The Playboy's Princess (2 page)

“Thank you, Paul.” Aaron reached out to shake the lawyer’s hand.

“If there’s anything else I can do, please let me know. I’ll be in touch when the transfer documents are ready.” Paul packed up his briefcase.

Aaron looked over at his son with a smug smile. Drew rolled his eyes and walked out of the room. As he passed Gran’s coffin, he stopped and laid his hand on the smooth polished wood.

“Good-bye, Gran,” he sighed.

“Over here!” Sam called loudly as he held his arms up in the air.

Drew threw the ball around Simon’s waving hands and then ran past him to the hoop. Sam took a shot. He and Drew cheered as it swished through the net.

“Damn!” Chris said loudly.

“Can’t help that we’re awesome!” Sam laughed back.

“Whatever. This is boring, anyway. Let’s go get a beer,” Simon said, walking off the basketball court.

Drew shrugged and followed his friends. It was a hot day, and a cold beer sounded great. He grabbed his shirt up off the asphalt and pulled the hot material down over his chest.

“What’s up with you?” Sam asked as he came over and clapped Drew on the back.

“My parents are really pushing me to get a job.” Drew let out a loud sigh and scratched at his scruffy face. He really needed a shave.

Aaron had spent half an hour over breakfast that morning lecturing his son on how important it was to contribute to the family, and to society, and to stop being lazy.

“What about all the money your grandmother left you in her will?” Chris asked when they were seated in one of the back booths of their favorite bar.

Drew laughed sarcastically. “I won’t get my hands on that until I turn thirty or get married.”

“Well, it’s only four years away. Just suck it up and wait,” Simon said with a shrug. He took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it, blowing a long stream of smoke directly up into the air.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Drew said to his smug friend. “Your trust fund kicked in years ago.”

“I could give you a loan,” Chris offered.

“Or…” Sam started to laugh.

“Or?” Drew asked curiously.

“Or…you could get married,” he said with a smile. Sam took a drink of his beer and looked at Drew over the rim of the glass.

Chris and Simon both burst out laughing.

“Drew? Get married?” Simon coughed and almost choked on his beer.

“Fuck you. I don’t have any problem getting women,” Drew shot back.

“No, you certainly don’t, which is why you’ll never get married.” Simon laughed.

Drew knew they were right. He didn’t
want
to get married. He wasn’t the settling down type of guy. He had a new girl every few weeks, and that was the way that he liked it. He was free.

“How would someone go about finding a wife on short notice?” Sam asked. “Hypothetically.”

“One of those Russian bride web sites?” Chris asked, looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling in contemplation.

“Or an ad in the newspaper?” Simon added.

“I’m guessing it would have to be a real marriage, though, not a fake one,” Sam said.

“Well, it wouldn’t be that hard, really,” Simon explained. “I mean, think about it. You put a discreet ad in the newspaper for a girl, you both sign a secret contract to state it’s a fake marriage, and you tell everyone you are dating her. Then marry her, get your money, and you can divorce her. I think it would work.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Drew told him.

“Ridiculous or genius?” he asked with a smile.

Drew rolled his eyes. While his friends joked around, continuing their fantasy about the fake marriage, Drew excused himself and headed to the bar. He needed a shot of tequila—now—to calm himself down.

As he downed his drink, he looked over and saw the guys whispering together…something bad was being planned.

White. Everything around her was white. White chairs, white flowers, white dress. What was so romantic about the color white, anyway? Why was white the traditional color for weddings? Wouldn’t red be more appropriate? Red was passionate. White was stark and cold and…perfect.

Jade drank a whole glass of champagne in one gulp—she needed it. All around her were happy faces. Her best friend, Clare, had just married the love of her life, Stuart, and Jade was happy for them. Really, she was.

Jade loved Clare like a sister and was thrilled beyond measure that she’d found love. Jade was happy for Clare. But she wasn’t happy for herself.

“Bridesmaid again, Jade? You must be getting used to that role.”

Jade gritted her teeth and tried her best to smile. “I’m so glad to be able to support Clare today.” She turned and walked from Martha, her supervisor at work, and headed for the bar. She whispered to herself over and over, “Punching your boss isn’t a good idea,” as she made her way through the crowd.

Two shots of tequila and another glass of champagne later, Jade was happily dancing with a groomsman. Clare and Stuart twirled past them, and Clare winked, their secret code that she thought the groomsman was hot.

Jade looked at his face with blurry vision. He was tall, obviously younger than her, and his green eyes were mesmerizing. He smiled, apparently having noticed that she was staring.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Yes.”

The word was out of her mouth before she’d really thought it through, but the fact that someone wanted her was too good to pass up. If there was a sure-fire cure for feeling rotten about yourself, it was a hot guy finding you attractive. At least it was a short-term cure, and that was all she needed.

