Faking It. Stefanie London

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       CHAPTER SIX

       Hannah

      DAY TWO OF my fake marriage and I’m already questioning why I didn’t put up more of a fight when Max suggested bringing Owen back for this operation. I should have nipped it in the bud. But oh no, I had to go and think the golden boy’s shine might have worn off with absence. Mistake number one.

      Mistake number two was not pushing the brother-and-sister undercover plan harder. But like any good public servant, I fell into line.

      Mistake number three was kissing him. Well, kissing is kind of a soft description. I basically dry humped him against the fence.

      Cringing, I shake my head. Last night I acted out of line—unprofessional. Owen made it clear years ago that he wasn’t interested and yet I threw myself at him the first chance I got. Pathetic. He’s probably having a good laugh about it.

       But what about the fact that he was hard enough to drill holes?

      Natural physical response. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Pick a reason.

      It’s like the universe has designed the perfect situation to test me. This morning I burned my toast while getting lost in my imagination. Getting lost in a fantasy starring him. How am I supposed to do my job when I can’t even make a bloody piece of toast without screwing it up?

      Ugh, don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing...

      “Whatcha thinking about?” Owen walks into the kitchen, a pair of tracksuit pants riding low on his hips and a white T-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest. His blond hair is damp, which makes his blue eyes even brighter.

      It’s borderline disgusting how attractive he is.

      “I’m thinking about the case.” I busy myself by putting the dishes away from our dinner last night. “Obviously.”

      “Obviously.” Amusement dances in his voice. “By the way, this arrived. I noticed it when I came back from my run this morning.”

      He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.

      He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.

      “A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”

      A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.

      “What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.

      “Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.

      “I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?

      Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?

      “You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.

      “Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”

      “That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.

      “Don’t worry about the budget.”

      I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”

      “I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”

      “I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being honest my five-year-old Target dress isn’t going to cut it for an upper-crust gallery event.

      “Stop worrying about the money.” He turns and heads toward the spare room, which he’s graciously taken so I can have the master suite with the more private bathroom. “Go grab your things.”

      We catch the tram to Collins Street, where the designer shops sit like glittering beacons of unattainable style. The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.

      We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”

      Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.

      “You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”