Her Fake Irish Husband

Rachel Parker breezed through the reception area of Bixby International, coffee cup in hand, and stopped at the desk to have a quick chat with Poppy, the receptionist. Emblazoned in brass on the wood-grain wall behind Poppy was the company name and logo. Every time Rachel read the sign, the website jingle sailed through her head: “Bixby International—no problem too big, no problem too small. We tackle them all.”

“How was your weekend?” Rachel asked, leaning over the bar-height counter of the reception area.

Poppy smiled at Rachel. Although she was only a few years younger than Rachel, her life was far more adventurous. And she had the most amazing boyfriend, so unlike the one Rachel had broken up with the year before. Rachel envied her. Hearing her tales of the weekend on Monday mornings was almost as good as reading a book. Almost. Poppy’s life was about clubbing and traveling with her boyfriend. Or hanging out with her girlfriends, whereas Rachel’s life was more sedate. There was nothing she enjoyed more than settling down with a good book and a large cup of coffee. Throw in some rain, and she couldn’t dream of anything better. There were also her nieces and a nephew, ranging in age from four to twelve, children of her two older brothers. She was actively involved in their lives. Another indicator of her vicarious life: she was helping to raise another woman’s kids. But truth be told, she was content. Somewhat.

“Raymond took me to that new club on Madison,” Poppy gushed. She was all curly platinum-blonde hair, ruby-red lips, and eyelash extensions. Sometimes Rachel, with her shoulder-length brown hair, her uniform headband, and minimal makeup, felt positively mousy compared to her younger counterpart. “We went to opening night. I’ve never drunk so much in my life! There were a lot of fit men there.” She winked at Rachel.

“It sounds lovely.” Rachel smiled.

Poppy burst out laughing. “Lovely? Lovely is taking your granny to lunch! Come on, Rachel!”

Rachel shrugged, suddenly feeling inadequate. She had never been a popular girl, and she had been okay with that. It was foolish to compare herself with Poppy. And besides, she used to enjoy going to lunch with her Gran.

“Raymond served me breakfast in bed yesterday morning.” Poppy smiled. “Went out in the pouring rain and got a couple of magazines I liked and the newspaper for himself and served me a raspberry mimosa with French bread and caviar.”

“Caviar?” Rachel repeated. She’d never had caviar in her life.

“Yes, Raymond knows how much I love caviar.”

Rachel tried to picture a man running out in the pouring rain for her to procure a newspaper and pastries. She couldn’t get the image in proper focus.

“Anyway, after a night of drinking, didn’t we get up early Saturday morning and head off to a travel agent?”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. Poppy did things like this: spontaneous and impulsive. Planned trips to the other side of the world at the drop of a hat and ate caviar for breakfast. Whereas Rachel was a planner and an organizer. If she tried to do anything spontaneous without any prep, it would probably kill her. “Where are you jetting off to now?”

“Phuket,” Poppy replied.

Rachel’s brow wrinkled. “Thailand?”

“The one and only. We’re going to a pearl farm!”

Rachel smiled politely, not wanting to ask what a pearl farm was in case she looked stupid. She drew her own conclusions.

“You should go sometime!” Poppy suggested.

Rachel shook her head quickly. “No thanks, that wouldn’t be for me.” She wasn’t even one for crossing state lines, let alone traveling to the other side of the world.

The receptionist laughed. “Oh, that’s right, you have a fear of flying.”

“Not so much a fear of flying as a fear of crashing,” Rachel corrected.

The other girl shrugged. Rachel felt the need to defend her quiet, solitary life, and she didn’t know why. “I’m perfectly content right where I am.”

Poppy rolled her eyes, surprising Rachel. “How can you be? Someday, Rachel, you’re going to shrivel up and die from boredom.”

Rachel blinked, stung. She knew she’d led a quiet life, but she didn’t think it was boring. Well, at least it wasn’t to her. But she supposed it might appear that way to some.

Poppy attached her headset and took the phones off the answering service. “Rachel, instead of reading about other people’s lives, you need to start living your own.”

Rachel protested, “I’m happy with my life.”

Poppy raised her eyebrows. “If you say so.”

Rachel was about to ask her to join her for lunch but thought the other girl would be bored to tears and so bit back the idea.

“Why does Ben get to do all the traveling for the company?” Poppy asked. “I’d love his job. All that traveling all over the world. Get to go to all those places on the company’s dime.”

