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  Stumble Into Love

  A Fake Fiancé Romance

  Megan Hart

  Copyright © 2010 by Megan Hart

  Originally published as Love Match, 2004

  All rights reserved. By purchasing this digital book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940078-52-6

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Also by Megan Hart

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  "Are you sure that's the one you want, dear?" Ms. Whitehead held out the heavy binder and frowned over her chic, gold-rimmed glasses at Laila Alster. "I have to say, he's not one of our more popular models."

  Ms. Whitehead flipped a few pages toward the front of the thick sheaf of photos stored in plastic sleeves, then pointed to the picture of a man with blond, shoulder-length hair. His limpid eyes, chiseled jaw and bronzed skin, coupled with the hair and the muscular body, was not at all what she was looking for.

  "No, thanks. He's not quite me."

  Ms. Whitehead laughed. "Honey, are you sure? Rick is mostly anybody. Take another look."

  Laila smiled politely, but opened the binder back to the page she'd first indicated. "My family would never believe me if I showed up with a man like that on my arm. No, I think--" She paused to read the name on the photograph. "Harold. I think he'll be perfect for my needs."

  Ms. Whitehead sighed and slid the binder back over her desk, then heaved it onto a bookcase laden with similar binders. "All right, honey, if you say so. Hal doesn't get much work, poor thing."

  "Why?" Laila asked wryly. "Because he wears glasses, looks like a normal guy and not a muscle bound god of love?"

  "Er--well." Ms. Whitehead paused then patted her silver bouffant with one bejeweled hand. "Ahem. I'd say that's one reason."

  Misgiving fluttered in Laila's already churning stomach. "And the other reasons?"

  "Hal means well, Miss Alster. He means very well, in fact. He's one of the more enthusiastic models here at LoveMatch. But he doesn't get much repeat business, I have to be honest with you."

  Laila swallowed hard, waiting for the bad news. He was a drug addict. He liked to rough up his customers. He had chronic halitosis. What could be so dire that Ms. Whitehead, the LoveMatch goddess herself, could barely bring herself to reveal it?"

  "Hal's a bit clumsy," Ms. Whitehead said finally with a glance over her glasses that told Laila she wasn't exaggerating. "And his social skills are a little less developed than we usually prefer in our men. But he's enrolled in all our courses and is improving quite nicely. I only warn you because you told me how important it was for you to have date for this family party."

  Not just a date, Laila thought. A fiancé. "Social skills. You mean like holding the door open for me and pulling out my chair? Stuff like that? Because that doesn't really matter. In fact, the less of that, the better."

  Ms. Whitehead looked uncomfortable. She tapped her long crimson-lacquered nails lightly on top of her desk. At last she pulled open one of her file drawers and took out a thin folder. Opening it, she removed a sheet of paper, filled in a few blanks, and pushed it across the desk to Laila.

  "Since you seem to have your heart set on Hal," Ms. Whitehead said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do for you, honey. I'm going to give you a free night out with him, compliments of LoveMatch. You can see for yourself if he is the right man to escort you to your family shindig. If it doesn't work out, you can come back and choose one of our other models. Okay?"

  A free night out sounded all right. Laila looked over the paper, which turned out to be a standard release form. She'd read the one included with her information packet already, and so now she signed the bottom with the pen Ms. Whitehead held out. The silver-haired woman then tucked the paper back in the folder, twirled her desk chair toward another set of filing cabinets, and pulled out another file.

  "Here's some background information on Hal," she said, pushing a sheet of paper over the desk.

  There wasn't much written on it. "Favorite music, "Weird" Al Yankovic?" Laila smiled. She liked "Weird" Al, too, but she wasn't sure she'd have listed him as her favorite. "Hobbies are reading, bike riding, and going for long, romantic walks along the beach in the moonlight."

  Except for the last, which was so obviously added to spice up his file it was almost laughable, he didn't sound bad so far. She quickly read further. He'd gone to college, mastered in accounting. So he was good at math. He'd also marked he was currently attending school, but not what for.

  "I'm sure he'll be fine," she said. "What's the next step?"

  "For the initial date, I can make the arrangements for you. You pick the place and time, and I'll contact your escort to make sure he's available." Ms. Whitehead ran her finger down the lines in the appointment book. "He usually is. As I said, LoveMatch will pick up the escort fee, and this time, dinner is on us. But after that--"

  "Of course," Laila said. She thumbed open her phone’s calendar, though she knew her evenings were free. Like Hal, she was usually available. "Wednesday night looks good for me. MJ's Coffeehouse at the Allen Theater in Annville?"

  Ms. Whitehead nodded. "We can have Hal pick you up at home, or if you prefer, you can meet him at the date location. Most of our clients choose to meet their escorts in a public place first--although a good many of them end up letting their dates escort them home."

  Laila ignored the older woman's wink. She wasn't hiring Hal to be her sex toy. She needed him to act as her fiancé for one week, during her grandparents' sixtieth anniversary celebration. She needed him to treat her terribly, act like a total jerk in front of her family, and break things off with her in such a way they'd never ask about him again.

