Spotlight: Fake-Ish by Winter Renshaw
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From Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw comes a sizzling romance about two people who fall in love, go their separate ways, and then try to reconnect against all odds.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride—and that’s the way I like it.
I may be anti-marriage, but I’m still pro-romance. Case in point? That sexy curmudgeon I met last year during my cousin’s tropical bachelorette getaway.
That grump was Dorian, the groom’s old college roommate, there for the bachelor party. I couldn’t get enough of his messy brown hair and gorgeous turquoise eyes. We connected on a deep level—emotionally and physically.
But the timing wasn’t right. So we made a pact to reconnect in two years. Now I’m starting a new “job.” It’ll take a lot of work and pays really well—I’m talking seven figures here. All I have to do is pretend to be my boss’s new fiancée…and spend eight weeks with his family on their private island. How hard could it be?
Turns out, a lot harder than I thought. Because the man I’m pretending to love? He’s Dorian’s brother, and now all bets are off…
Excerpt
Copyright 2023 Winter Renshaw
1
One Year Ago
Briar
“You can’t tell me all of these people are having fun.” A turquoise-eyed stranger sporting a five o’clock shadow and messy chocolate brown hair takes the bar stool beside mine. He swirls the amber-hued liquid in his lowball tumbler before pointing around the bar. “They’re all pretending. They have to be.”
Stealing a better glimpse of my new neighbor, I recognize him as the man who mostly kept to himself in the back of the party bus while one of the bride’s college friends shamelessly tried twerking in his face. The way he was looking through her, she might as well have been invisible. As soon as we stepped inside this place, he ordered two fingers of whiskey and disappeared—until now.
“I don’t know.” I scan the dark-and-neon space that surrounds us. He and I are the only ones not singing, dancing, or falling over drunk. “Hate to say it, but I think we’re the wet blankets.”
“There’s a reason we’re an hour into this thing and these people are already trashed. It’s the only way you can have fun at a joint bachelor-bachelorette party.”
A Lil’ John song comes on and behind me, the sash-and-tiara-wearing bride-to-be begins “whoo-hooing” and grinding against her fiancé who is so hammered he can’t stand upright without stumbling backwards. His near fall is broken by one of his big muscled buddies, who swoops in to catch him. A few seconds later, the groom is back with his beloved, pretending to slap her ass to the rhythm of a song about sweat dripping down someone’s balls.
“Glad to see romance isn’t dead,” I say.
The night is young and these people remind me of sheltered church camp kids sampling freedom and adulthood for the first time.
“Twenty bucks says at least one person in our group will be vomiting before midnight,” I say.
“I’ve never understood the whole joint bachelor-bachelorette party thing,” the guy beside me continues, turning away from the spectacle behind us. “They said it’s more cost effective and the more the merrier, but you know damn well the bride and groom don’t trust each other and that’s the real reason.” He takes a generous drink before sliding his empty glass toward the bartender and giving a nod. “How can you marry someone you can’t trust?”
I don’t disagree with any of what he’s saying—I would just never say those things out loud … to a fellow party goer … at the actual party. Everyone here knows about the Vivi and Benson’s colorful relationship saga which is peppered with cheating (on both sides) and more break ups than any of us can count on our fingers.
“Even toxic love is love,” I say. “Just be happy for them. That’s all we have to do.”
“Hard to do that when odds are they won’t make it to their fifth wedding anniversary. It’s like watching a trainwreck about to happen and doing nothing to stop it.”
“It’s not our trainwreck to stop. And you never know, maybe they’ll beat the odds?” I say this knowing damn those odds against them couldn’t be stacked higher. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Dorian.”
“Briar,” I say. “How do you know the groom?”
“We were college roommates a lifetime ago. Syracuse. How do you know the bride?”
“Vivi’s my cousin.” I sip my blackberry mojito, catching a lime seed in the straw. I swallow it like a bitter pill, trying not to make a face.
“So you’re here out of familial obligation.”
“I mean, I’m also in her wedding,” I say. “Just here to show my support like everyone else here.”
The bartender tops off Dorian’s whiskey using a bottle he grabs off the highest shelf.
How this painfully attractive grouch of a man can be drinking expensive liquor at a flashy club in the Caribbean is beyond me. He should be tossing them back, hitting on beautiful women, and living his best life—godawful music be damned.
“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t here?” I ask.
He exhales, contemplating his response. “Probably catching some shitty sleep in a tour bus, making sure the bassist doesn’t try to quit again.”
“You’re in a band?”
“I manage one.”
“So you’d rather be working right now?”
“They do better when I’m there to keep them in line,” he says.
“What band is it?” I ask.
“Phantom Symphony.”
I smack my palm against the bar top. “You manage Phantom Symphony? Are you serious? I have their entire album and their new EP in my iTunes. I was just listening to them on the flight this morning. When I tell you I’m ob-sessed …”
Fishing into my clutch, I pull out my phone to show him, but he waves me off, like he doesn’t need proof.
“You and everyone else,” he says.