Rachel didn’t answer her. It was an arrangement that had suited both her and Ben. She did all of the research, and he got out of the office and sometimes, out of the country. It had been like that for almost five years.

Rachel’s phone beeped, and she looked at it and frowned. “I’ve been summoned to Mr. Bixby’s office.”

“Hopefully you’re not being fired.”

Rachel glanced at her, mortified.

Poppy spoke hurriedly, “No, no, Rachel, I was just teasing you. Of course you won’t be getting fired. You’ve been here so long you’re practically an institution around here.”

Just throw me my retirement party now, Rachel thought but said, “Well, I better get going and see what’s up.”

“Good luck!” Poppy called out after her.

***

On the walk to her boss’s office, Rachel recalled Poppy’s words and realized that although there was some truth to them, they still hurt. Her lack of a life was apparently a problem, and here she was, a problem solver! Maybe she needed to tackle her own personal life with the same enthusiasm she channeled into tackling the problems that came across her desk.

Pausing outside the office of the owner and CEO of Bixby International, Rachel could hardly imagine what Mr. Bixby could want. She couldn’t remember being summoned to his office in the recent past. Hired ten years back with a history degree in hand, she was still as excited about her job as she was the day she’d started. She and Mr. Bixby usually met up once a month in a prearranged meeting to discuss Rachel’s current work projects, which could be just about anything.

That’s what she loved about her job. Every day was something different, something challenging. Two months earlier, they’d had a client who was seeking an original Imperial Fabergé egg for his wife for her fiftieth birthday. That has been a lot of fun. A year before that, the company had been contacted by a solicitor from Somerset, England looking for a very distant relative of his deceased client who had left behind a considerable estate. It had taken her six months to track down a fourth cousin and tell them they were in for a windfall. So, yes, she loved her job. And she was good at it.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked tentatively on the heavy oak door.

Mr. Bixby opened the door himself. He was a small man, barely five foot five with a head of thick, white hair. He sported a perpetual tan and wore expensive suits and ties. He had some eccentricities, but Rachel had grown fond of him over the years. He let her get on with her work and didn’t interfere.

“Rachel, come in,” he said, holding the door wide open for her.

Rachel walked in, taking in the glossy wood-grain paneling, the glass shelves in the bookcases, and the leather furniture. It not only looked expensive; it smelled and felt expensive as well.

She looked up and noticed there was another man seated in one of the two chairs in front of Mr. Bixby’s antique desk. Upon her entrance, he immediately stood up.

Hesitating, she looked around. Mr. Bixby swept his arm in the direction of his desk. “Please, Rachel, take a seat.”

She felt the eyes of the stranger on her, and she took a minute to assess him. Tall, mid-thirties, clean-cut, clean-shaven with thick, dark hair. His broad shoulders filled out his suit jacket. But it was his eyes—a deep blue, like an azure. They were startling. She paused. His eyes alone made him swoon worthy. She wondered what his problem was. She couldn’t wait to solve it.

Mr. Bixby stood between them. The other man towered over her boss. Even at her own height of five eight, she had to look up at the dark-haired man. Her curiosity went into overdrive: she couldn’t wait to hear what this was all about.

“I’d like to introduce you to Rachel Parker, our Girl Wonder. First one here in the morning and last one to leave at night,” Mr. Bixby said. “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Thomas Yates, Earl of Glenbourne.”

Her eyes widened. She had never met a member of the realm before. Wait until she told her mother. Aware of his eyes on her, she extended her hand to him. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said. He had a lilting foreign accent. Not British, but close. She watched a lot of BBC news. They delivered all the bad news the same way: as if they were going to serve you a cup of tea as the world went up in flames. It was oddly reassuring.

“Irish?” she asked, taking a guess.

He smiled and bowed his head slightly.

The gesture was a nice touch.

“Sit down, sit down, let’s talk business,” Mr. Bixby said. “The earl has brought us a problem.”

“We’re happy to help,” Rachel said to him as they sat down.

“I’m hoping your reputation and your company are up to the task,” the earl said. He glanced at his hands and then his gaze shifted back to her.

Rachel looked over at her boss, but he had been distracted by the paper tape streaming from the reproduction stock ticker. It sat under a glass dome atop a walnut pedestal. The repo ticked continuously. Mr. Bixby picked up the tape that had spooled in a pile on the floor and held it between his fingers for a moment, studying it with a frown.

“Mr. Bixby?” Rachel said, drawing him back to the moment.

