The Billionaire’s Fake Wedding: Crystal Beach Resort Standalone Series- Book 3

  The Billionaire’s Fake Wedding

  Crystal Beach Resort Standalone Series- Book 3

  Hanna Hart

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  Copyright ©2018 by Hanna Hart - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books In This Series

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Fiona

  "Miss Miller, do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  Fiona blinked and looked across the desk at Doctor Harper. She nodded frantically, unable to catch her breath.

  "Yes. Yes, I understand," she said slowly as she looked over the various medical papers spread out on the desk before her. She tried to replay the medical jargon Dr. Harper had been spouting off, but she knew there was no point in trying to decipher it.

  There was no point because she already knew what the bottom line was.

  She was going to die.

  "Shall I put you on the list?" Dr. Harper asked, and Fiona raised both brows absent-mindedly.

  Should she be put on the list for a heart transplant?

  Anyone else would have given an immediate yes. Anyone else probably would have come for a checkup far before Fiona ever did.

  “I can’t afford it,” she said finally, folding her hands together and setting them on her lap.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at Dr. Harper. He was, after all, rich. That was the general consensus for doctors, wasn’t it? If he were faced with the option of losing his life or getting a transplant, he would have no problem making the right decision.

  The average wait time for a heart transplant was one-hundred and ninety-one days. Fiona only had sixty. Maybe.

  And even if, by some miracle, she lived to see the day where her beeper went off and indicated that there was a heart waiting for her, she would never be able to afford the one-point-four-million-dollar price tag associated with it.

  “Fiona,” Dr. Harper said in a lecturing, parental way. “There are insurance options and loans that could help you here.”

  "I don't have insurance," she offered him a shrug and couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of their conversation, though she was sure he had similar ones all the time. "And there's no way I could get a loan for it."

  Could she go bankrupt on a hospital debt? She didn't know. But her ruined credit had already racked up over sixty thousand dollars’ worth of debt that she couldn't pay back.

  But then, how much was she willing to pay to save her own life?

  It was a question so odd, it almost seemed other-worldly.

  “There are organizations in place for this. Online fundraising communities and the like,” the doctor insisted.

  “Who’s going to give me money?” she snorted. “Strangers?”

  “It happens every day,” Dr. Harper said as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Not to me,” she said. “And certainly not a million bucks.”

  The conversation drifted on with Fiona’s doctor being so insistent and Fiona being so obstinate that at one point he asked her, “Miss Miller… do you want to die?”

  The question shocked her, and she had to stop and think about it. Her eyes roamed around the office, and she eyed the various books that lined the cabinets behind her doctor. She looked at the anatomically correct figurines along his shelf and the stacked boxes of medication samples that he no doubt had mailed to him on a daily basis. Then her eyes found Ruby, her one-year-old daughter, sleeping soundly in the lime green and gray stroller next to Fiona.

  No. Of course, she didn’t want to die.

  She had a daughter to live for.

  But getting her hopes up for a procedure she couldn’t afford wouldn’t get her anywhere. She needed to find a real solution. She needed money, fast. Faster than her housekeeping job.

  Doctor Harper continued to try to problem-solve with her, but she had no line of credit, no house to mortgage, no family to help her out of this mess.

  The doctor told Fiona to give it a few days and to call his office if she changed her mind. She let out a heavy sigh and took hold of her baby stroller before pushing her daughter out of the office.

  “Come on, baby,” she said to Ruby as she hoisted the stroller down the three-step staircase coming out of her doctor’s office.

  Fiona was born with dilated cardiomyopathy. Her left ventricle was enlarged and weak. A little like her spirit was right now.

  It was the same genetic disease that her mother died from and probably the only thing her mother ever gave her.

  Thanks, mom.

  Fiona took the long way home, walking through the neighborhoods she used to love as a child. She strolled the red brick walkways down by the water before making her way through West Jones Street and stared at all the beautiful old homes with their brick roadways, iron staircases, and old painted shutters. It was one of her favorite stretches in Savannah.

  By the time she’d taken the bus to the outskirts of the city, she was home.

  A fluorescent dusty rose motel sign that was barely flickering with light greeted her.

  She lived, and worked, at a two-star motel located at the end of a strip mall. It was two floors. No elevator.

  She pulled Ruby’s stroller up the stairs carefully and already felt winded from the effort. Her illness left her with a general, never-ending fatigue. But something told Fiona that even if she didn’t have a life-threatening disease, she’d still be tired after hauling the stroller up the staircase. That thing was heavy.

  Fiona pushed into room two-zero-two, put Ruby in her crib, and then flopped down on the lumpy mattress.

