Forty Day Fiancé : A Fake Fiancé Romantic Comedy Standalone Read online

  Forty Day Fiancé

  Erin McCarthy

  Copyright © 2020 by Erin McCarthy

  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.

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Erin McCarthy

  One

  I had done something so absolutely and utterly bonkers that I kept wondering if I could claim temporary insanity. Or temporary stupidity might be more accurate.

  Because I was a catfisher.

  The complete misrepresentation online of myself as another person entirely.

  I hadn’t meant to get so carried away. It was an accidental catfish.

  What had started out as me finding a date for my friend Savannah had somehow resulted in me chatting on the app with a man named Michael for hours. Days. Maybe even a few weeks. As Savannah, not me, Felicia Hobbs.

  It started out harmless enough. It was called screening. I was making certain he wasn’t a psychopath. For her. I had an obligation as a friend to not send her off to dinner with a serial killer.

  Then it got to where I was telling him my own stories and feelings and maybe even falling for him, just a little. Okay, a lot.

  Which was ridiculous because he thought he was talking to Savannah. She was a peaches-and-cream-complexion redhead with a sweet smile and an overwhelming optimism. I was a thin, pale, dark-haired British ex-pat with a dry sense of humor and a practical streak.

  One of these things was not like the other.

  Do you see my dilemma? It was charming in Cyrano De Bergerac.

  In real life, it was just rude and a little creepy.

  The only explanation I had for it was I had spent too much time home alone, working. We are not meant to hole up for days on end in a bedroom the size of a car boot surrounded by mounds of vintage clothing. I’d become eccentric, reclusive, obviously craving a connection with someone.

  It was an accident, truly.

  Though generally speaking I was known for getting myself into cock-ups, I had to admit. It was why I’d stopped dating altogether the year before.

  Michael and Savannah had gone out to dinner and she’d told me he was nice enough but she wasn’t interested and, of course, that’s because everyone but her knew at the time she was already totally in love with Maddox, her roommate and nanny.

  I was certain she’d left Michael wondering why the hell she’d been so hot (me being she) and then cold in person.

  I’d also been stupidly relieved she hadn’t liked Michael and stupidly annoyed when he had continued to message Savannah, clearly interested in a second date, despite her tacit reaction to him. Was it her looks he liked, or me, the woman he’d been chatting with?

  But he had mentioned early in our communications he wanted to get rid of his wife’s clothing, given she’d been passed away for ten years, so after their date I’d got in the wine and told him, as Savannah, to contact me, Felicia, who would potentially buy some pieces in his wife’s wardrobe.

  See? Making it worse.

  But now I was standing in front of an apartment door in SoHo hitting the buzzer for Dr. Michael Kincaid and feeling every ounce the idiot.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, this is Felicia Hobbs.”

  The buzzer rang. “I’ll come down and meet you in the lobby,” he said.

  He had a sexy voice, unfortunately. It was low, gravelly, the tone commanding.

  I had thought altogether too long about my outfit, but it was December and I was bundled up with a long winter puffer coat, a beanie on my head. I’d had a decent struggle with myself over footwear, wanting to thumb my nose at the weather, but it was snowing and I didn’t think an open-toed pump was going to accomplish anything other than a broken ankle. It wasn’t like Michael was going to see the pumps and what they did to my legs (amazing things, truly) and decide he was mad for me.

  Hence the waterproof high-knee boots with adequate treads. I wasn’t going to shag the man, so what difference did it make?

  It was called managing expectations.

  I stood in the lobby, waiting for Michael to appear. It was what you’d expect for SoHo. Only eight units in the building and presumably all large and airy loft-style.

  The lift opened and a man came out.

  Michael was not as expected.

  I’d seen his picture, but it hadn’t captured that confidence in his step, that height, that sexy shot of silver at his temples. He was wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, and a tattoo was visible on his bicep. I hadn’t expected a tattoo at all. He had on sandals, like he’d been barefoot in his apartment and slipped them on to take the lift down. He was far more rugged than anticipated, with a polished veneer.

  He was, quite simply, a man I would love to get naked and rub bits with.

  I gave a little wave. “Hi, I’m Felicia. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Kincaid.”

  Then I realized I wasn’t supposed to know what he looked like.

  He didn’t seem to notice though. “Call me Michael.” He put his hand out and gave me a smile. “Thanks for coming by. I hope this isn’t a waste of your time.”

  I didn’t care if he didn’t have a single article of clothing of any value. I was getting a glimpse into his flat and into him. Which made me utterly hopeless. But I had a crush. We’re allowed to have crushes at twenty-eight years old, aren’t we?

  “My pleasure,” I said, and I meant that quite literally. “Based on the photo you sent, I’m optimistic we can find some gems in your wife’s wardrobe.”