“Yes, right,” he laughed. “I have always found that sound quite relaxing.” Dropping the paper tape, he made his way over to his chair and parked himself behind the desk. “When I go to bed at night, I have a machine that plays a continual ka-ching noise, and I drift off to sleep at the sound of money being made.”

“I prefer the sound of wind and rain myself,” said the stranger with the delicious accent.

Me too, thought Rachel.

“As I was saying, the earl has come to us with a problem,” Mr. Bixby said.

Taking charge of the conversation, she turned in her seat to face the earl. “Lord Glenbourne, what is your problem, exactly?”

Slowly, he turned toward her and laid his magnificent blue eyes on her. “Miss Parker, I need a wife,” he said. “And I need one right away.”

***

Rachel blinked. The Earl of Glenbourne needed a wife and thought Bixby International could find him one? At first, she didn’t understand why he would need help finding a wife. He ticked all the right boxes: tall, dark, and handsome. His posh accent was a bonus. But if he had a personality defect, that would explain a lot of things. Her mind went over a laundry lists of turnoffs: abusing animals, hating kids, not changing your underwear or socks daily.

She gave him a reassuring smile, ready for the task at hand. “Well, I’ve never played matchmaker before, but I assure you, I will find you a lovely wife.”

The earl shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t have time to search for a proper wife.”

She looked over at her boss, confused. Mr. Bixby sat with his hands folded on his desk and had a benign look on his face.

“I’m sorry—I’m confused,” she said, looking from one to the other.

“Lord Glenbourne is bound by a family stipulation,” Mr. Bixby started.

The earl spoke up. “I am the 12th Earl of Glenbourne. I own a large estate in Ireland that has been in the family for several centuries. The 6th Earl of Glenbourne, to encourage his unwilling son to get married to keep the line going, instituted a condition of the estate.” He paused.

Rachel listened with interest.

Thomas Yates continued. “Every proceeding earl had to be married by the age of thirty-five, or he would lose the money portion of the estate.”

“Is that very important?” she asked. Money wasn’t everything after all.

“Without it, I can’t manage the costs or upkeep of the estate. By profession, I am a solicitor, but I don’t make nearly enough to cover the costs.”

“Oh.” Ancestors were nice as long as they remained in the past. Her mind flooded with ideas. “Have you tried fighting this in court?” That was the most obvious one. After all, he was a solicitor.

“I am working on that, but no success as of yet.”

“Who controls the money? Don’t you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The money for the estate is controlled by a trust. Has been since the 7th Earl of Glenbourne almost gambled the whole fortune away.”

Despite his title and money, he had some dubious lineage.

“And you are unable to find a viable candidate in your own social circle?” she asked, finding this almost impossible to believe.

“No, I’m not interested in marriage as such. At least not yet,” he explained. Up close, his eyes had depth and intelligence to them.

There were other problem solvers in the company. This was nothing more than Matchmaking 101. She began to feel her interest waning.

“When do you turn thirty-five?” she asked the earl.

“October first,” he answered.

She couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing. “You’ve certainly left it until the last minute. That’s only a week away.”

He shrugged, not seeming to care how he’d left it.

Mr. Bixby spoke up. “This is where we come in.”

Rachel couldn’t wait to hear this part.

“After much discussion, we were hoping you could help him out,” he said.

“Of course I’ll help him out. That’s my job,” she said.

“That’s great, Rachel! I told the earl that you were a team player and our best problem solver,” Mr. Bixby said. “Now, you’ve got forty-eight hours to find the earl a suitable bride.”

Rachel blinked. “That’s not a lot of time.”

The earl interrupted. “May I explain a few things that might help with your search?”

“Please do.” She nodded and caught him glancing as she crossed her legs.

“I only need a wife for ninety days. After that, the condition on the trust expires. Of course, I will need her to live at my manor for those three months, but I guarantee that every whim of hers would be . . . um . . . satisfied.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “And after the ninety days?”

“My ‘wife’ will fly back to the US and file for divorce. I will pay all expenses,” he said.

“Why not divorce in Ireland?” she asked.

“Because divorce is only recently legal in my country, and a couple needs to be separated for four years before they can file for divorce,” he explained. He paused, then said, “I wouldn’t ask anyone to put her life on hold for that length of time.”

“How thoughtful,” she muttered. She glanced over at her boss, who sat at his desk with his hands folded on top of it.

