Fake Bride Wanted Read online

  Julian grins.

  Did I imagine it, or did he look right at me when he said the word “map”?

  “First, I want to go around the table and introduce ourselves. As you can see, there are a few new team members among us since the last time we gathered here in Amsterdam.”

  A few of the executives around the table smile in my direction, and I lift my hand in a small wave.

  Julian continues, “If you could, tell us one new thing about your personal life. I don’t want to hear about the success of your latest ad campaign; I want to hear about whether little Sofia,” (here, he looks directly at the woman to his right) “has lost her first tooth, and whether the tooth fairy came or not.”

  The woman on Julian’s right laughs and blushes. She looks tickled pink as she begins to talk in a thick Italian accent.

  “Grazie, Julian. It is wonderful to be here with you all. I’m Martina, head of marketing in Rome. My daughter Sofia is now five years old. She lost her first tooth last month, in April.”

  “How did it fall out?” someone asks.

  “A cucumber!” Martina chuckles. “She bit into a cucumber! And plunk…there it was!”

  “Did the tooth fairy come?” another executive asks.

  “She arrived right on time,” Martina says. “And she gave Sofia shares of Vermaak stock. Much more valuable than coins!”

  There’s laughter all around, and I join in. Martina is beaming as she settles back in her chair, giving the floor to the next person.

  I feel my shoulders relax as we go around the table. I manage to say something somewhat interesting about myself—a sentence about a concert I recently took my mother to—though my personal life is definitely not vibrant at the moment. After ten short minutes, the mood for the meeting is set; there’s a friendly buzz traveling around the room.

  Conversation turns to business. I’m surprised at how much leeway Julian gives his team. Instead of dominating the discussion, he graciously facilitates.

  One by one, the executives bring up ideas for the rebranding strategy. I listen to the ideas attentively and jot down some notes.

  But I can’t get away with staying quiet for long. Soon, Julian motions to me, across the table. “How about you, Shelby? What do you think?”

  I feel nervous. I know my jangled nerves have more to do with the fact that I can feel Julian’s eye on me than the fact that I’m speaking to a group of executives. After all, I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am in my career if public speaking frazzled me.

  I’ve learned to keep my cool in high-pressure situations. But, apparently, I haven’t learned to handle the way it feels to be an adult, sitting across from my teenage crush.

  “I…well, yes. I like Martina’s idea about—” I bend my head down over my notes and feel my hair fall over my face. I can’t look at Julian if I want to say anything that makes sense at all. “Um…where was it? Yes, using athletes. In the U.S., the numbers clearly show that our loyal customers are sports-oriented. I think that, going forward, we…um…need to play that up. This is a beer that elite athletes drink. Competitors. Winners.”

  My words don’t flow elegantly, but I manage to hack my way through a few more statements and make my point. Some of the other execs even seem excited about what I’ve said.

  I feel Julian’s eyes on me the entire time, and I sense that his gaze lingers long after I’ve finished speaking. I stay stooped over my notebook, pretending to write notes as someone else starts to speak.

  My heart is racing.

  What is it like for him to see me, after all these years? Is this as emotional for him as it is for me?

  What is he thinking?

  Chapter 3

  Julian

  Shelby.

  Shelby Bright.

  Here, in Amsterdam. In a Vermaak meeting room!

  She’s grown up.

  I try not to stare at her, but I can’t help it. I simply can’t believe how much she’s changed. The last time I saw her, I was just a kid of seventeen, and she was…what? Fifteen? Something like that.

  We used to spend almost every waking hour together, back in our boarding school days. Some people thought it was strange that my closest friend was a girl, but I didn’t think so. Shelby was brilliant, after all. She could beat me at tennis, introduce me to a great new author, and then win a debate about philosophy—all before lunch. Compared to Shelby, all of the other kids in my school were a bore.

  What in the world is she doing here?

  I’m not complaining. My company is lucky to have her.

  I’m only half-listening to Martina speak, but I’m aware enough to know that she’s paused.

  “Yes,” I say, following up on her last comment, which I barely caught. “But we’ve always been a beer for the free-thinker. We’re a cut above the rest; we stand out. We don’t blend in. I’m afraid if we push team sports like soccer or football in America, we’ll blur our message.”

  “What about playing up sports that emphasize independence?” Shelby asks.

  For once, she glances up at me. I’ve been waiting to see her face again. There it is.

  Wow, she’s really grown into a beautiful woman. Her large, brown eyes are surrounded by a chestnut fringe of lashes. She has high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Perfect, rose-colored lips. I see a pink blush bleed into her cheeks, and in an instant, her face is back down and her wavy brown hair falls over it like a curtain.

  She goes silent, but Enrique—our Spain rep—has picked up on her idea and is rolling with it. “Shelby’s right. How about rock climbing? Skiing?”

  “Good, good,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Keep ’em coming.”

  Max jumps up to the white board and starts making a list.

  “Kayaking,” someone shouts.

  “Tennis.”

  “Mountain biking.”

  “Great!” I say. “I think we’re on to something. But how can we retain the sophisticated element of our brand if we’re playing up rugged athletics?”

