My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance Read online

  My Ex’s Wedding

  a novel by

  Annabelle Costa

  My Ex’s Wedding

  © 2020 by Annabelle Costa. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Nellie

  What is the deal with women’s bathrooms?

  Women have smaller bladders than men. That’s a biological fact. The reason is because we have uteruses (uteri?) taking up a bunch of space and men do not. So men have these giant manly bladders, while we’ve got these teeny tiny bladders that hold maybe two tequilas—tops.

  In addition to that, women are usually responsible for the chore of taking small children to the bathroom. I don’t know why that particular task always falls on women, but it does. Also a fact. All diapers since the beginning of time have been changed in ladies’ rooms. (I questioned my male friends about this after I’d spent a particularly long time waiting in line to pee at a movie theater while the guys were strolling in and out in two minutes. None of them had ever witnessed a men’s room diaper change.)

  So yes, we ladies have teeny tiny bladders and we have to share our bathrooms with children, so you’d think we’d at least get more of them. But we don’t. We get fewer! Because you can squeeze a bunch of urinals in a tiny space, but stalls take up more room.

  “And that’s why we always get stuck in these long lines,” I explain to the girl ahead of me as we wait in what is starting to feel like an endless line to use the toilet. My feet haven’t budged in at least five minutes. What is taking these women so long? I could empty my bladder in sixty seconds flat. Women need to take some sort of course on Speed Peeing.

  The girl gives me a look like she doesn’t appreciate my monologue on toilet inequities. I’d never met her before, but I thought we’d been bonding in our shared experience of waiting forever to get into the bathroom. Clearly, I was mistaken.

  “They ought to get rid of the stalls in ladies’ rooms,” I say thoughtfully. “They can replace them with a long line of toilets, side by side. I mean, I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable peeing without a stall. Would you?”

  “Yes,” the girl says icily. “I would.

  God, what a diva.

  “It’s crazy we have to wait this long when there’s no line at all for the men’s room,” I say. I glare at the men’s room, which is taunting me with its emptiness.

  “Hashtag first world problems,” the girl says.

  “It’s a first-world problem if I pee my pants?” I shoot back.

  She rolls her eyes at me, drawing attention to the slightly inflamed eyebrow ring on her right side. “If you’re so desperate, why don’t you just use the men’s room?”

  The men’s room. Hmm.

  That isn’t an entirely terrible idea.

  I do some mental math. I’ve got to go on stage in fifteen minutes. There are two stalls in the ladies’ room. At this rate, I’ll make it to the toilet in…

  Um, so assuming each woman takes three minutes in the toilet and then… you multiply the two times the…

  Oh, to hell with it. I’m using the men’s room.

  I abandon my spot in the line, which closes up so fast that now I know the decision is made for me. I must use the men’s room. I have no choice. This is going to happen.

  The girl with the inflamed eyebrow ring is gawking at me as I stride purposefully in the direction of the men’s room. I play it cool, like this is totally something I’m supposed to be doing. Granted, I do keep my hair snipped in a pixie cut, partially shaved on the left side and spiked on top, but I still can’t pass for a man. Well, maybe I could pass for a man with a pair of really big boobs.

  Taylor and Katy—my gift and my curse.

  I slam the palm of my hand against the door to the men’s room, shoving it open. Sixty seconds earlier, I would have bet my life the men’s room was empty. If I’d made such a bet, I’d be dead right now. Because instead of being empty, a man is standing at the urinal, hastily tucking his dick back in his pants and gasping, “Oh shit.”

  “Hi,” I say. Because really, what else can I say to a guy I never met before who I just caught mid-stream?

  “I’m sorry, I thought this was…” The guy’s neck is red and the blush is creeping into his cheeks. “This is… I mean, is this the men’s room? Because…”

  Oh gosh, he’s adorable. This guy is standing in front of a urinal and meanwhile questioning if he’s in the men’s room. And he’s apologizing to me for busting in on him.

  Also, he has a few other attractive male attributes. Thick chestnut hair. Clear gray eyes. A hint of a cleft chin that’s just deep enough to be sexy but not enough to be a chin butt. An expensive-looking white dress shirt rolled up to reveal nice, muscular forearms.

  And what I glimpsed before he managed to zip himself up wasn’t so shabby either, if you know what I mean.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You’re good. I’m the one who’s breaking the law.”

  “Oh.” His shoulders sag in relief. “Jesus. I thought I was about to get hauled off to jail for being a sexual predator.”

  “The line for the ladies’ room was out of control,” I tell him. “And it was an emergency.”

  He grins at me. Ooh, he’s got a nice smile too. I like this one. “I won’t tell.”