“The earl has also agreed to sweeten the pot,” her boss said.

Rachel looked back to the earl. Although he wasn’t dangerously handsome in the windswept-moor kind of way one might expect from an earl, his bearing was regal.

“There will be a million-dollar bonus to anyone who would agree to marry me for the ninety days,” he explained. “That should help you in your search.”

“What are the terms?” she asked. If she was going to do this job properly, she needed all the facts and information at her disposal.

“Fifty percent down as soon as we are married and the remaining fifty percent at the end of the ninety days,” he replied.

She nodded. “That’s good. That will be a good enticement.”

Thomas Yates continued. “We’d need to get married in New York as the registrar in Ireland requires three months’ notice.”

Rachel stood up from her chair. “I better get to work on finding you a bride.” The earl stood up as well and extended his hand. His grip was firm and warm, and his hand dwarfed hers. It felt protective. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

Mr. Bixby stood up from his desk and said, “Let’s meet back here in forty-eight hours.” He looked directly at the earl. “I can assure you that Rachel Parker will have an acceptable solution to your problem in two days’ time.” He looked at Rachel, smiled benevolently and then turned to the earl. “In fact, I guarantee it.”

Rachel wished she shared her boss’s confidence.

***

It was dark by the time Rachel powered down her desktop computer. Sighing, she grabbed her purse and headed out of the office, noticing once again that she was the last one to leave. At the other end of the hall, she saw Lois, the nightly cleaning woman. When she saw Rachel, she made a face, pointed to her watch, and shook her head. Even the cleaning woman thought she worked too hard. But Rachel loved her job, so it wasn’t like working at all. Actually, she preferred working at night when the office was quiet, and there was no one else around. Less interruptions meant more work. As she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid closed on the semi-darkened office, she could hear the buzz of Lois’s vacuum cleaner at the other end of the floor.

After her meeting with her boss and the Earl of Glenbourne, she’d spent the rest of the day researching and laying out parameters for her search. It was proving almost impossible. But she wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. After perusing some of the more ethical and upscale dating sites, she’d found some potential prospects, but there were two problems: time and issues regarding privacy. You could get around the privacy issue by having them sign a non-disclosure agreement and rendering the million-dollar bonus null and void if there was a breach. But there simply wasn’t enough time to vet someone properly.

She pushed it out of her mind. Best to tackle it again tomorrow when she had a clear head.

But first, she had a stop to make on her way home.

***

Gatefield Rehabilitation Center was a facility specifically for the rehab of a variety of medical problems from knee replacements to traumatic brain injuries. Glancing at the clock on her dashboard, Rachel saw that she’d only have a bit of time before visiting hours ended. She locked her car and walked at a rapid clip toward the building. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed through the front doors. She nodded at the receptionist at the desk, signed in, and headed toward the back of the facility.

More than anything, Rachel hated hospitals and nursing homes. Dreaded them. The sanitized smell that could never quite do its job properly. To her, they all smelled like sickness and death. All the noises: the constant beeping, the chatter at the nurses’ stations, the endless overhead pages—it was all too much stimulation.

Clutching the strap of her purse, she arrived at the last door of “B” corridor. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile on her face, she knocked gently on the door before poking her head around it.

There in the chair sat her best friend since kindergarten, Amy Wagner Brzynski. Her long blonde hair was in a messy ponytail, and there were dark circles under her eyes. In the hospital bed beside her was Amy’s husband of ten years, Brian. The previous year, he had been involved in a freak accident while on a ladder cutting down tree branches. One had gone astray, knocking him down, and he’d landed on his head, resulting in a severe brain injury. Many months had been spent in the hospital with Amy at his side. He’d been in rehab for just as long. He had to learn how to speak again and walk again. He’d never get back to where he was, but he was making slow progress. They had two young sons at home, and the whole thing was absolutely heartbreaking.

Amy’s face broke into a generous smile. “Rachel!”

“Don’t get up,” Rachel said, going over and hugging her friend. She turned toward the bed and saw that Brian was sound asleep. Therapy all day wore him out. Rachel laid her hand gently on Brian’s, not wanting to wake him. She looked at her friend. “How was his day?”

“Exhausting,” Amy sighed, and in that one sigh, Rachel heard her friend’s anxiety, sorrows, frustrations, and worries of the past year.

Rachel sat in the chair next to her friend and crossed her legs.

“The specialist came in today and said that at some point we need to think about Brian’s future,” Amy said, bursting into tears.