  "If I do decide that Hal will work out, can I be sure he's available for the entire week?"

  "Many of our clients have taken their escorts on vacations with them. Most of our men make a very nice living doing what they do. I shouldn't imagine there'll be any problem."

  Not for an all-expense paid vacation and a nice fat fee, too. Laila cringed at what this was going to do to her bank account, but getting her family's attention away from her love life was worth any price. Ian's insurance money would have paid for a nice exotic vacation or a big screen television. Instead it would pay for a new fiancé.

  "Fine." Laila shook Ms. Whitehead's hand. "Seven-thirty?"

  "Wonderful." Ms. Whitehead's lips, crimson to match her nails, spread into a genuine smile. "Good luck, dear."

  "Thank you," Laila said.

  She'd need it.

  The smell of sweat was overpowering. Hal Kessler swallowed heavily and kept his feet moving on the elliptical trainer. Twenty minutes to go and he'd be done.

  "So I was saying," Rick Mallard went on, oblivious to Hal's silence. "The chick really dug me, you know? And she was stacked! And loaded, too. So her face was could
crack a mirror, hey, so what? She took me to Visaggio's for dinner three times in one week."

  "Huh," Hal said.

  "So of course I had to make sure I gave her dessert," Rick said with a leer.

  The tan blond man adjusted the buttons on his trainer, stepping up the pace. Even though his feet were going twice as fast as Hal's, Rick didn't even sound out of breath. His back muscles, clearly visible through the white mesh tank shirt he wore, pumped and worked as he strode. Hal could work out for years and his back would never look like that.

  "Huh," Hal said again, noncommittally. It was about all he could manage without puffing embarrassingly.

  "Then this other broad, name's Marsha, hips like a battleship, know what I mean? But she's loaded, too. She took me to Neiman Marcus and bought me a tux just so we could go to the theater."

  "A client bought me a book of poetry once," Hal offered. He tried not to let a gasp punctuate every word.

  Rick shot him a look. "Wow, Kessler. That's uh--cool."

  It had been very cool, Hal thought. Soloman's Song of Songs. Love poetry, filled with rich and passionate imagery. Mary Kate Peterson had been that client's name, and one of the few who'd hired him more than once. She'd never asked him for any "dessert," though.

  "So anyway--" The trill of an incoming text message interrupted Rick's story.

  Rick's hand went automatically to phone clipped in a case at his waistband, and he pressed the button. The beeping continued. It took Rick's look of comical surprise to make Hal realize it wasn't Rick's phone making the noise. It was his own.

  "Kessler, it's you." Rick shook his head and tossed his long, blond hair over his shoulders. "Go for it, dude."

  Hal fumbled with the phone’s tiny buttons. The beeping stopped abruptly, but because he'd had to let go of the elliptical machine's handrail, Hal lost his balance. Suddenly the machine was going too fast for his feet, and he couldn't keep up. As he tried to stop the machine and get off all at the same time the elastic cuff on his sweatpants got caught on the edge of the pedal. The still-moving pedals threw him forward, into the trainer's control panel, and he banged his head on the handrail. Hal dropped his phone.

  It seemed that every eye in the entire gym was on him as he extricated himself from the damnable machine and bent to pick up his phone. Probably because everyone was staring at him. Hal kept his head high, even as he tripped over his towel and knocked against Rick's machine.

  He didn't imagine the sniggers and muffled chortles following him as he made his way to the locker room. His face burned, and he ducked with relief through the quiet doorway. He'd suffered humiliations before at this gym, but never one on such a grand scale.

  The phone beeped again, more insistently this time, as he fumbled with his locker. Guys like Rick got called so often that answering a text was second nature to them. Guys like Rick, who had barely two brain cells to rub together, managed to exercise, answer their calls and look great doing it. Hal had advanced business and accounting degrees, and yet he could barely walk and chew gum at the same time. He sighed in despair as his fingers hit the wrong numbers on the phone and he had to redial. Why was he such a huge klutz?

  "You've got a date for Wednesday night, honey," Muriel Whitehead told him without preamble. "Seven-thirty, MJ's Coffeehouse in Annville. Casual dress."

  "Thanks, Muriel."

  He heard her flipping through her appointment book. "This could be a big job, kiddo. A week in the Poconos."

  Her unspoken advice, Don't screw this up, vibrated through the phone's tiny earpiece. She knew as well as he did how much he needed this job. Better, actually, since he still had outstanding debt for some of the LoveMatch training classes he'd taken.

  "Client's name?" Hal managed to dig through his gym bag and find his notepad and a pen. It even had ink in it.

  She told him, along with the physical description and some background information. "She's not exactly looking for Romeo, Hal."

  He could have guessed that. "I'll be there."

  "Hal?"

  "What time is it?"

  "It's--" Hal checked his wrist and realized his watch was missing. There was no clock in the locker room either.