Last year Phantom Symphony exploded on the music scene after they released the song Starlight Serenade and it went viral as a sound on every social media platform. It wasn’t long before they were performing on SNL and shortly thereafter, the Grammy’s. Now they’re one of the top ten most streamed bands on the planet. Their upcoming tour was sold out less than a minute after ticket sales went live. They’re not just some band …
“So you’re worried one of the biggest music acts in the entire world is going to throw their career away because you’re not there to micromanage it for a single weekend?”
He cracks the first semblance of a smile for the first time tonight.
“When you put it that way …” he says.
“Right?” I place my hand on his stiff shoulder for a second before releasing it. I’m a hugger, a touchy-feely type, and sometimes I forget not everyone is like that. “Anyway, we’re here. We should be having fun.”
It’d be easy to sit and stew, to bristle at the outdated pop music and spotty cell phone service, or to resent the fact that Vivi and Benson made thirty of their closest friends fly to an ungodly expensive all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic just to take a party bus to a bunch of bars off-property.
It’d also be easy to get hung up on all the other traveling this wedding has required thus far—a joint bridal shower in Chicago, a joint engagement party in Breckenridge, and next month, a weeklong wedding in the Poconos. When it’s all said and done, I’ll have dropped over ten grand on this whole thing, and she’ll never have to do the same for me because I’m never getting married.
But what good would come from being upset about it?
Plus, I’ve never been one to keep score.
“How come you’re not having fun then?” he asks.
“Who said I wasn’t?” I give him some side eye and a raised shoulder. He says nothing, though I can tell he realizes the errors of his assumptive ways. “No one forced you to come here, you know.”
“I didn’t go to anything else,” he says. “I’m just making an appearance because it’s the right thing to do. We’ve been touring, so I’ve missed everything.”
“I’m sure you could’ve gotten away with just going to the wedding.”
Dorian shakes his head.
“These two, with all their planning, didn’t send out their save the dates early enough. I’ll be in Scotland that week kicking off our European tour. It’s not too late for you though,” he says, though I suspect he’s teasing. “There’s still time to tell them you won’t be joining them in the Poconos for seven days and nights of luxury wilderness celebrations.”
“My thousand dollar bridesmaid dress begs to differ.” I take a sip of my drink. “Plus, Vivi would never forgive me.”
“Really?” He cocks his head. “I find that hard to believe given the amount of times she’s forgiven Benji.”
I snort. I’ve never heard anyone call Benson “Benji,” and it makes me think of that scruffy little dog from the movies. Now that I think about it, Benson kind of resembles a scruffy little dog with his sandy hair and his dark shiny eyes and his Golden retriever-level of excitement when it comes to anything sports-related.
It’s kind of perfect.
“We’re here for two more days,” I say. Behind us, the rest of our group dances and laughs and throws their inhibitions in the air via contorted, drunken moves. “If we can’t beat them, maybe we should join them?”
“You first.”
“Okay, not to be annoying, but I have to ask: what’s Connor Dowd like in real life?” I can’t wipe the childlike grin off my face if I try. I still can’t get over that the man sitting beside me knows Phantom Symphony personally, and someday I might regret not asking this question when I had the chance.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t be smiling like that anymore.” He takes a sip. “Hell of a musician though.”
My grin fades just as he predicted.
I don’t ask him to elaborate.
Connor is famous for pulling a fan on stage every night and kissing them in the middle of the instrumental bridge of their song Cosmic Echoes. The fantasy of someday being that fan getting pulled up on stage has comforted me on many a sleepless night, however unrealistic it may be.
“Are you always this negative?” I ask.
“You call it negative. I call it being real.”
“Semantics.” I brush my hair from my face. “Regardless, here you are, this good-looking man in his prime, sitting at a tropical bar drinking expensive alcohol, talking about how you manage one of the most popular bands in the entire world, and all you can do is act like you’d rather be anywhere but here. I mean, I’d get it if you were secretly in love with the bride or something but … wait.”
I lean in, tucking my chin. “Are you secretly in love with Vivi?”
He chokes on his response. “God, no. Not even close.”
I study his face, searching for a sign that he’s lying, but there isn’t a drop of sweat on his forehead and he isn’t blinking or licking his lips or avoiding eye contact.
“Then what’s your deal?” I ask.
“I don’t have a deal,” he says. “There’s just nothing I hate more than weddings and wasted time.”
“Okay, so then you do have a deal: you hate weddings and wasted time.”
“Guess so.”
“It’s just … you don’t hate nuclear bombs or animal testing or career politicians? You hate … weddings? That’s what you hate the most? Out of everything?”
“It’s not that deep.” Dorian swallows a mouthful of whiskey, appearing lost in thought for a second. I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about something—or perhaps someone. Maybe he’s not so much as loathing the fact that he’s here as he is loathing the fact that a certain someone else isn’t here with him.
“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” I ask before quickly tacking on, “Or boyfriend? Partner? Person?”
“Nope. No girlfriend.”
“Have you ever been engaged?” I ask.