Rachel reached out for her friend’s hand and listened attentively.

“I have two choices: Brian can come home, or he’ll have to go to a nursing home for long-term care.” Amy cried harder.

“Okay,” Rachel replied, trying to process what it meant for her best friend, her husband, and their two children.

“You know my family, Rachel; we always take care of everyone at home,” Amy said.

Rachel nodded, remembering the Wagner household growing up. It was noisier and busier than her own. There was always a grandparent or two or a shirttail relative living with them. It had been normal to see visiting nurses at their house. It’s what the Wagners did: take care of everyone. It came as no surprise to Rachel that Amy would want to take her husband home.

“I’ve been racking my brain all day trying to figure out how to take him home. I’d need all sorts of equipment as well as help.” Amy voiced what Rachel was already thinking. “You know my house isn’t exactly suited for Brian in this condition.”

Rachel nodded. Amy and Brian were still living in their first home, and it was tiny. Three bedrooms. She didn’t know where Amy would set Brian up. He’d need his own room. Not to mention the fact that getting him around the house in a specialized wheelchair would require some space to maneuver.

Rachel bit her lip. “I’ll think about it as well.”

“He’s my husband. I love him. I just want to take him home.” Amy laid her head on Rachel’s shoulder and sobbed.

Rachel held her. Her mind spun, trying to figure out the best way to help her friend.

The following morning, Rachel spun her chair around and stared out her office window. Yawning, she focused her gaze on the building across the way. It didn’t have any significance; she just needed something to stare at so she could think. She had lain awake most of the night, wrestling with Amy’s problem and the Earl of Glenbourne’s need for a wife.

Shutting her eyes, she got comfortable in her chair by relaxing her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap. In her one hand, she clicked a pen. Her office door was always kept slightly ajar. The drone of office chatter, phones ringing, and the intermittent bursts of the copier just outside her office served as white noise.

Around and around the problems went like a merry-go-round. She had just spent half a morning going through a list of candidates she’d sourced from local dating sites. But after running them through her pre-application checklist, she had come up empty. Desperate, she’d looked at all the female employees at Bixby International. The single ones. But asking an employee to marry a complete stranger might break some laws. Then she went through her alumni directory from college. Most of the women had high-powered positions, and those that didn’t were happily married, at home with children at their feet.

With her legs crossed, she rolled her pen between her fingers. She’d do it herself if she weren’t afraid of flying. Or if she didn’t suffer from terrible homesickness. The bonus alone would make it worthwhile. That would definitely sort out Amy’s problems.

Her pen fell to the floor.

Why can’t I marry him? It’s only for three months!

All sorts of objections and protests blew through her mind. Ignoring them, she turned her chair back around to face her desk. Tapping her pen on her desk, a spark of excitement popped. This happened every time she came up with a solution to a problem. She pulled the contract from a pile and began to study it. It was the first thing she’d done after she’d left her boss’s office: draw up a contract for whomever would fit this bill. She’d figured she could work back from there.

The confidentiality clause would be no problem. Rachel was lots of things, but she wasn’t a blabbermouth. But trying to explain herself to her family would be tricky. They all knew about her fear of flying. But she’d get around it. Then there was the part about playing the earl’s wife in public. It would be difficult to fake intimacy in public. By the end of her last relationship, she had had trouble faking the fact she even liked her boyfriend. Her sparse dating history came to mind. She had been unlucky in love. Just could never find the right one. She had resigned herself to the fact that she would be single, and she was perfectly okay with that. She loved her job, she had a nice home, and she was very close to her family. She was content. But this opportunity gave her the chance to experience being married for a little while. In her old age, when her nieces and nephew came to visit her in the nursing home, she’d be able to smile and tell them how she had been married to an earl for three months. That might prove to be a worthy experience.

But she had to think things through. Thomas Yates was desperate for a wife. And that gave her some leverage. If she did it, there’d have to be some conditions.

***

Thomas glanced at his watch. Rachel Parker was five minutes late. He was more than curious to see who she’d come up with on such short notice.

“Don’t worry, Lord Glenbourne. Our Rachel will have a brilliant solution,” Mr. Bixby reassured him.

He hoped so. Thomas continued to pace after declining an offer to sit down. The clock was ticking. It was less than a week until he turned thirty-five.

