The Billionaire's Holiday Hoax

The phone buzzed against my ear like an angry wasp, and I already knew this wasn't going to end well.

"Harper Elizabeth Morrison, you tell me right now that you're bringing someone home for Thanksgiving."

Mom's voice carried that particular pitch that meant she'd already worked herself into a full-scale panic. I could practically see her pacing around the kitchen, probably reorganizing the spice rack for the third time today.

"Mom, I—"

"Because your cousin Jessica called, and apparently Chad is bringing his new girlfriend. Your cousin. Your own flesh and blood, Harper. The girl who used to follow you around like a lost puppy when we were kids, and now she's dating your ex-boyfriend."

The words hit me like a slap. Chad. My ex of two years, the one who'd told me I was "too ambitious" and "not family-oriented enough." The same Chad who was now apparently family-oriented enough to date my twenty-two-year-old cousin Jessica, with her perfect blonde curls and her Instagram-worthy life.

"Are you still there? Harper?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm here." I pressed my fingers against my temple, feeling a headache building. "Look, I'm really busy with work right now, and—"

"Don't you dare use work as an excuse. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is going to be? The whole family asking where your boyfriend is while Chad parades around with Jessica like some kind of conquering hero?"

The phone buzzed again. Another call coming in. Then another.

"Mom, I have to—"

"Promise me, Harper. Promise me you'll bring someone. Anyone. I don't care if you have to hire an actor."

The line went dead, and immediately the phone started ringing again. Mom. Then Aunt Linda. Then my sister. The Morrison family phone tree was in full swing, and I was apparently the main topic of discussion.

I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling of my tiny Manhattan apartment. The water stain in the corner seemed to mock me, shaped vaguely like a heart with an arrow through it.

Two hours later, I found myself in O'Malley's, a dimly lit bar tucked between a dry cleaner and a bodega. The kind of place where the bartender didn't ask questions and the whiskey was cheap enough that I could afford to drink away my problems.

"Another?" The bartender, a gruff man with arms like tree trunks, gestured to my empty glass.

"Make it a double."

The amber liquid burned going down, but it was a good burn. A cleansing burn. Maybe if I drank enough, I could forget that my ex-boyfriend was now dating my cousin. Maybe I could forget that I'd be walking into Thanksgiving dinner solo while they played happy couple.

The bar door chimed, and I glanced up to see a man slip inside, pulling a baseball cap low over his face. He moved with the kind of careful precision that screamed "trying not to be noticed." Designer jeans, expensive watch, the kind of shoes that cost more than my rent.

He slid onto the barstool three seats down from me, keeping his head down.

"Scotch. Top shelf. And keep them coming."

His voice was smooth, cultured. Definitely not from around here.

I was about to mind my own business when I noticed the flash of cameras outside the window. Paparazzi. They pressed against the glass like vultures, their lenses searching.

The man beside me tensed, his knuckles white as he gripped his glass.

"Rough day?" I asked, surprising myself.

He looked up, and I caught a glimpse of sharp green eyes and a jaw that could cut glass. Definitely not from around here, and definitely not just anyone.

"You could say that." He took a long sip of his scotch. "Family trying to run my life. Reporters following my every move. The usual."

I laughed, a bitter sound that surprised us both. "Family trying to run your life? Join the club."

He turned to face me fully, and I felt something electric pass between us. "Bad day?"

"Catastrophic day. My mom just informed me that my ex-boyfriend is bringing my cousin to Thanksgiving dinner, and if I don't show up with someone, I'll be the family joke until next Christmas."

"Ouch." He winced. "That's rough."

"What about you? Let me guess—family wants you to marry some socialite you've never met?"

His laugh was dry. "Close. Family wants me to marry a socialite I have met. Several times. She's perfectly nice, perfectly boring, and perfectly wrong for me."

The cameras outside flashed again, and he ducked his head instinctively.

"They're persistent," I observed.

"You have no idea."

I stared at my reflection in the bar mirror, then at him, then at the photographers outside. An idea began to form, crazy and desperate and probably doomed to fail.

"What if I told you I had a solution to both our problems?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you're either brilliant or drunk."

"Probably both." I turned to face him fully. "Look, you need to disappear from those cameras, right? And I need a boyfriend for Thanksgiving. What if we helped each other out?"

"Are you suggesting—"

"A trade. You pretend to be my boyfriend for one weekend, meet the family, endure some turkey and awkward questions. In exchange, you get a place to hide out until this blows over."

He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Look, I'm desperate, you're desperate. We're both adults. We can handle a simple business arrangement."

Outside, the cameras flashed again, and I saw him flinch.

"What's your name?" he asked finally.

"Harper. Harper Morrison."

"Declan." He paused, as if deciding whether to give me more. "Declan O'Sullivan."

The name tickled something in my memory, but the whiskey made it hard to focus.

"So, Declan O'Sullivan, do we have a deal?"

He looked at me, then at the photographers pressing against the window, their camera flashes creating a strobe effect in the dim bar. For a moment, I thought he was going to laugh and walk away.

Then he extended his hand.

"We have a deal."