I know exactly when this picture was taken. My fantasy drawing of an elvish warrior had just gone viral last week. Well, fifty-seven likes and ten comments is pretty memorable to me.

But who snapped it? And why? Do I have a stalker?

In the next photo, Brody is going into the shop. He’s got a baseball cap pulled low over his face, but I would recognize his mouth and the line of his jaw anywhere. And then there’s one of the two of “us” embracing right outside.

Which didn’t happen. Not in this universe, anyway.

My heart is still pounding in my chest, but I’m seated, so it doesn’t matter how jelly-like my legs are. I gaze at the pictures playing spot the difference. The woman he’s hugging is dressed in a red coat and brown hat and boots, my exact clothes.

Hold the front door.

I run my fingers through my wavy blonde hair, checking where it ends, then consider the length of my coat. The one the girl’s wearing definitely falls an inch lower on her legs, and her hair is a fraction shorter than mine.

Now that I’ve started analyzing, I can’t stop. The woman’s standing on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Brody’s neck, and he’s bending down. Unless he’s grown since I last saw him, she’s definitely smaller than I am.

My breath rushes out, and I sag into the banquette seat like a deflated red balloon. It’s just a coincidence that Brody came in to my favorite coffee shop with his latest squeeze, who happens to have blonde hair and almost the same clothes and bag as I do.

And because the photographer didn’t get a good shot of her, he hung around, saw me and thought we were the same person.

See? Perfect sense.

I close my eyes with relief and take a sip of my latte, letting the flavors transport me to my happy place—my family home in Hideaway Harbor, Maine. Mom’s cinnamon cookies are cooling on a rack, and Dad has just brewed a pot of coffee.

Sighing happily at the memory, I gulp my drink, then choke as it goes down the wrong pipe. I slap a hand over my mouth, dropping the cup, and cough violently, coffee spraying through my splayed fingers and splattering across the table.

My eyes are streaming, my lungs heaving as I struggle to suck in air before coughing again. My chest burns, my cheeks are on fire, and I’m wheezing and hacking like a donkey.

A hand appears, holding a pile of napkins, each finger weighed down with massive gold rings.

I snatch a couple of napkins and cover my mouth as I take in my rescuer.

He’s a short man in his sixties, with thinning hair dyed a reddish-black and slicked back over his head.

I clock his camel-colored coat and brown silk scarf as he pats the surface of the table.

He looks like he’s just stepped out of a 1970s mafia movie.

“Thank you,” I manage, finally getting control of myself.

“No problem,” he replies in a nasal accent, then slides into the seat across from me and extends a hand. “Marvin DeVille. You can call me Marv.”

I take it, wondering again if I’ve dropped into a parallel world where weird shit just keeps on happening. “Uh … Piper.”

He nods, not looking the least bit surprised. “You’re perfect. Even cuter IRL. And let’s stick with the minimal makeup. Right on brand.” He grins, revealing four gold teeth, two of which have diamonds embedded in them. “This is gonna be great!”

I blink. “What’s going to be great?”

He glances over my shoulder, toward the entrance of the coffee shop, and his eyes light up. “Right on time!”

Marv stands again, his arm outstretched, a smile so wide it looks almost painful.

Scooting to the edge of my seat, I peer around the corner, my heart leaping into my throat as Brody strides toward us like a dark angel. His broad shoulders are hunched, and his face is partly obscured by a black hoodie, but it’s not enough to hide how movie-star hot he is.

Oh my god. He’s here.

His glittering deep brown eyes are fixed on Marv, promising vengeance, but then they descend on me and narrow with a furious intensity.

I scurry back into the booth, hitting the far wall with a thud as my pulse pounds in my ears. I’ve had plenty of daydreams about bumping into Brody since I moved to Brooklyn, but in them, I was always poised and confident, never sideswiped and covered in gingerbread latte.

Brody slams his hands down on the table and leans toward me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, his tone low and harsh.

My mouth opens, but my brain has taken my ability to speak and left the building.

It’s all too much. He’s too much. I’m not prepared to have the living, breathing Brody King up in my business after all these years.

Sure, I may have a Google Alert set for his name, filtered to catch only the big stuff, but it’s one thing keeping tabs on an old friend from the safe distance of curated headlines, and quite another to have him here, in the flesh, stealing all my air.

A nervous, stammering laugh slips from my lips, cutting off with a squeak as he leans closer.

“Is this a fucking joke to you?”

My head whips from side to side. I still have no idea what’s going on, but I’ve never seen Brody this enraged before. I struggle to reconcile the controlled, composed person he was back in Hideaway Harbor, even when everything was going wrong, with this.

Marv pats him on the shoulder. “Hey, kid, it’s all good.” His gaze darts around like he’s assessing for threats. “C’mon, sit down.” He steers the much bigger Brody into the booth, then slides in next to him, blocking his exit.

Brody sits directly across from me, his hands clasped on the table, knuckles white.

“How much?” he asks, as if he can’t even bear to look at me.

“What?”

“How. Much. Did. He. Pay. You?” Brody enunciates each word like I’m a toddler.

Hang on. He thinks I’m part of whatever the hell is going on?

“And how much of my money will it take for you to go away?” he continues.

Fingers trembling, I reach into my purse.

Brody exhales sharply and shakes his head. “You’re seriously going to write out the number? Un-fucking-believable.”

“Take a breath, bud,” Marv says, turning the rings on his left hand like they’re the number wheels on a combination lock. “Be cool.”

I take out my phone and show Brody the screen, pointing to the picture of him and the woman. “That’s not me.”

He huffs again. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Fury burns in my belly, spreading up into my chest. I can’t figure out if I want to scream, burst into tears, or punch him in his sanctimonious face.

“F-fuck you.”

His eyes widen.

“Fuck you,” I repeat, my anger fueling me. “Get out of my face and out of my coffee shop. Fuck off all the way to Fucksville. And when you get there, keep going.”

“Excuse me?”

I brace as the image of Brody I’ve carried all these years shatters in front of me. I don’t know this guy. He’s a cold stranger, staring at me in disbelief behind the mask of a familiar face.

Inhaling deeply through gritted teeth, I attempt to keep my voice steady.