There was a firm knock on the door, followed by the entrance of Rachel Parker. She was a tall, slim woman with long, dark hair, dark eyebrows, and dark eyes. She wore a solid-colored pencil skirt with a print blouse. Though she was tall and wore heels, she still didn’t meet the earl’s height.

Carrying a pile of manila folders in her left hand, she extended her right hand to him, smiling. “Lord Glenbourne, it’s good to see you again.” When she smiled, her whole face lit up. Up close, her skin was creamy, and there was a constellation of freckles across her nose.

“Likewise,” he replied. She had a good grip.

She laid her manila folders on her boss’s desk. Turning to Thomas, she said, “I think I may have come up with a plausible candidate.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, trying to mask the relief in his voice.

“Rachel has never let anyone down,” Mr. Bixby piped in from behind his desk.

“Won’t you sit, please,” she said, indicating one of the chairs with a gesture of her hand.

Once they were seated, Thomas looked at her expectantly.

She drew in a deep breath. “Let me begin by saying that I’ve identified two problems with your request. The first is time. There isn’t enough time to properly identify and find an appropriate spouse and vet them at the same time.”

“Would they need to be vetted? It’s only three months,” he pointed out. There really was no need to complicate matters.

“What if someone had a lot of debt? Or a disreputable background?” she said. “Although I don’t think you’d be responsible for it, it might give you a black eye in the press.”

He sighed. “That’s the last thing I want. Unfortunately, I’m an object of attention in the press back home.” He brushed his fingers along his mouth, cupping his jaw. “And the second thing?”

“The second thing is confidentiality. Although we would require the candidate to sign a non-disclosure agreement and make the bonus conditional on it, there’s no guarantee that she wouldn’t sell her story after the bonus was fully paid out. You’re in Ireland; she’s over here. Can we be sure that your privacy won’t be violated? That she won’t someday tell the world it was all a sham?”

Thomas winced at the use of the word “sham.” He considered himself to be honest and trustworthy. “Have you not found a bride for me yet?” He saw Bixby glance at her.

“Actually, I have found someone that I think might work well,” she said with a smile.

Her boss smiled at her.

“Me,” she said.

“You?” Thomas said.

“Yes, I’m suggesting myself for the three-month position,” she said.

Mr. Bixby slapped the top of his desk. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, Rachel.”

Thomas was doubtful and refrained from comment. He had expected someone a bit more glamorous. Not that Rachel Parker wasn’t attractive. She was. In a wholesome, girl-next-door kind of way. But he lived on an estate, and there were no girls next door. There was no next door. Based on her professional appearance, he didn’t know if she could pull off the role of Lady Glenbourne.

Her smile disappeared. “Do you find fault with the idea?”

“She’s perfect!” Mr. Bixby said at the same time. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of this myself!”

The earl quickly shook his head. How did he explain this without offending her? “No, I was looking for someone . . . ah . . . a bit closer to my own social circle.”

She tilted her head, and her hair fell like a drape down the front of her shoulder. “Then I would suggest that you look for a wife in that social circle.” She turned away from him, her back stiffened.

“Miss Parker, I certainly did not mean to offend you,” he said, stepping closer to her. Her perfume was something light and flowery.

“Too late,” she replied.

He scratched the back of his head and lifted his eyebrows. It was only for three months. And her arguments had been valid. Finally, he said, “Tell me the details.”

Without looking at him, she opened up several of the manila folders, and, like an illusory artist, she picked up piece after piece of paper, explaining everything in detail. She finished with, “We can go apply for the marriage license today and be married tomorrow in a civil ceremony.”

And just like that, all his problems would be solved.

“However, I do have a few personal conditions of my own,” she said. There was a slight tremor in her voice, and he looked up at her sharply.

“And they are?”

She handed him a neatly printed list. He scanned the list, raising an eyebrow.

The Earl of Glenbourne must pay his wife one compliment per week.

One night a week, he has to cook a meal for her.

In public, he has to hold her hand. But absolutely no kissing.

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t cook, and I don’t do public displays of affection.”

She responded sweetly, “If you want a wife, then I guess you’ll have to learn.”

Mr. Bixby stood up, beaming, with his hands in his pockets. He shook his head. “Rachel, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. What a team player.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bixby.” She smiled at her boss.

“You should be running this place, not me,” her boss crowed. He turned toward the earl. “I told you she was our star player.”

Thomas looked at Rachel and then over at her boss, wondering if he had just been duped.

“I will draw up the documents, of course, for signing this afternoon. Afterward, we’ll head over and apply for the marriage license.”