“Never.” He doesn’t hesitate. “What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ignore his question and ask another as I try to piece together a picture of why this guy hates weddings more than world hunger.
“Ish,” he says, face winced.
“Ish?” I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve been in relationships that felt a lot like love,” he says. “I was in love … ish.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. He can’t be much older than thirty if he went to college the same time as Benson. That’s a long time to live without experiencing love.
“Don’t be.”
“Who ended it, you or her?” I ask.
“She did.”
“Recently?”
“Time is relative.” He presses his thumb against his tumbler, leaving a fingerprint-shaped smudge on the pristine glass. “What about you? What’s your story? Ever been engaged or any of that bullshit?”
I shake my head. “Not the marrying type.”
His eyes light, as if I’m finally speaking his language.
While I have nothing personal against marriage or those who choose to do so, I find it a slightly antiquated concept—one that holds zero appeal to me. Doesn’t stop me from celebrating others though.
“If I want to be with someone, I will. I don’t need to legally bind myself to them or take last their name to prove my love or commitment,” I say.
He lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“I hope I don’t sound like a pick-me girl,” I say.
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s when a woman acts like she’s not like other women.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks. “Who’d want to be with someone who was like everyone else.”
“Pick-me girls advertise that they’re not like everyone else, but deep down they are—they just act like they’re not because they think it makes them more attractive to men.”
The song changes to the new Katy Perry number, and dance circle has formed around the still-grinding couple who are now full on making out like it’s their junior prom and someone passed around a flask of vodka in the limo before they all got out for pictures.
I’m shocked the DJ hasn’t played a Phantom Symphony song yet, though the majority of their music is better suited for stormy Sundays, self-reflection, rainy walks in Central Park, and wistful daydreams of relationships past.
The next time I catch the bartender’s eye, I order two ice waters and slide one of them to Dorian. Tomorrow’s supposed to be a day at the resort’s private beach, but I have a feeling half of these people are going to be too hungover to enjoy it.
“You’re giving me a hard time about not having fun and now you’re ordering water?” he asks with a huff.
“It’s called pacing myself. Tomorrow’s beach day, and I love beaches. I’ll be damned if I miss it.” Pointing to his water, I say, “Drink up.”
“Who said I was going to the beach?”
“You’re just going to sit in your room, feeling sorry for yourself? Thinking about the girl who broke your heart in the relatively near or distant past?”
He fights a smirk and rolls his eyes. “Do you always say the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“Pretty much.”
“How does that usually go for you? Not having a filter?”
“Most people are more open than you think.” I sip my icy water. “Sometimes all you have to do is ask the right question and they open up like a flower.”
I tighten my hand into a fist before unfurling my fingers to illustrate my point.
“Never been compared to a flower before,” he says. “That’s a first.”
“Would you rather be compared to a can of beans?” I learned a long time ago that the majority of people enjoy talking about themselves, even if they don’t think they do. That, and almost everyone has something they need to get off their chest.
Curiosity is a good thing.
It sparks questions that spark conversations that make connections.
More people should be curious.
“Nope,” he says.
“That’s what I thought. See, I’m already getting a read on you and I barely know you. All I had to do was ask the right questions.”
He half-smiles, soaking me in with his Caribbean-hued gaze. I can’t tell if he’s entertained by me or annoyed or something in between, but he hasn’t budged from his seat so that has to count for something.
“You say you’re not not having a good time,” Dorian breaks his studious observation of me. “But you’re drinking ice water and sitting here with some random guy who clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“I’m absorbing the fun just being in the room, like osmosis.” I keep a straight face, hoping to get him to laugh, but all he does is seem confused by my lame attempt at a joke. “No, seriously, this is great. There’s no place I’d rather be right now than here with my cousin and her fiancé, thirty of their closest friends, and the grumpiest guy in the entire Republic … of … the Dominican.”
I’ll spare him the saga of losing my job, my boyfriend, and my best friend all in the same week. It’s neither here nor there, it’s ruined the last month of my life, and I refuse to let it ruin this expensive trip. Besides, it’s difficult to be angry when there are so many palm trees and sunshine and contented, suntanned vacationers wearing bright-colored clothing everywhere you turn.
It’s nice being a world away from my reality.
Truthfully, I’d be on the dance floor with everyone else if it weren’t for the blister forming on the back of my heel—a little detail I’ve no intentions of sharing with this handsome curmudgeon. It’s my fault for wearing brand new sneakers to the airport today instead of my trusty, broken-in New Balances. The heels I’m wearing tonight aren’t helping anything, but they’re the only thing I packed that go with this dress.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Dorian slides his water closer. “Why’d you order me this?”
“Because it’s going to be a long night and if you hate being here now, you’re really going to hate being hungover on the beach tomorrow. And you are going to the beach. Drink up.”
I lift my glass to his, urging him to toast me, but he refuses.
“It’s bad luck to toast with water,” he says.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I clink mine against his, and he watches with a slackened jaw as I take a sip of my bad luck water.
In hindsight, more misfortune is the last thing I need.
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About Winter Renshaw
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.
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