Jade woke up naked with a pounding head on a mattress on the floor of some apartment she didn’t recognize. She could hear snoring next to her but didn’t want to face the nameless groomsman who had momentarily boosted her self-confidence. Instead she decided to creep out of bed, put on her bridesmaid dress, and run outside to find a taxi.

“I love Sunday morning shifts,” the driver said with a laugh when she climbed inside his car.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“I get to see all the girls doing their walks of shame,” he explained and then laughed again.

“Just shut up and drive.” She slumped back into the seat and closed her eyes.

She didn’t need guilt and shame laid on her by a taxi driver. She felt it enough already. She must have looked a sight, wearing a large pink tulle dress with makeup smeared all over her face and her hair sticking out in various directions from the massive amounts of hairspray she’d had to use yesterday for the wedding.

When she got home, Jade threw her bag and heels down on the floor and went straight to the bathroom, stripping the dress and corset off on the way and leaving them on the floor in the hallway. She turned on the shower but had to wait a few minutes for the ancient system to heat the water before she could get in. She shampooed her hair three times to get all the product out before she scrubbed her face with exfoliant and finally started to feel like herself again.

Once she was dry and dressed in an old pair of sweats, she picked up the dress from the floor and hung it in the closet alongside the bridesmaid dresses she’d worn for other weddings. Slamming the closet door a little harder than was necessary, she stomped into the kitchen and pulled a large tub of ice cream out of the freezer. Accidently banging her wrist on the broken drawer next to the sink, she took a spoon off the drying rack and sat down in front of the TV. A spring in the couch cushion was sticking into her thigh, and she sighed loudly. She wished she could afford to buy new furniture and not have to put up with flea market or yard sale cast-offs.

A part of her felt guilty for eating ice cream at eight in the morning, but a bigger part of her didn’t care—and, besides, she didn’t have much other food in the house. After she’d eaten about a quarter of the tub, her restraint came back. She forced herself to put it back in the freezer before she finished the whole thing. It had happened before.

She picked up yesterday’s newspaper, which was still sitting on the coffee table, unread. The headline caught her eye.

Marg Finlay dies at age 72.

She scanned the article. It seemed the famous artist had died of lung cancer. Her seven-figure estate was left to her daughter and grandson, who was the son of Aaron Malik, the actor. As if that family needed more money.

She began to flick through the pages and decided to have a look at the classifieds, just for a laugh. She often enjoyed reading the messages people wrote and thought it might cheer her up to know she wasn’t the most lonely, desperate person in Los Angeles.

She chuckled her way down the columns of singles ads but stopped when one caught her attention.

Wife wanted. Write to Drew.

There was a post office box address supplied. Was this guy for real? She stared at the ad, wondering if it was meant to be a joke. Was that what our society had come to…advertising for a wife? What about courting and romance and falling in love over long walks under the moonlight? Who did this
Drew
think he was, anyway? He was probably in his fifties, balding and overweight, with too much money for his own good. He probably wanted a trophy wife who cooked, cleaned, and sucked his cock like a Hoover. What an ass.

Jade felt heat rise in her cheeks as her blood boiled. He was making light of something she was desperate for, something she dreamed every night of finding. Her fury continued to build until she decided to write him a letter and give him a piece of her mind.

She pulled out her notepad, found a pen under one of the cushions of the couch, and started to write. Onto the paper poured every thought, every injustice from her past, every idea about what love and marriage meant to her, and when it was done, she read through it to make sure she hadn’t missed anything important.

Satisfied, she sealed it in an envelope and dug around in her purse for a stamp. She wanted to make sure she sent it before losing her nerve.

She ran out of her apartment to the mailbox down the street and dropped it in, relishing the clanking sound the slot made when it closed. She wondered if the mysterious Drew would contact her back. Probably not. He’d read her letter, throw it in the trash, and look for a bimbo with fake tits and a bubblegum name ending in an I. (What was so wrong with ending names with Y or IE—like they were meant to, anyway?) At least it made her feel better to have written it.

Chapter Two

You’ve Got Mail

M
ONDAY
M
ORNING
was no different than any other. Drew didn’t get the Monday morning blues that the rest of the population lived with; he didn’t have to get up and do anything. There was no difference between Monday and Thursday, or even Saturday. Day after day of the same thing.

He wondered if that was why people went to work: to entertain themselves with something, to have something to break up the week. Was work a way to gain more enjoyment from their time off—a “value what you don’t have” kind of thing? Drew had nothing but spare time. Day after day of hours to fill.

He was lying in bed, staring at his bedroom ceiling and pondering his life, or lack thereof, when his phone beeped. He reached onto his nightstand for the phone and read a text message from Sam.