He nodded, not quite believing that he was going through with this. But it was only temporary; in three months, things would go back to the way they’d always been. And Rachel Parker would return to the US.

***

The Earl of Glenbourne left the offices of Bixby International somewhat satisfied. With less than a week to go, he was on his way to saving his estate. He wouldn’t celebrate until they were actually married.

They signed all the necessary documents, including the financial arrangement, which stated that half a million dollars would be transferred to Rachel’s bank account the day after their marriage and the remainder at the end of the three months. He couldn’t help but wonder if her motive was purely financial. Although it was a major enticement, he would have wondered that about anyone who had signed up for the task.

The two of them cabbed it over to the city clerk’s office to apply for a marriage license. It all seemed straightforward. They had agreed that Rachel and Mr. Bixby would pick Thomas up at his hotel in the morning, and the three of them would drive back over to the city clerk’s office, where Mr. Bixby would serve as their witness.

Rachel Parker, though reasonably attractive with all that dark hair and those big, expressive dark eyes, was something of a plain Jane. There was minimal makeup, and her clothes would set no fashion house on fire. She would not have been someone Thomas would have chosen. But on further thought, he figured she might be okay. She might not be glamorous, but her looks were wholesome and her reputation beyond reproach, according to her boss. Thomas hoped so. The last thing he needed was a scandal that might affect his family name.

He took a cab back to his hotel, taking in the sights and the sounds of the city. He loved visiting New York, and he certainly enjoyed the commotion, but he was always happy to go home to his own bed.

There was another reason that this marriage would provide relief, other than that stipulation of the trust. The press. He had grown tired of being labeled “Ireland’s most eligible bachelor.” The situation had become desperate. Any photo of him with a member of the opposite sex of marriageable age increased speculation.

As the cab pulled up in front of his hotel, he hoped that, in keeping with the glowing recommendation from the CEO of Bixby International, Rachel Parker was up to the task of playing the role of the Countess of Glenbourne for three months.

***

“I know, Mom, but it’s only for three months,” Rachel explained as she piled clothes next to her suitcase, which lay open on her living-room sofa.

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, I think it’s wrong of Mr. Bixby to expect you to swan off to another country at the last minute. I mean, you have your own family obligations.”

Rachel looked at her mother. “Babysitting my nieces and nephew on a regular basis does not constitute family obligations to him. If I had my own husband and children, then maybe.”

At present, her two nieces, Molly and Kara, aged five and four, jumped vigorously on the sofa.

“Girls, please don’t jump,” Rachel’s mother said. “You’ll get hurt.”

Neither girl listened, and they continued to jump, their long, dark hair flying all over the place.

Rachel had not told her parents, or anyone, that the day before, she had married the Earl of Glenbourne in a ten-minute ceremony at the county clerk’s office. The bride wore business casual. She and the earl had exchanged hellos and then vows. The groom, without even looking at her, had slipped a thin gold band on her finger. There was no stopping for a drink or even a bite to eat. Thomas Yates had a plane to catch to Ireland from JFK later that evening, and Rachel went back to work. September in New York was always beautiful, and her wedding day had proved to be no exception: it had been sunny, clear blue skies and seventy-five degrees. And yet, the whole affair had depressed her.

“Jason, will you look up the weather in Ireland for me?” Rachel asked her twelve-year-old nephew. The oldest of the brood, he was quiet like Rachel’s brother and her father.

Looking up from his phone, he nodded, and his fingers did a mad scramble across the screen.

Her mother continued to grumble as she helped her pack.

Rachel would have liked to have her own family one day, but as she headed into her thirties, she wondered if it would happen for her. Her favorite places to hang out, namely the bookstore or the library, weren’t exactly hotbeds of single hookups. But she’d made peace with her single status a long time ago. If she married, fine, and if she didn’t, that was fine, too. She wasn’t the kind of person to marry just anyone simply for the sake of getting married. And yet she had done just that. She sat on the edge of the sofa, holding a cardigan in her hands. There she was, preparing to travel three thousand miles to pretend to be the wife of a man she hardly knew. And what was wrong with this man that he couldn’t find a bride of his own? A real one?