  I’d love to chat more with this hottie, but I wasn’t joking about the bathroom situation being desperate. I shut myself inside the only stall and pee for like three straight minutes. It’s glorious. Better than an orgasm.

  When I come out, the cute guy is still here, washing his hands. I appreciate good bathroom hygiene as much as the next person, but I think by any reasonable estimate, he’s had enough time to get his hands clean and exit the restroom while I was in there. That could mean only one thing:

  He’s waiting for me.

  Or else he’s OCD. I suppose that’s a possibility too.

  “I hope you kept your promise about not ratting me out,” I say to him as I soap up my hands. “I’m not going to leave here and find a whole Bathroom
SWAT team waiting for me, will I?”

  “Bathroom SWAT team?”

  “You know… the B-SWAT.”

  He flashes that sexy smile again. “And miss out on your act? Never.”

  Soap-suds disappear from my fingers down the drain. I look over at the guy curiously. “How’d you know I was performing?”

  “I recognized you.” He wags his eyebrows at me. “I like watching standup comedy. You performed two weeks ago at Angie’s in the village, right?”

  Luckily, I don’t blush so easily—otherwise, I’d be beet-red right now. “Yeah, that was me. You saw that?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I even remember your name. It was…” He frowns, chewing on the side of his lip. “Nellie something. Nellie Little?”

  “Nellie Levy.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Yes! That’s it! Nice.”

  “Are you congratulating me on remembering my own name?”

  He laughs. “Sorry, I’m not my usual smooth self. I don’t get to meet a celebrity very often.”

  “Celebrity?” I roll my eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I recognized you.”

  “Yeah, well…” My eyes flick up to the mirror, so I can examine my lipstick. I picked a dark red color that almost looks black in the flickering light of the men’s room. “I don’t know any celebrities who wait tables to pay their bills.”

  He looks surprised. “They don’t pay you much to perform?”

  “Try nothing,” I say.

  Actually, “nothing” is generous. A few weeks ago, I had to stand out on the freezing cold on a street corner handing out flyers to advertise the club before the manager agreed to give me a spot. And that’s an improvement from a gig I had during my second month in the city, when the manager made all the comics clean the toilets for the privilege of getting up onstage.

  “Well, you deserve the big bucks.” He flashes that thousand-watt grin again. Man, he must get women by the bucketful. “I loved that bit about your mother. I laughed so hard, I was crying.”

  “What bit about my mother?” I say. “Like half my material is about my mother—you’ll have to get way more specific.”

  He looks thoughtful. “Something about her crush on Robert DeNiro?”

  “Clint Eastwood,” I correct him. “My mom has the hard-on for Clint Eastwood.” I wag my finger at him. “How do you mix up Robert DeNiro and Clint Eastwood?”

  “Well, they’re both…” He cocks his head to the side. “Old?”

  I laugh. “That they are.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t have a great memory for names, only numbers.”

  “You remembered my name,” I remind him.

  “Well, you were hard to forget.”

  The sexy smile returns to his lips. Every time I start to leave this bathroom, that smile freezes me in place. I might spend the night in the men’s room at this rate. “I’m Alex, by the way,” he says. “But you won’t have heard of me. I’m not famous.”

  “Not even a little?”

  He holds his thumb and index finger close together. “Not even this much.”

  “So what do you do, Alex?” I look him up and down, taking in his white teeth and painfully expensive clothes. “Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

  He raises his dark brown eyebrows. “Sure. Do your worst.”

  I tap my fingers against my teeth. “Let’s see… expensive clothes, cocky smile, good with numbers…” I snap my fingers. “Investment banker.”

  The smile slips from Alex’s face.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” I clap my hands together. “I knew it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The smile returns, although slightly crooked. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Oh, honey… it really is.” I reach out to brush a bit of lint from his collar. He doesn’t flinch. “Are you good at it?”

  The sexy smile returns full-force, this time with the confidence of a guy who knows he’s hot shit. “I’m fucking great at it.”

  I’ve dated i-bankers before. They’re definitely a type. Alex’s got the look, that’s for sure. But all the ones I’ve ever known were cutthroat assholes. Therefore, if Alex is an i-banker, he’s probably a shark. He’s probably the sort of guy I need to stay away from.

  Too bad he’s so freaking hot.

  “So, Alex,” I say. “I’d like to repay you for keeping my secret here. I’ve got to go on stage soon, but what say I give you my phone number and we work out a repayment schedule over dinner?”

  I’m not shy about asking guys out. The worst that can happen is they say no. These days, everything that happens to me is fodder for my routine—the thing I’m hoping will someday take off enough so that I don’t have to wait tables anymore. Although in this case, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to just roll with it. I want this guy to say yes. I want him to want my number.

