Dirty Little Midlife Mess: A Fake Relationship Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 2) Read online

  No attraction. No dating. No sex. Just work.

  I don’t want to get involved with anyone. I can’t get involved with anyone, because I know how it’ll end. With me chasing after her like a lost puppy and her laughing in my face when she finds out how little I have to my name—and how much less I’ll have in eighteen months.

  It happened with Alina, and I won’t let it happen again.

  My ex-fiancée was supposed to be the one. We met after college, when I had stars in my eyes, a clever business idea, and investors at my back. I was going to build a business. It was going to be great.

  Then it wasn’t.

  She left, and I floundered.

  No, I’m not dating anyone. I’m not getting close to anyone who can make me feel that way again. Simone’s already mentioned the fact that she’s broke. She’ll see my parents’ house, she’ll see my uncle flashing his cash around, and she’ll think I can provide for her.

  Would she still be as sassy as she is now? Would she still treat me like she thinks nothing of me? Or would she get dollar signs in her eyes until she found out the truth about me?

  I know the answer to that already.

  That’s why I can’t get close to her. This has to remain a simple exchange of services. The café lease for a week as my maid.

  No strings. No emotions. No sex.

  Simone laughs at something one of the twins says, then glances over her shoulder at me. “I don’t know, Dor. I think Wes enjoys cultivating an air of mystery. That’s why he’s perfected the sexy scowl.”

  I scowl harder, which only makes the women laugh. Thankfully, Grant chooses that moment to walk out of the studio at the back of the hotel. With his arm slung over Fiona’s shoulders, he stares down at her flushed cheeks, her shining eyes. She leans her head on Grant’s shoulder, a smile playing over her lips.

  I don’t know if a woman has ever looked at me like that and really seen me. The real me. Not the man trying to run a new business. Not the man who’s supposed to inherit a chunk of money from his parents. I’ve never had someone look me in the eyes and smile because they were beside me.

  Standing up out of the chair, I jerk my chin at Grant. “Hey. You got a minute?”

  “What’s up?”

  “The café roof caved in,” Simone interjects.

  “What?” Fiona freezes, staring at her friend, then at me.

  I shrug. “It’s fixable.” I glance at Simone. “See you on Friday?”

  Her face turns a lovely shade of red. Fiona takes a step forward, frowning. “What’s happening Friday?”

  “Oh, we’re just meeting up to talk about work.” Simone waves me off. “I’ll see you guys back at the café.”

  I hold her gaze for a moment, long enough to see her eyes widen slightly as if to say, Don’t tell them. Interesting. She never told anyone how she got me to agree to the café lease. Embarrassed, ashamed, or considerate? I’m not sure.

  I walk out the door with Fiona and Grant, feeling Simone’s gaze on my back.

  After Grant and I take a look at the roof and he promises to get a few specialized contractors to prepare quotes for the repair, I find myself in front of a plain brown door just beside the café. My keys jingle in my hand as I move to unlock the door, my heart thundering so hard I can barely think.

  A musty smell greets me, hiding a familiar scent of lemon and verbena. My mother’s imprint is all over this place, even the creaky stairs leading up to her sanctuary. I open the interior door and pause, casting an eye over the dim interior. This one room occupies the front of the building, with a view to the back showing off the large hole in the roof below.

  Old, comfortable sofas are arranged around a coffee table. A small kitchenette still has a million and one boxes of my mother’s favorite teas beside an electric kettle, an open shelf holding an eclectic collection of mugs—her favorite was the one shaped like a cow complete with legs and udder sticking out the side—a small space for a fridge, and a sink. One entire wall of the small room is dedicated to books, thousands of them.

  Mom used to come here when she needed to get away. She and Dorothy hosted a book club together for years, back before the feud with Agnes started. The floorboards creak as I walk toward the bookshelves, choosing a title from the vast array. A romance novel—Mom’s favorite.