  "Never mind, honey." Muriel's sigh was huge, even through the tiny speaker. "You're at the gym? Check your bag."

  It was right there. "My watch says 11:30."

  Another sigh. "Honey, it's 12:17."

  Punctuality was one of LoveMatch's requirements in its employees. "Thanks, Muriel."

  "Hal, did you ever think that this might not be the career for you?"

  He had thought that, many times, but then some job always came through and the resulting paycheck made it all worthwhile. "I need the money."

  "I know you do, sweetheart." Muriel made kissy noises into the phone. "Don't forget, and don't be late. And for Heaven's sake, make sure your socks match!"

  "I'm not a complete schlub," Hal complained, though reflexively he'd noted her suggestion in the margin of his notepad. Check socks.

  "You're a sweet boy," Muriel said, as though that would make him feel better. "And, Hal, this one's a freebie."

  He groaned. "Muriel--"

  She tutted into the phone. "No complaints! After what happened the last time--"

  "All right." She didn't have to say any more. Hal's last date had been a true comedy of errors--without the comedy. He was lucky the client hadn't sought legal action instead of demanding a refund.

  Muriel said goodbye, and Hal clicked off the phone. He looked at the name he'd written down. Laila Alster. It was a pretty name, but he had no illusions about the face that went with it. Gorgeous women, as a rule, just didn't contact LoveMatch, and most women who did use the service chose guys who looked like Rick.

  Hal took a minute to adjust his watch to the proper time, realizing as he did so that he was going to be late for his Healing Touch class. He let out a strangled curse. Could the day get any worse? Shoving his stuff into gym bag, he left the gym without bothering to shower. He couldn't be late for class. Again.

  The gym door opened out into a side alley right next to the LoveMatch offices. Narrow and dim on the best days, today the small street was even more difficult to navigate because of the construction going on at the far end. Grateful he hadn't taken off his sneakers, Hal slung his bag over his shoulder and set off at a sprint down the debris-littered concrete. If he ran fast enough he'd be able to get to class on time--

  All at once, Hal's feet were moving, but the rest of him was not. As the ground came up to meet him, he had only one thought.

  I'm not going to make it class today.

  The man sitting in front of her with the bleeding nose and swollen cheek looked so forlorn, Laila couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Also, annoyed. Because of him, she was going to be late getting back from lunch. The collision had also put a runner in her last pair of taupe tights, scuffed her brand new shoes and left her knee scraped and bleeding.

  "I'm so sorry." He took the twisted tissues out of his left nostril, but immediately stuck them back in when the blood began flowing again. "I'm really sorry."

  "It's all right," Laila said. What was one supposed to do in situations like this anyway? She felt bad just leaving the guy sitting on the curb, but she really was late. "We both should've been more careful."

  "You don't understand," said the man morosely. His voice, perhaps because of the tissues in his nose, was deep and throaty. He held up a pair of glasses, the frames twisted from the collision, then tossed them down. "Stuff like this happens to me all the time. I'm a walking disaster."

  "I'm sure it's not that bad," Laila said, already checking her watch. "It could've happened to anyone."

  "Is your knee all right? I'll pay for your dry cleaning if you want."

  Of her ruined tights? Of her knee? The rest of her was fine, except for the shoes, which needed a good polishing. "No, that's okay. Really. Listen, I have to run--"

  "Sure, sure," said the man letting his head droop. "I'm so sorry."
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  "Really, don't worry about it," Laila said sympathetically. Under other circumstances she'd be livid, but this guy was just so sincere she couldn't find it in herself to stay mad. "No harm done."

  To her alarm, the man's head kept drooping and drooping. Instead of staying upright in his seat at the curb, he fell forward. Crunch. Right onto the sidewalk.

  With a shriek, Laila rolled him over. His face had gone a sickly shade of greenish white and his eyes were fluttering.

  "Blood," he muttered in a garbled tone. "Can't. Stand. Blood!"

  Laila reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her water bottle. Popping the screwtop, she squirted the entire contents of the nearly full bottle right in the man's face. With a choking gasp, he sat straight up, water streaming down his cheeks. The tissue in his nose disintegrated, sending a fresh stream of blood to paint his upper lip. His cheeks were pink, though, instead of the ghastly green, and he didn't look like he was going to faint again.

  "I'm sorry!" he cried.

  "Shut up," Laila said smartly. "Here."

  She reached again into her voluminous bag and pulled out a travel package of baby wipes. Having a dozen nieces and nephews had taught her the importance of always carrying wipes. She gave them to the poor soul in front of her.

  "Thank you," said the man quietly. "I can't tell you how embarrassed I am."

  "You are a real mess."

  Cleaned up, he wasn't bad looking, even with the ridiculous remains of the twist of tissue in his nose. His thick, wheat-colored hair would benefit from a more stylish cut, but he had strong, large features, including a wide mouth that might look nice with a smile on it. She could see that his eyes, now they weren't rolling back in his head, were light. Blue...or maybe green. He was almost, but not quite handsome, and he looked somehow familiar.