  He’ll say yes. It’s clear he genuinely thinks my standup routine is all that. And also, he waited for me while I peed. If that’s not a sign, what is?

  Except Alex doesn’t whip out his phone to take down my digits. Instead, he blinks his eyes a few times and takes a step back.

  “Uh…” He scratches at his head. “Listen, the thing is…”

  I already see the “no” written all over his face. Damn it all to hell. Apparently, I’m not good enough for the handsome i-banker. Whatever—there are plenty of other guys in this bar. I won’t go home alone.

  “Forget it,” I say sharply. I finger my eyebrow ring in the mirror, which is thankfully not at all inflamed like that chick who’s probably still waiting for the ladies’ room. Although to be fair, I’ve got enough piercings now that at least one of them is always mildly pink. I glare at Alex one last time, then make for the door.

  “Hey, wait…” He grabs my elbow with his arm. I spin around so I’m face-to-face with his intense gray eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… look, I think you’re incredibly talented, and I was just excited to meet you. But… I’ve got a girlfriend, so…”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “A girlfriend?”

  He nods toward the door. “She’s here, actually. Probably wondering why I’m taking so long in the bathroom.”

  I sigh. “Well, I guess I can’t fault a guy for being faithful to his girlfriend. Especially an investment banker.”

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  I grin at him. “I think you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not a cheater,” Alex says, so firmly that it’s clear he means it. That he’s offended by even the suggestion. “Isabelle’s great. I’ve been with her for two years. In fact…”

  I glance at my watch. Five minutes before I’ve got to be on. I don’t have time for chitchat. Yet…

  “In fact what?” I press him.

  He lets out a nervous laugh that I wouldn’t expect from the guy who was bragging to me a minute ago about his financial prowess. “I was going to ask her to marry me tonight.”

  Wow. I meet the first nice, sexy, successful guy in like two years of living in the city, and he’s about to propose to his girlfriend. You know how to pick ‘em, Nellie.

  “You were?” I say. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was going to do it during dinner,” he says. “But I don’t know… the time never seemed right, so…”

  His neck is red again. God, he’s adorable. This Isabelle girl better know how lucky she is. She better be some kind of supermodel who speaks five languages and can solve a Rubik’s cube in sixty seconds.

  “What are you worried about?” I study his face. “You don’t think she’ll say yes?”

  “Well…” The red is creeping into his ears now. “I mean, I hope she’ll say yes. But, well, you never know, right?”

  She’ll say yes. Is he out of his mind? Who would say no to a marriage proposal from a guy like him?

  I look down at my watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m on next.”

  His eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Yeah, go. But it was great meeting you. You know,
in person.”

  I almost laugh. This guy’s okay. Fine, maybe he’s not the next Mr. Nellie Levy, but I can’t help but like him.

  And I want to do something for him he’ll never forget.

  Chapter 2

  Alex

  I’m a planner.

  It’s how I’ve always been. My brother Doug uses the word “controlling,” which is unfair. I’m organized. I know how to make things go smoothly. It’s no small part of why I’m so successful in what I do.

  I planned to graduate at the top of my class from Dartmouth. I planned to land a job at one of the big investment firms in Manhattan right out of college with a six-figure salary. I planned to get an apartment overlooking Central Park on at least the tenth floor of a high-rise. And tonight, I planned to ask Isabelle Marie Legere to marry me.

  Planned.

  It was a simple plan. You keep things simple and you’re more likely to succeed. I know that much. And anyway, Isabelle told me she didn’t want a big romantic proposal. She’s a classy woman and she wanted a classy proposal. So I intended to wait for the right moment during dinner, and whip out the simple, classy ring:

  Isabelle, will you marry me?

  But there was never a right time during dinner. The “cozy” French restaurant where I reserved a table was so cozy that the couple next to us was sitting practically in our laps. It didn’t help that the guy at the next table was a big, loud salesman who wouldn’t shut the hell up through the whole meal. By the time the dessert menu arrived, there was a headache throbbing in my left temple, but I still wanted to make it happen. I wanted to stick to the plan. I was going to ask Isabelle to marry me.

  Then the blabbermouth salesman started having chest pain. Nothing kills the romance like the goddamn paramedics arriving in the middle of your meal.

  So I’ve still got the ring box burning a hole in my pants. I can’t believe Isabelle hasn’t noticed it. I’m convinced she’s going to ask me, “Hey, Alex, is that a ring in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

  And now we’re in this bar where they’re featuring some standup comedy acts. I planned to come here, figuring we’d be celebrating post-proposal. But I still haven’t asked, and comedy isn’t romantic. It’s the opposite of romantic.