  “That could be the twist,” Martina says, clapping her hands. “A beverage for the sophisticated athlete! Elite in all areas of life. We’d show a guy in a suit and tie first, then have him tearing up some extreme sport, and close the ad with him cooling down with a refreshing Vermaak beer. Very James Bond-esque.”

  “Excellent,” I say. It is. I like it.

  Max starts writing down everything that the room throws at him—imagery, catchphrases, marketing strategies, celebrity endorsements, and so on.

  I let my team do what they do best. As the ideas start flowing, I keep a close eye on Shelby. She’s writing things down studiously, and saying little. She was always like that—on the quiet side when in a group. It’s one-on-one situations that Shelby really shines in, if I remember correctly.

  What are the chances that she’d show up here, now?

  I can’t help but feel like she’s here for a reason.

  Yesterday, I was in my car driving home from The Hague, practically praying for a girl to take with me to the bank next week. And now, the very next day, Shelby Bright shows up in Amsterdam.

  Is the universe trying to tell me something? Does the universe care about the Meijer Ruby? That’s the kind of thing Shelby and I used to debate about, back in the day. So typically teenage of us, discussing fate and karma.

  I smile, thinking about the way we used to obsess over philosophy. Suddenly, I’m a million miles away.

  I’m back in France at our boarding school. I’m seventeen, lying with my stomach pressed against the warm tennis court concrete. Shelby is at my side. Yellow leaves fall like confetti all around us. We’re taking turns reading, delighting in finding connections between ourselves and the characters in the story.

  “Look,” Shelby says, pointing to a line she’s just read. “That’s like you. You like too many things, trying to fit a collection of a million stars in the palm of your hand.”

  “You think I like too many things?” I ask.

  “You like
Angela. You said it last week. And then, you asked Catarina to the dance.”

  “Catarina wanted to go with me.”

  “So what? Lots of girls want to go with you. What does that matter? You can’t like Angela and Catarina.” She looks hurt. “You should like one thing, and decide on it.”

  I sense there’s more to her upset look than she’s letting on.

  “What’s this really about?” I ask.

  She looks away from me.

  “Is this about the dance? Did you want me to invite…you?”

  “No!” She stands up and grabs the book.

  “Wait!” I say. She’s already running across the courts. We don’t have plans to meet again for another week, and I already miss her more than I ever expected to.

  After that, I didn’t talk about other girls with Shelby. I was afraid she’d get upset again. A few months later, her mom’s job in Paris ended, and Shelby moved back to the U.S.

  We tried to stay in touch. I remember writing long letters to her, and getting a fair few in return. But then, I started college. She had her own life, back in the States. We lost touch.

  But now, after all these years…she’s back.

  It’s an answer to my prayer. Maybe Shelby could help me gain ownership of the ring. I could tell her about the stipulations in the will and ask for her help.

  Would she say yes?

  The brainstorming session around me starts to simmer down, and I sense that my team is running out of ideas. The meeting is coming to an organic end. I clear my throat and walk to the board. With a marker, I divvy our ideas up into sections.

  “Martina, I want you on our winter themes. Skiing, mountaineering, ice climbing. Cover every angle—endorsements, events, niche targeting.” I assign a few other executives to her team, and then move on to the next section of the board.

  Once I’ve worked my way through all of the ideas in this way, I still haven’t assigned anything to Shelby. Finally, I point to her.

  “Shelby, I want you to be our big-picture woman. You’re going to tie everything together—make it cohesive. Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to run your final campaigns by Shelby Bright. This was her idea. We need one person to hold the vision, so it stays cohesive. Shelby, you up for that?”

  She looks up at me, and then around the room. At first, she looks a little bit frightened. But then, her eyes become steely with determination.

  “Yes,” she says crisply, with authority. That’s my girl.

  “Good,” I say. I close up the folder in front of me and tuck it into my bag.

  My actions have a domino-like effect around the table. Everyone starts packing up. Shelby stands up and shoulders her stylish purse. A few of the other execs crowd around her; I know they’ll invite her out on the town tonight. Enrique looks especially interested, and I feel a bit smug thinking that I already beat him to the punch.

  Not so fast, buddy.

  I watch Shelby smile at her coworkers and make small talk, but ultimately decline their offers. After a few moments, she’s heading out of the meeting room.

  I know I have to catch her before she leaves the grounds and hops into a cab, but I don’t want to make my pursuit too obvious to my employees. I let her get a head start.

  After five minutes, I excuse myself from the room and head off after Shelby. I can see her crossing the courtyard. As she nears the big blue letters that greet visitors to the brewery, I catch her.

  “Hey,” I say. “Nice job in there.”

  “Oh…really?” She seems surprised by my comment. “I thought I sounded too hesitant. Kind of shy. I haven’t felt like that in a long time; I thought I was over it.”

  “You’re not shy anymore?”

  “I had to learn to speak up for myself. But back there—” she points towards the building we just came from. “Whew! I was a mess. You—Julian—you were the one who did a nice job. Not that I have to tell you that. You’re a true leader! Your team really respects you.”

  “I’m glad you think so. That means a lot to me.”

