"Where is your heart, Landon?"
Everything tenses at that question. Because, fuck, I've spent forever running. And now I'm going home, no less sure than when I left. Still have no house to call a home, no real job, no real woman. Everything is like Blackjack. Just a house of fucking cards.
I've never felt shame before, at not having my shit together ... but when Claire asks, for some reason I want to show her that I am not such a screw up.
"If my father gives me the business, I'll pour my heart into The King's Diamond."
"So you'd move to England?" she asks, taking a sip of the champagne. The plane has stabilized in the air, and she and I both rest back in our own seats.
"I hadn't thought of that," I admit. "I don't really want to leave Vegas. My life is there."
"I get it. I never thought I'd still be there. I mean, it's where I grew up and I always wanted to leave ... but now? I don't know. It feels like home."
"England is so different from Las Vegas."
"I know." A serene smile passes over Claire's face, and the flight attendant refills our drinks.
"What do you know of England?" I ask, lagging. "You've never even left Nevada."
"Don't laugh, but … when I was a girl, I was obsessed. You know the A&E version of Pride & Prejudice? Well, I had the whole thing memorized. When my friends were in love with Justin Bieber, I was head over heels in love with Colin Firth. So I know that the estates and countryside are very different from the desert."
"The food is different, too. And the people. My parents are an anomaly, not stuffy or uptight. But my brother Geoffrey and his girlfriend Fiona? They are ridiculous."
Claire's eyes twinkle. "How long have they been together? That's the sort of thing your fiancée would know."
"Ten years. Geoffrey is just one year my senior. They've dated since high school."
"But never got married? If they had, would that make him the obvious choice for your father's successor?"
"Fiona wants to get married, but Geoffrey is a pansy. He's worse than an ass; he's a twit, which is why I think I actually stand a chance. Geoffrey is so terrible that if I show that I'm capable of even a modicum of decent behavior, I think my father will legitimately consider me."
"Which is where I come in."
"Right. So just shower me with praise, mention my virility and skill. Tell everyone I am investing in real estate, and never hint at the fact I spent five years mucking about."
"You call it mucking, I call it fucking."
"Ha," I snort. "Claire, that wit is exactly the sort of humor Englishmen love. Keep it up." As our glasses are filled for the third time, I toast Claire again.
"What is that one for?" she asks.
"For doing this. For putting up with me." My lips curl into a smile as I realize I am actually genuinely happy to be bringing Claire home. She looks gorgeous in this posh outfit, holding her flute of champagne. Everything about her drips perfection, and I wouldn't believe she had a blemish if someone swore she did.
"I want the money," she says bluntly. "I'll put up with anything."
"Right." I finish the martini in one fell swoop. Fuck me. My head needs to stay on bloody straight. This isn't personal for Claire. She's never once hinted that it is. It's all business for her. And I need to keep it that way for me too.
But as we recline our seats, settling in for the long flight, I can't help but look at Claire and think that what I really want is her.
Chapter Twelve
Claire
I fall asleep for most of the flight, and wake only as Landon gently nudges my arm.
"We're here, love," he says, tucking a piece of my hair off my face.
That gets me sitting up straight.
"Love?"
He laughs. "I was trying it on for size. You know, to make this believable. We need pet names."
"And mine is Love?"
"Right. It rolls off the tongue. You can call me anything you like. However, we should think on it as we walk. The rest of the plane has already disembarked."
I unbuckle and look around. "You let me sleep while everyone walked past me?" I swat his arm. "Was I drooling?"
"You looked perfect."
I eye Landon cautiously. He's being ridiculously nice. Which, actually, he's been pretty generous with me the entire time we've been hanging out. And by hanging out I mean planning on conning his loved ones, and having sex.
I stand and get my purse. "Okay, Babycakes."
"So you're going with Babycakes .then?" he asks, deadpan.
I walk off the plane with him trailing me. "It's better than Toots."
"It's better than a lot of things. That doesn't mean you should consider calling me Fuck-machine."
I laugh, swatting his arm as he reaches for my hand again. We walk into the crowded airport. The Las Vegas airport suddenly seems minuscule, compared to this place. People from everywhere on the globe cross our path. Dialects and languages circle around us, and my face brightens as I realize that I really did it. I travelled to another country.
Looking down, I see Landon's hand holding mine.
"You know you don't have to hold my hand until we get to your parents house," I tell him, as our fingers lace together effortlessly.
"Do you mind? I want to be in the habit of it, so it seems natural."
"I don't mind. We're in England-this is your turf, your rules. Your wish is my command."
"Okay, then." He stops in the middle of the airport terminal.
Hundreds of people swarm around us. Huge windows are on either side of us, and planes are landing and taking off. It's the place people go to leave. The airport is where stories end, the place stories begin.
The place where Landon is kneeling down on one knee.
Ohmigosh. I silently will him to stand. He could just slip a ring on my finger without a show ... yet here he is, pulling out a black box, holding my hand, looking into my eyes.
"Claire, the moment we waltzed, arm in arm, I knew you and I were destined for greatness. You literally glided into my life, and you are the only person I want to have this crazy adventure with."
"You don't have to do this," I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. People have stopped walking; they're watching, cameras poised at their faces as literal strangers begin documenting this proposal. My face is hot, my chest pounds. This is so not happening.
"Claire, I have to do this. Right now. Before another moment passes us by. Will you make me the happiest bloke in the world and be my bride?"
My eyes are basically falling off my face-and not because that diamond ring is beyond enormous, but because Landon looks so ridiculously handsome, so absolutely out of my league. He's in a tie and collared shirt, a suit coat and nice slacks; he has on cufflinks for God's sake. No one would believe we were together.
But then I look down at myself, with my high heels and manicured hands. My gorgeous clothing, and my three-thousand-dollar purse.
We fit. We match.
"Say yes," he says, holding the solitaire flanked with two emeralds.
"Yes," I say breathlessly.
"She said yes!" someone in the crowd calls, and everyone is clapping, calling out congratulations, and hollering.
I blink back tears, tears that make zero sense. This isn't a real proposal. Landon and I aren't actually in love.
Still, Landon slides the ring on my finger and stands, pulling me into a hug, and then a kiss as natural as our hands lacing together.
He picks me up off the ground and twirls me in a circle, grinning like a lovesick fool.
Then he sets me back down, and the crowd keeps moving-because everyone in this airport has a place to be. He cups my face in his hands and says, "For the record, you are a beautiful fake fiancée."
"You aren't so bad yourself." I kiss him again, because I want to. Because this fake proposal took my breath away. I knew he'd give me a ring at some point, but I didn't expect it to make me weak in the knees.
I can't let my guard down, though. Landon sees this as a job, and so do I. I'm not in the business of making myself look like a fool.
Right now, I'm in the business of making two hundred and fifty thousand bucks in one week's time.
He wants this to look as real as possible? I can give him that. I can give him exactly what he wants.
There are worse things than pretending to be in love.
Landon
I haven't been to the family estate in nine months. I came last Christmas for two days, before flying to Bali for a week. Mum kept wiping her eyes the whole time, giving me a royal guilt trip for not being there longer, doing more. I shouldn't have come at all, because being there only proved to them what I'm not.
No one wants to think about what I actually am.
Least of all me.
"So your mother is Helen and your father is Arthur. Tell me something else I should know," Claire says, tucking her hair behind her ear. She holds her phone in her lap, and is texting as we travel the one-hour drive to Hertfordshire. I have no bloody clue who she's speaking with ... and I have this strange curiosity to know.