  My eyes bug as I open a page at random and land on a scene that I did not expect my mother to be reading. There’s…touching and…throbbing and…thrusting and—

  I slam the book shut. I don’t need to be reading that while I think about my mother. My eyes drift to the bookcase, to the thousands of books before me, and I wonder what my mother and her book club really talked about.

  Nope. Not going to think about that.

  The throw blanket on the edge of the sofa feels soft beneath my fingertips as memories flood my mind. Mom loved this place—a space that was hers and hers alone. My father had the cabin, and she had this little library. Being in here…it’s hard, but it’s also comforting.

  The Four Cups ladies never asked me about this space when they requested the lease, and I never mentioned it. But now, with contractors coming to fix the roof, I wonder if I should…do something about this place. Use it for something.

  Sighing, I retreat. The lock snicks shut, and I set the thought aside. I’ll deal with that space later. For now, I need to prepare for my uncle’s arrival.

  3

  Simone

  Old boxes that haven’t been opened in years spill their contents on my couch and living room floor. I stand in the middle of the carnage, doing a slow circle, trying to ignore the squeezing of my heart.

  Memories assault me, one after another after another.

  The red gown I wore to a fundraiser, bought at the last minute when my ex-husband sprang the event on me the same day. He then ignored me the entire evening. The black, square-neck gown I’d wear to his business events when I was expected to play the dutiful wife. The sequined silver gown was a New Year’s dress, one I wore while I cried at midnight because I was half-drunk and my ex was nowhere to be seen.

  Yeah, memories. They were better stuffed in old boxes.

  Nate still lives in L.A., and I would have stayed too if Fiona and I hadn’t found Heart’s Cove last summer. She fell in love, and I decided to tag along. I sold my house and moved up here in the hopes of giving my budget some breathing room, only to sink all that cash into Four Cups and end up right where I started: flat broke.

  I’m clever like that.

  Now I’m trying to sort through all my old junk and let go—for real this time. No more clinging to the past. No more meeting up with Nate when I feel like falling back to something familiar. No more looking at these gowns and accessories and thinking about the lifestyle I willingly gave up.

  I’ve been divorced eight years. It’s time to get rid of all this stuff. I’m sick of carting it around everywhere with me, a literal weight dragging me down. I don’t have Nate’s big mansion to store these clothes in, with all the walk-in closets and personal stylists. I don’t have his credit card to replenish my outfits when the gaping void in my heart screamed at me to fill it with something, anything.

  Moving to Heart’s Cove has been a big change for me. I sold the house that was left to me in the divorce—the first home we bought as a married couple. I’ve committed to my online business, and I’ve invested in Four Cups. I’m here to stay.

  That means it’s time to get rid of my old life once and for all.

  My new apartment—well, new to me—is small, but comfortable. I believe real estate agents refer to these types of places as “cozy.” I live above the local hardware store in a studio apartment with a kitchen the size of a postage stamp. The floors are covered in worn brown carpet everywhere except the kitchen and bathroom, where linoleum reigns supreme. The ceilings are sprayed with popcorn and the walls probably used to be white at some point in the very distant past. Now they’re covered in canvasses I’ve painted in my various amateur art classes at the ho
tel, and every horizontal surface has at least one candle on it. Before hauling these boxes out of storage, I lit my favorite candle—a limited-edition gingerbread scent—in the hopes it would help calm me while I sort through all my old clothes.

  This place is home, at least for now. Sure, sometimes I miss my house. That place was full of memories too. You don’t spend eleven years as someone’s wife without a few good memories to make walking away just a little bit harder.

  Planting my hands on my hips, I push thoughts of the past down and take a deep breath. I met up with my ex-husband last time I was in L.A., before selling the house and moving up here. It was the last time I’ll ever do that. I mean it this time. I’m not giving Nate any more of my time.

  Now I just need to get rid of all the remnants of our marriage. The stuff. The presents, the jewelry, the clothes—all the things Nate bought me when I thought presents meant he loved me.

  My hands tremble as I grab my knife and reach for the last box. Smaller than the others, I know exactly what’s inside. Jewelry and a bag.