Amy and Brian came to mind, and the thought renewed Rachel’s sense of purpose and determination. She’d already hired an architect who specialized in accessible homes. Amy was going to take Brian home and have every comfort and piece of equipment needed to care for him. There’d also be staff to assist, so Amy could go back to work. Rachel had it all planned out. Amy had cried in her arms when she’d told her what was going to be happening. Rachel had opened up a bank account that was strictly for Amy and Brian. When she had checked the account that morning, she was pleased to see the money had been transferred. On the way to work, she had gotten a bank draft for the architect. There was already a meeting scheduled between Amy and the architect. They’d have to source a lot where they could build their new house, but Amy and the architect could do all that. When her friend had questioned her about the source of the money, Rachel had simply told her that it was a bonus for a complicated job. Amy had raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

Rachel looked over at her father, eating a slice of pie and sipping at his coffee. He hadn’t said much. But then, her father didn’t say too much anyway. Her mother was the one who did all the talking.

“Three months is a long time to be gone,” her mother said.

Rachel sighed. “I’ll be back home before you know it.” She wouldn’t tell her mother yet that she would have to spend Christmas in Ireland. She hadn’t wanted to think about it herself. One blow at a time.

Her mother shook her head in disbelief. “Doesn’t Mr. Bixby know you have a life?”

The blame was not with her boss. Yes, Rachel had a life, not exactly as she had wanted it, but it was a flexible one. She focused on fitting everything into the suitcase. She’d seen a YouTube video on how to pack a suitcase properly, and she’d been able to pack more things than she’d expected.

Jason sidled up next to her. Without taking his eyes off his phone, he said, “Aunt Rachel, it’s mostly a rainy, moderate climate. The highs in the summer are in the seventies and the lows in the winters are in the thirties.”

She tousled his hair, and he looked up at her with a frown. “Oops, sorry.” She smiled. Almost a teenager, he was way beyond those types of childish things.

Her mother was behind her, removing clothes from a laundry basket to sort and fold. “If I were you, I’d go in there and tell your boss in no uncertain terms that this trip would be a hardship for you.”

Rachel laughed. Her mother had always been her biggest ally, but sometimes she could be a bit over the top. “It’s not really a hardship, Mom. I mean, there are a lot of people who would kill for an opportunity like this—to travel to Ireland,” she said, wishing she was one of them.

Her mother raised her eyebrows while folding a pair of Rachel’s pajamas. “Still, I think it’s rude of him to expect you to disrupt your life for three months at the last minute.”

As a child, Rachel had suffered terrible homesickness, and at sleepovers with friends or classmates, her parents were always called in the middle of the night to come and pick her up. But even this did not constitute a hardship.

As she looked around at her townhouse, a lump formed in her throat. This had been her home for the past five years. She had been so proud when she had purchased it. It had been empowering for her to do something that big on her own, with no help, before the age of thirty. Her stomach twisted into knots when she realized she wouldn’t see it again until after Christmas.

Kara, the younger girl, fell off the sofa and hit her back against the leg of a chair. Immediately, she stood up and announced, “I’m not hurt.” But her quivering chin said otherwise.

Rachel bent down. “Let me take a look, pet.” There was no mark on her niece’s back, but Rachel gave it a reassuring rub. “It’ll be as good as new. Now, how about a snack?”

Kara nodded, still unconvinced about her back.

Molly yelled, “I want one, too!”

The girls climbed up on chairs next to Rachel’s father, who tweaked their noses. Rachel poured juice and set out a plate of cookies, and the girls helped themselves.

Her mother continued to complain. Rachel had to tune her out. There was going to be no placating her over this. She liked her family around her, nearby. They were a close-knit clan and spent a lot of time together. And now, one of her ducks was traveling to the other side of the big pond.

Rachel looked over again at her father, who had remained silent the entire time. He had finished his pie and coffee and was rinsing his dishes in the sink.

“Dad?” Rachel prompted.

He turned around, leaning against the sink. He was pushing seventy, and his once-dark hair had seemingly gone gray overnight. Her father was a quiet, kind man. She could barely remember him ever raising his voice.

Her mother stopped folding laundry and looked toward her husband as well.

“Well?” her mother asked. “Don’t you agree that this is a big inconvenience for Rachel to have to swan off to Ireland for three months?”

Rachel’s father sighed and looked directly at his daughter. “Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or will I give you my own opinion?”

Rachel swallowed hard. When her father said this, it usually meant he was going to swim against the tide that was her mother and dole out a dose of some honest advice.

“Dad, I value your opinion.”

He folded his arms across his chest and looked briefly at his wife, then back to Rachel.

“Then I think that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you would be stupid not to take it.”