  She wracked her brain thinking of ways she could come up with the money for her surgery. She even, momentarily, wondered how difficult it would be to flee to a third-world country and pay for some sort of secret operation.

  But from the illegal and extremely shady implications of that scenario down to how she could afford the plane ticket, Fiona didn’t even know where to begin pulling that ridiculous idea apart.

  She stayed locked in her room for a few hours before she wandered out to the plastic chair directly outside her front door. She brought Ruby out on her lap and watched as her fellow housekeeper, Kathleen Ormond, began to ascend the wobbly staircase and approach her.

  “Fi!” the husky woman said, holding up a hand in greeting, “How’d your day go, my dear?”

  “Same ole,” Fiona shrugged. “How about you?”

  “The boys in the room next to mine are disgusting,” Kathleen said with an over-exaggerated widening of her eyes. “Have I ever mentioned that before?”
<
br />   Fiona smiled knowingly. “I believe you have. About five times this week.”

  “Then make this a sixth,” Kathleen said before taking the seat next to Fiona. “If I stay here any longer I’m going to die.”

  Fiona nearly flinched at the phrase. She straightened in her chair and then offered her neighbor a laugh. “How long are they here for?” she asked.

  “Just long enough for me to rip my weave out,” the swarthy woman said with a gentle sass.

  “Sounds like drastic measures are in order!”

  “And how’s my baby girl?” Kathleen said, taking Ruby from Fiona’s lap. Kathleen leaned back in her chair and shifted from side to side to get comfortable. “You have a good day? Conquer any lands? Break any hearts?”

  Ruby looked up at Kathleen with big blue eyes and a quizzical smile.

  “Give it time,” Kathleen said to the child, tapping her on the nose. Then she looked back at Fiona and asked, “Any luck on the job hunt?”

  “With this little one?” Fiona said, nodding toward her daughter. “No chance. I mean, she’s cute, but she’s a screamer, and guess what I learned today? That puts people off.’

  “You should track down her daddy,” Kathleen said in a huff. “Get some support.”

  “Nah. He doesn’t—” Fiona began to say and then thought better of it. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin to find him.”

  “Fi!” Kathleen scolded. “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Right now it is!” Kathleen said. “How much do you owe this hotel?”

  Fiona shrugged. Usually, she worked cleaning rooms to make up for her rent at the hotel, but business had been slow lately, and the owners weren’t too content with letting her stay rent-free.

  “Plenty,” she finally answered with a sigh.

  Kathleen bounced Ruby on her knee, but her eyes didn’t leave Fiona. She could tell something was wrong, Fiona just knew it.

  “You okay, girl?” the older woman asked and Fiona nodded.

  “Long day,” she lamented with a raise of her brows.

  “Tell you what,” Kathleen said slowly. “Come over to my place and have some dinner.”

  “Nah, it’s alright,” Fiona said in a tired, scratchy voice. Though in truth, she didn’t know how she was going to eat tonight. “I think I’ll just hang out here.”

  “Come on,” Kathleen said, stretching with effort to stand up with the little baby in her arms. Her words were no longer an invitation so much as they were a motherly order. “Come over, fill your belly. Feed your baby.”

  Fiona watched her workmate for a moment before falling into a resigned smile and standing up.

  “Let me grab my bag,” she said and disappeared into the motel room.

  Kathleen lived in the Cloverdale area on Audubon Drive. It was a curving, sidewalk-less neighborhood with small houses and large lawns. There were quaint mailboxes that lined the ends of the street, though most of the houses looked like they could use a little TLC.

  The little white house had bubble windows at the front that reminded Fiona of a spaceship of some kind, and their driveway was cracked, and half of it was grown over with grass.

  To anyone else, it may have seemed like a beaten down property, but to Fiona, it was paradise.

  And better than living out of a motel room with poor water pressure.

  Stepping through the door, Fiona could tell the little home was well loved.

  The home was small but felt absolutely perfect as soon as Fiona stepped in. It was all in the atmosphere. She had been there a handful of times before in the last year, and every time she walked through the doors she got an immediate feeling of family.

  Kathleen's husband Waller came out from down the hallway. He was a round, balding man with a friendly smile.

  “Well, look who’s coming to dinner!” he greeted cheerfully and drew Fiona into a great big hug.

  She laughed at the sudden affection and watched as Kathleen’s daughter, Amaya, and Waller’s niece, whom they were fostering, came barreling down the hallway.

  “Can we play with Ruby?” the little five-year-old Amaya asked, reaching her hands up to grab Ruby.

  “Go wash your hands,” Kathleen scolded playfully and rolled her eyes at Fiona.