  “I know the basics of fashion,” he said. “I can pair a tie with a suit, but when I’m not at work or at some sort of fundraiser, I’m well… ” He gestured to his clothes. “Casual.”

  “Look at me,” I said. “I’m wearing a puffer. I don’t exactly look like I know my way around a runway, but I can assure you, I have the knowledge necessary to sell anything you’d like in my online store.” When I had first arrived in New York, I’d had a dream of continuing my European career as a runway model because of how much I’d enjoyed fashion. I’d achieved some success, but I’d also spent two miserable years going to hundreds of casting calls and having agents dismiss me with barely a glance.

  I’d learned not to take it personally, but it’s never pleasant to be told your lips are repulsive and that your skin is sallow.

  Given I had no talent for actual design, I’d taken my love of fashion and turned it into a business. I bought and then resold, after garments were repaired and styled.

  Michael gave me a smile. “I think you look practical since it’s snowing.”

  Practical. Lovely. No wonder my vagina was the road less traveled. There was a roadblock in front of it marked “practical.” Men don’t get hot for practical.

  I should have worn the heels, consequences be damned.

  Making a non-committal sound I followed him into the l
ift. I didn’t like at all that we’d already chatted quite extensively and he didn’t know it. To him, I was a total stranger. Not even the person on the other end of a dating app.

  He also hadn’t taken one look at me and decided he wanted to change that, so that was disappointing. He seemed friendly enough, but not on the verge of ravishing me.

  “I should have done this years ago,” he said. “The clothes seemed too nice to just toss and I kept putting it off. I didn’t mean for a decade to go by.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” I said, because it seemed the polite response.

  “Thanks. It’s been a long time. We were only married for two years. I would say at this point the relationship is a very fond memory and that mostly I’m sorry she didn’t get a full life.”

  I’d got the impression in his messages that he wasn’t a man holding on to his grief with both hands, but there had to be a reason he’d not had a serious relationship in the ten years since her passing.

  “So you’re online dating, then?” I asked.

  Out with it. Just like that. Idiot.

  But I couldn’t resist.

  His profile had disappeared weeks ago (I know, I know, why was I monitoring it?) and I was starting to think that he had found the woman of his dreams. If he had, I needed to know so I could stop fantasizing about him. Nothing else seemed to be working.

  When the lift stopped at the third floor, the doors opened. He gestured for me to go first. “No. I decided it wasn’t my thing. No one I talked to seemed like they were really interested in a relationship. Just lots of posturing and hookups.” There was a touchpad to his front door and he punched in the code. “That’s not what I’m looking for, so I deleted the app.”

  I stepped into his apartment. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with you and Savannah.”

  What can I say? I enjoy self-punishing. My mum would always tell me not to ask a question if I wasn’t prepared to accept the answer. I still hadn’t learned my lesson.

  “Can I take your coat?” he asked, holding his hand out.

  “Sure, thanks.” I peeled it off, juggling my large bag. I had brought my tablet to do some quick price researching and to take photos.

  He wasn’t going to answer me about Savannah. Served me right.

  The unit was gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling windows with tons of natural light. There was raw ductwork at the ceiling and a wall of exposed brick. The floors were sealed concrete and the kitchen was open shelving with a sleek island. His furniture was casual and modern. It looked expensive, but lacking just a little in the personal touch. Like a designer had done it and hadn’t quite caught on to who Michael was.

  “It’s a lovely place,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’ve been here twelve years now.” He hung my coat in a wardrobe. “As for Savannah, that’s part of why I deleted the app. I thought we were talking for real, actually getting to know each other, had made a connection, and then we met and she seemed disinterested. I’m sure it wasn’t her fault, I probably read more into it. I’m out of the game.” He kicked his sandals off and came into the apartment. “Do you want a glass of wine? I was about to open a bottle.”

  Uh, yes, I wanted wine.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about his answer.

  I couldn’t tell if he was still hung up on Savannah or not. It had only been a couple of weeks since their date, but on the other hand, she’d only talked to him for a couple of weeks prior to their dinner. Or rather, I had only talked to him for a few weeks. Did that mean he was hung up on me? Convoluted. All of it.

  “I’d love a glass of wine.” I stayed near the door. “Should I take my boots off? They’re a bit wet.”

  “It’s up to you. The floors are concrete, so it won’t hurt them, but there is a rug in Becca’s closet.”

  “I’ll take them off.” I used the wall for leverage and yanked off my boots. I went into the kitchen where he was pouring red wine into two glasses. “You never stood a chance with Savannah, by the way, so that’s not on you. She was already halfway in love with an old friend and was refusing to admit it.”

  Michael handed me a glass. I took a sip, waiting for him to react to what I’d said.

