Page 2 of Never Fake Date the Financier
He cringes.
“I’d be neglecting my brotherly duties if I didn’t tease you at least once.”
It draws a short laugh from him as I down the rest of my drink. “I suppose so.”
I retrieve a pen from my suit pocket, RSVP with a plus one, and select the entrees. My fake girlfriend is a vegetarian, apparently. When I finish, I hand the invitation back to Max.
“Here you go.” I check my messages and find a few texts from my assistant, reminding me of the long list of appointments today.
Max holds it in front of him, his gaze darting back and forth between it and me.
“Thank you,” he says. “And I’m sorry about this whole thing. We had no idea, and once we found out, we weren’t sure how we were going to break it to you.”
“Don’t be,” I say as I pull out my money clip from my suit pocket and set down a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Congrats. I know you and Sariah will be happy together.”
And I mean it. My brother is as good a man as they come. I stand up, and Max follows suit.”Leaving already?”
I’ve given him half an hour—a lifetime in my world. “I have a meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes.”
He pulls me into a hug suddenly, and it catches me off guard. I can’t remember the last time I hugged anyone, let alone my brother. “It was great seeing you again.”
“You too,” I say, awkwardly patting his back before breaking away.
“Mom was so upset about this,” Max says. “She’s going to be ecstatic knowing that you’ve found someone.”
I pause—a sharp pain in my chest. This lie might be a little more complicated than I anticipated, but I can’t think about it now. There are more pressing issues that require my immediate attention. The wedding’s six months out. I have plenty of time.
I’m a few tables away when Max calls my name. I pause, turning around slowly as I see him eyeing the invitation.
He glances at me. “You left her name blank.”
And so is my mind. This isn’t good.
“What’s her name?” Max asks, reaching into his pocket. “I can write it for you.”
“It will be easier if I do it.” The words come out slowly as I take the dozen or so footsteps between us at a glacial pace to buy me some time. But no matter how slowly I walk, nothing comes to mind. I’m usually great on my feet, but nothing is coming to me as I glance around the restaurant, hoping for inspiration.
Bourbon. Branzino. Neapolitan. Jane. Jen. Sally. Sue.
This is the first time I’ve broken a non-workout-induced sweat. The only names I can think of are so generic and obviously fake when combined with surnames that are straight off a listicle titledTop 100 Most Common Surnames in the United States.And nothing I see on tables is helping me unless I want to scrawl out Samantha Sea Bass, Tiramisu Thomas, or Barbara Branzino on the dotted line. Why not throw Betty Spaghetti into the mix while I’m listing love interests in some B-movie mafia flick from the 40s?
I sigh, grabbing the invitation from Max. My fake girlfriend lived and died within the span of a few minutes. Must be a new record. I consider putting down the name of my assistant because it’s the only plausible one that comes to mind. But given that she’s twenty years my senior and married, that won’t go over well.
All I hear is the blood rushing to my head, thrumming incessantly as I hold the tip of the pen over the line. The nib connects, but I can’t bring myself to commit. It’s taking me so long that my brother is looming over me. I can feel his eyes burning the side of my face.
“My head’s killing me,” I mutter, setting the pen down as I rub my temples. “Must have been the bourbon.”
“Gabriella,” a man a few tables over says. My ears perk up as I focus on the voice over the incessant din ringing in my ears. “What… suggest to pair with the…” The conversation fades in and out, but at least I have a first name.
I scrawl Gabriella out slowly on the card, hoping that Max is more focused on me than the conversations around us. But when it comes to the last name, I’m drawing another blank. I nearly write Thorne, but my lie is already spinning out of control. A secret wife? Yeah, that’s the opposite of simple.
“The Barbera sounds delightful. I’ll—” The conversation at the other table continues, and I have my name.
Gabriella Barbera.
I have to admit it has somewhat of a nice ring to it as I hand the card back to my brother. He glances at it. “Gabriella Barbera,” he says, as though feeling out the name. “Italian?”
I’ve fabricated enough today. Keep things simple. I need to remind myself of those words like a mantra. “Somewhere in her family history, I’m sure. We’ve never discussed it.”