  No, not just a bag. A Hermès Birkin bag in paradise blue. My second anniversary present from my ex-husband, because he said the color reminded him of my eyes. This thing is worth more than twelve grand, and I remember fawning over it like it was sentient and would fix the early cracks in my marriage.

  It didn’t.

  I haven’t been able to get rid of it. I’ve worn it exactly four times, every time completely terrified of damaging it, losing it, or having it stolen. After the divorce, when the proceedings drained my savings and my copywriting and online marketing business wasn’t yet making a livable wage, I considered selling it. I considered it many, many times. Twelve grand goes a long way when you’re broke. Every time I got sick of eating beans and rice for the tenth week in a row, I’d pull the bag out, run my fingers over it, feel my heart splinter and crack, and stuff it back into its protective plastic bag to dump it at the back of my closet again. I’ve lugged it around with me for eight years since the divorce, never looking too closely at it, never being able to get rid of it.

  Well, I’m looking at it now, and it’s beautiful.

  I still remember what Nate said when I told him it was too much. You deserve the best, Simone. I want you to wear that bag and remember that you’re my wife, and you can have everything you want.

  At the time, I thought it was romantic. I thought he bought me things because he loved me.

  I was an idiot.

  The gifts had nothing to do with me. He bought me things because it made him feel like a big man. Because he could parade me around to all his rich friends, dress me up in designer labels, and show them just how successful he’d become. Look, my wife’s outfit is worth more than you make in six months. Aren’t I great?

  The blue leather feels soft under my fingers. It smells exactly how I remembered. The buckles and clasps still gleam and the lining is unmarred. This bag is beautiful. My heart squeezes into a painful rock in my chest.

  Still, after all these years, it’s hard to get rid of it. Does that make me shallow?

  Probably.

  It’s not just the fact that this is a designer bag. Nate gave it to me when I thought our marriage would last forever. When I was in love with him and blinded by the lifestyle.

  Don’t get me wrong—I liked the clothes and bags and jewelry. I liked the first-class flights. I liked the restaurants and cars. I never turned my nose up at all the luxuries I’d never had access to before I married Nate. Being rich didn’t make me happy, but it sure did make me comfortable. Luxuries are nice, and I enjoyed every minute of them.

  In the end, though, the money wasn’t enough. Never again will I sell myself to be someone else’s wife. Never again will I go through hell trying to make another man’s family think I’m an appropriate match. It’s not worth it. Not even a little bit. You could buy me a thousand Birkin bags, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

  Having my own online business, investing in the café with my friends, living in a tiny apartment that would be too small for a broke student—that’s what makes my self-worth soar higher than it ever did when all I was was someone’s wife.

  The buzzer makes me jump. Gingerly, I place the bag down and hop over a stack of clothing to get to the intercom.

  “It’s me,” a young voice says. Clancy—Fiona’s kid. Fiona’s new boyfriend, Grant, didn’t know he had a daughter until a few months ago when Clancy showed up on his doorstep. Now Clancy’s here permanently, terrorizing the town with her best friend Allie, Candice’s daughter. The two haven’t left each other’s side since Clancy came back to live in Heart’s Cove at the start of the school year.

  “Come on up.” I buzz her in, then flick the lock on the door and crack it open.

  Her steps are deafening as she stomps her way up the steps, breathing heavily, then crashes through the door with all the grace of a fifteen-year-old who just went through a growth spurt. “Hey.”

  I look her over, arching a brow. “You want something to drink? You’re looking a little parched.”

  Clancy tucks a strand of golden-blond hair behind her ear and nods, dropping her backpack on the floor next to the door. She sinks into a chair and looks around the room. “Are you packing for something?” She grabs one of the scented candles on the table and sniffs it, then looks at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Just sorting through old stuff.” And finally letting go of my old self.

  “Oh.” She reaches over to the nearest box, plucking my twelve-thousand-dollar bag from it and sliding it over her shoulder.