  “That’s interesting because she was definitely sexual with me in messages. I didn’t misread that. But never mind, I don’t want to talk about your friend or give the impression I’m criticizing her. Like I said, I’m out of the game. I’m a workaholic with rusty dating skills.”

  Great, I’d made Savannah out to be a flirt when it was me. I was the flirt who’d been tossing out sexual innuendos and wishing I could have sex with him.

  He raised his glass. “Salut, Felicia.”

  “It was me,” I blurted, because I was in agony over the whole rotten thing.

  He stared at me blankly. “What was you?”

  “I was the one being sexual with you. It was all me, never Savannah. Every message you ever got was from me.”

  I wished I hadn’t taken my boots off.

  Because he was probably going to open his mouth and say, “Bye, Felicia,” and if I had my boots on still, I could make a faster escape.

  My wineglass was hallway to my mouth and I just held it there, staring at the gorgeous fair-skinned brunette with the British accent in front of me. I was trying to wrap my head around what she’d just said. She had fucking catfished me? Who the hell would do that?

  “Why would you pretend to be Savannah?”

  It was actually her I’d been talking to. That gave me an unexpected jolt of desire. She was beautiful, with striking cheekbones and intriguing blue eyes. She certainly didn’t need to pretend to be her friend because she was worried about her own attractiveness. Felicia made even the knit beanie on her head somehow look glamorous and mysterious.

  I took a sip of my wine, leaned on my island, and waited for whatever explanation was about to come my way. If I found out this was a con to steal money, I was going to be very disappointed. And super fucking pissed.

  “Savannah has terrible taste in men,” she started. “Absolutely horrific.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I’m horrific? That seems harsh.”

  “No! No, no, that’s not what I meant.” She waved her hand. “I picked you. See, that was the plan from the get-go. My friends and I would each pick a date for Savannah because she’s just so bad at it. I created her profile and, at first, I tried to channel her and I tried to keep things straightforward and not get too conversational but…” She bit her lip and wrinkled her nose. “Then I met you. Or you know, saw your picture and messaged you. And you were funny and intelligent and I might have forgot that I was being her when I started talking to you and was just being me.”

  She tilted her wineglass and stared down into it before looking up at me. “I sound completely daft, don’t I?”

  I tried to process what she had said. “I don’t know what it sounds like, honestly.” Well. It really sounded like bullshit I was too old for, but I was willing to hear her out.

  “At first my thought was you’d be a perfect fit. She has a baby, you’re older, you want a family. I thought it had some real potential. I wasn’t planning to do anything more than just set up a meeting between the two of you.” She ran her finger around the rim of the wineglass. “But then I admit, I got a crush on you, and I didn’t even realize it at first.”

  That wasn’t awful to hear. She certainly had seemed genuinely interested when we were messaging back and forth. “Those were all your thoughts, your memories, not hers?”

  She nodded. “Yes. My gran really did have knee replacement surgery. I have no idea about Savannah’s grandmother.”

  I was both flattered and amused. And a little annoyed. “It never occurred to you that it would become an issue at some point?”

  “I wasn’t thinking. Look, I’m not some tragic woman lying just to fool someone. I just… let it go too far.”

  I still didn’t get it. But I was prepared to press her about it. “So do you actually sell designer cl
othes or was that Savannah? Or you, being Savannah, or maybe just made up altogether?”

  Her cheeks flooded with color. “I do actually sell clothes.” She dug into her giant handbag and pulled out a business card. “Here. But I fully understand if you would like me to leave right now.”

  “Do you want to leave?” I asked, because I didn’t think that I wanted her to.

  “I should, considering I’ve just confessed to having a crush on you and lying about my identity, but no, I don’t want to leave.”

  “So you really do love Russian authors, British rock, and Australian beaches?”

  She nodded. “Yes. And I do hate pickles, self-checkout, and tequila.”

  I tried to mentally scroll through all of our conversations and ascribe them to the woman standing in front of me. It wasn’t hard to see that it made more sense than the woman I’d gone to dinner with. The real Savannah. Who had been sweet but not as sharp-witted.

  “You, Michael, love true crime novels, British rock as well, and Belize. You hate chewing gum, buffering on the internet, and people who are cruel to animals. Like, it gets you raging.” She set her wine down on the quartz countertop. “It was me, I swear, and everything I wrote was the truth.”

  I studied her. She looked sincere. I’d really enjoyed talking to her and she clearly remembered our exchanges even though it had been a month back. They’d meant something to her, like they had to me. She was beautiful. I’d be an idiot to be offended over the fact that a woman a dozen years younger than me had found me interesting enough to carry on a charade like that. I wasn’t thrilled about the deception but I was willing to see if she was a chronic liar or had just gotten carried away as she said.

  “Then I guess you owe me a dinner date with the woman I was actually talking to,” I said. “Because she and I were having a great conversation.”