  The whole house smelled of spicy jambalaya and something sweet and sugary. Maple something, maybe.

  The six of them sat down together for supper and Fiona couldn’t help but feel a spike of jealousy as she watched Waller dishing up everyone’s plates, including a plate of mashed sweet potato and banana for Ruby.

  She saw the way he looked at Kathleen, the way he smiled at her, and couldn’t help the sadness that washed over her.

  "Has she told you about her visitors on the bottom floor?" Fiona asked with a grin.

  "Oh yes," Waller said with a chuckle that rocked his whole body. "I hear one new whopper of a story every day about them. I can't wait until they're gone."

  "You can't wait?" Kathleen said, staring wide-eyed at her husband before playfully smacking the table and exclaiming, "You're not the one who has to clean up for them!"

  "No," he said gently, "I clean up the sewer lines in my time." Then Waller paused for dramatic effect and asked, "We can switch if you want, dear."

  "Oh, here we go!" Fiona announced with a devilish grin, eyeing between the two as though there were going to be a fight.

  "No, no, no!" Kathleen laughed and stood up to go grab the salt, but Waller grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap.

  "By all means!" he cheered. "If you want to trade picking up the muck and guck from under our city and I'll start picking up old chip bags and dirty socks at the motel, I say where do I sign!"

  Kathleen laughed and batted him away, once again rolling her eyes toward Fiona.

  They were a terribly likable couple. They both laughed a lot and just by watching them, Fiona could tell they were friends as well as romantic partners.

  Whenever the couple laughed together, it was all Fiona could do not to announce: “I’m dying!” amidst the dinner talk.

  The truth was, she missed marriage.

  She didn’t miss Matt, Ruby’s father. Not even a little bit. Putting up with him was like putting up with a hurricane every day. Every time he was home she felt like she was picking up after him, emotionally and physically, all day long.

  But there was a stability that came with marriage that she had grown accustomed to. Having a roof over her head and someone to take care of her.

  And now she was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

  Chapter Two

  Beckett

  For the first time in eighteen months, things for Beckett Davenport were about to start looking up.

  Considering he was a young, handsome, wealthy twenty-eight-year-old man, Beckett felt like he had just come back from war.

  That’s exactly what it was like to argue with his parents.

  Beckett hadn’t spoken to his parents in six months, after they had threatened to disown him. That meant his restaurant that he’d worked throughout his twenties to manage, his wealth, and his connections would all be stripped away from him.

  Reeling from the death of his wife, Lynne, Beckett had moved back into his parent’s beachfront condo on Nani Makai. One minute he was sleeping peacefully, and the next…

  “Beckett Oliver Davenport!”

  It was his mother. And boy, could she give a shrill scream when she wanted to.

  “Ugh. Please. Mom,” he said, enunciating each word before pulling a pillow over his head.

  He could hear footsteps behind his mother, indicating that his father, the famous celebrity chef Colton Davenport, was also tromping around his room now.

  “We can’t keep doing this with you!” his mother pleaded, and he could hear the emotion welling up in her voice already.

  He frowned and pushed the pillow up toward the headboard to sneak a peek at his parents.

  “What?” he said, still half asleep as he
struggled to follow their blurry bodies along the spacious bedroom.

  “Do you know how hard your mother works to keep your name out of the papers?” his father demanded in a grizzled, scratchy tone. “Do you know?”

  “I’m guessing ‘very,’ is the answer you’re looking for,” Beckett snarled.

  “Very!” his father repeated hastily, marching around the room in a rage. “She does this to protect you since… since what happened! And what do you do? You spit in her face.”

  Beckett let out a sigh and sat up in his bed. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to get his bearings.

  “I would never spit in mom’s face,” he said wryly. “That’s just rude.”

  “I don’t need attitude from you, Beckett,” his mother said and sat down on the side of his bed. She pressed a hand against her head in classic, over-dramatic Bebe Colton fashion. “I know you’re hurting.”

  “Mom,” he said firmly, and she shook her head.

  “I know you’re—”

  Beckett cut her off, raising a hand in protest. “I’m not hurting,” he snapped.

  “You are,” she said forcefully, meeting his eyes. “And you want to know how I know you are? Because only people who are hurting sleep until four in the afternoon.”

  “And drunks!” his father added, still pacing the hardwood.

  “Thanks, dad,” he snorted.

  His mother stared down at him with pain in her eyes and brushed a hand through his blond hair. He bristled against the touch and pulled away.

  “Beckett,” she said in a slow, deliberate way, “We can’t keep doing this with you.”

  With that, she pulled a newspaper out from under her arm, and he couldn’t help but wonder, who reads the newspaper anymore?