  For a moment, we just stand there, under the striped shadows of the towering letters, staring at each other. I’m remembering more now—how she used to look at me, just like this. How we used to laugh together so hard that my sides would hurt. The way she would look over my English essays, even though she was two years younger than me, and help me correct my mistakes. She never corrected them for me. That wasn’t Shelby’s style.

  “I have lacrosse after school. Could you just put the edits in for me?”

  “How will you learn, then, Julian?”

  “I’ll read all of your edits. It’ll soak in.”

  “No, it won’t. I can help you, but you have to do it yourself.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m not going to cheat, Julian.”

  “It’s not cheating. Plus, no one will know.”

  “I’ll know. You’ll know. That’s not no one.”

  A cab rolls to a stop before us, apparently thinking that we’re waiting. We are standing on the curb. I see Shelby look at it.

  She’s thinking about getting in; I can tell. “Hey, how about drinks?” I say. “Are you still up for it?”

  She smiles. “Yeah. I could use a glass of wine.”

  “Great. Don’t get in that cab. Wait here and I’ll pick you up. My car’s in the parking garage across the way. I don’t want you to have to walk; you must be exhausted.”

  Shelby waves the cab away and I motion to a bench nearby. “Just take a seat and relax, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay. Are you sure? I don’t mind walking.”

  “I’m sure.” I wait for her to head towards the bench and then I spin on my heel and quickly begin crossing the grassy lawn, towards the parking structure.

  As I walk, my mind is racing. Tonight’s the night. I have less than one week before the meeting with the stuffy lawyer and banker; if I’m going to get Shelby on board, I have to start working on her tonight.

  She’ll want to help me, right? It will be fun. We’ll have a few glasses of wine, I’ll bring up the ring and how important it is to my family, and then we’ll start planning. Ironing out the details.

  It’s going to work. It has to!

  But as I enter the parking structure and walk briskly towards my reserved spot, another thought crosses my mind: Shelby never broke the rules when we were in boarding school.

  I flash back to her young, innocent face, looking at me as I beg her to edit my essay for me. “I’m not going to cheat, Julian.”

  Will she think that lying to the lawyer is cheating? Is she still a stickler for the rules? How much has she changed?

  I reach my sports car, slide into the driver’s seat, and start reversing out of my spot. I pull out of the parking structure and drive towards the brewery entrance, towards Shelby.

  I guess I’m about to find out.

  Chapter 4

  Shelby

  “Where are we going?” I ask Julian as he leads me down a nondescript alleyway.

  He’s just driven me though central Amsterdam in his beautiful sports car, and we passed by several high-end sections of town. Glittering, gold lettered signs, valet parking, chic patios, the works. Yet, he kept driving. He parked in a random, beat-up parking lot, grass jutting out at odd angles between the worn tar.

  We’ve just crossed a road and ducked into a narrow back street.

  “Just follow me,” Julian says. “You’re going to love it.”

  “Are you sure? I said I could use a glass of wine, Julian, not some scary schedule-one substances. Where are we?”

  Julian laughs. Apparently, he’s enjoying my confusion. “I know it doesn’t look like the best part of town. But believe me, this place is a hidden gem. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I haven’t seen you for fifteen years!”

  “Hang on…we’re almost there.”

  We are?

  I see a dumpster ahead of us, to my left. On the right, there are a few boarded-up wind
ows. We’re walking around puddles in the pothole-ridden street. I can’t imagine a nice restaurant or bar is anywhere near.

  Julian stops at a faded wooden door. He gives a funny kind of knock, and the door opens up to him. He turns and motions for me to follow.

  I step up a few ancient stone steps, through the door. There’s a beefy man standing to the side as we enter. The hallway is dark and narrow. Julian heads towards a stairwell, and I follow him. I hear the man close the door behind us, and it gets even darker. The stairs are lit by little lights along the edges, but despite the clearly lit path, I feel disoriented by the darkness for a moment.

  But then, after a few more steps, a warm, glowing light starts to filter into the hallway. I hear music—a relaxed electronic beat—and the murmur of voices and soft laughter.

  At the end of the staircase, we step out into a cozy, beautifully decorated room. I feel as though I’m in another world. The walls are a mix of mahogany and lush, blue velvet wall panels. Each intimate table is set with a flickering candle. The plush, tall-backed armchairs look comfortable and inviting. Attractive people lounge in various nooks and crannies around the room, making me feel like I’ve stumbled onto the set for a fashion photoshoot.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  Julian’s leading me towards a table. He laughs. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  I laugh too, and take a seat. The soft chair feels just as comfortable as it looked. I can’t help but emit a long, happy sigh. I might never get up.

  “Long day?” Julian asks, noting my sigh. “Did you fly in yesterday?”

  “Last night,” I say. “I just got in this morning.”

  A waiter appears. “Mr. Meijer! Welcome. Would you like your usual Vermaak?”

  Julian nods. “And a wine list, please.” He gives me a questioning look. “Unless you know what kind you want?”

  The waiter pulls out a menu from his apron and hands it to me. He speaks as I look it over, listing a dozen vineyards and years at a fast pace. It’s too much for my foggy, jet-lagged, Julian-distracted brain.