  I resist the urge to lunge at her and rip it away. It’s just a bag. She can touch it. Just a bag. Just a bag. If I keep reminding myself, it’ll sink in, right?

  Clancy frowns, looking at the collection of evening gowns laid out in their garment bags. “Why do you need all these fancy clothes?” Her eyes flick to mine, intelligence sparking in them. “You’ve been acting weird. This has to do with Wesley, doesn’t it? I saw you leaving his cabin driveway the other day when I got home from school.”

  Damn it. I was hoping I could get through the week with no one even noticing I was at his place.

  I ignore her, fetching a glass of water. I weave my way back through the room, around the clothes and boxes, and extend the glass to Clancy.

  “What’s going on? Why wouldn’t you tell Fiona?” Clancy asks, running her finger along the edge of the bag. She arches a brow, finally reaching for the glass of water.

  “Hush. Nothing’s going on. This has nothing to do with Wes. I’m just getting rid of old stuff before I move to a more permanent place.”

  “Wes. You called him Wes, not Wesley. You guys are dating!” She takes a sip of water, ice cubes clinking against the edge of the glass as Clancy meets my eyes over the rim. “I’ll tell Fiona.”

  I freeze. “We are not dating. Stop trying to blackmail me.”

  “So why were you at his house?” Mischief gleams in her eyes. Looks like the Heart’s Cove rumor mill has another willing participant.

  Crossing my arms, I cock a hip to the side. “What do you want, Clancy? You’re threatening me with this false gossip about me and Wes to get something, so just spill it.”

  Clancy’s eyes gleam, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Evil, evil girl. She places the glass down and looks at the bag on her shoulder.

  I grunt. “You can’t have the bag.”

  Clancy’s shoulders drop and she slides the Birkin off her shoulder, extending it toward me. “Fine.” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, and I can hear the gears in her mind gnashing from across the room. Finally, the teen speaks. “There’s a party next weekend.”

  I throw my palm up. “Absolutely not.”

  “I didn’t even tell you what the party was for!”

  “After what happened at your birthday, I won’t be complicit in anything party-related.”

  A few months ago, when Clancy first arrived in Heart’s Cove, her dad and Fiona threw her a birt
hday party. Clancy and Allie ended up sneaking away with a few bottles of alcohol to have a party of their own, and Grant spent the night in the hospital next to Clancy. It was terrible.

  I shake my head. “Whatever you’re going to ask me, I’m not interested. You can tell Fiona that I’m packing for a trip to the moon with Wes for all I care. I won’t be encouraging you to go to any parties.”

  Clancy slumps in her chair, letting out a sigh so long I’m afraid she’ll pass out from lack of oxygen. Finally, she flicks her eyes up to mine. “There’s a boy.”

  I slide into a chair across from her, arching a brow. “And this boy is going to the party?”

  Clancy nods. “He’s in my math class.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Alec.”

  Chewing my lip, I try to find the right words to say what I want to say. I’m not used to talking to teenagers, especially not ones who have been through as much as Clancy. “Did he ask you to go to the party with him?”

  Clancy nods. “He’s never spoken to me before.” Another long sigh. A strand of blond hair flutters toward her face. “The party is at his friend’s house a half hour away, and Allie and I don’t have driver’s licenses. We just need a ride over. We’ll find our own way back.”

  Uh-huh. Right.

  I reach over to put my hand over hers. “You know I can’t encourage you to go to a party, Clancy. Your dad would rip my head off, and I won’t lie to Fiona.”

  “I know.” She tugs at the toggles on her hoodie, then slumps in her chair. “I wasn’t even going to drink at the party. I just wanted to go for a few hours. Alec…” She sighs.

  “Have you asked your parents?”

  Clancy grumbles. “They said no.”

  “Well, there’s your answer.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Life’s not fair.”

  Clancy groans. She looks at all my old clothes strewn around the place. “So why are you going through all your stuff? Why were you at Wesley’s house?”

  “That’s none of your business, kiddo. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you’ll use any information I give you as blackmail to get me to bring you to this party of yours.”