A/N: I recently re-watched 'The Wedding Date', and found myself thinking 'fun'. Obviously the film struck a cord, and I am adding another WIP on my list. The chapters will be short and I predict a short story in all essence. Hopefully, or well, I'll try. There will be no beta, just me, so heads up. Hope you'll enjoy (?)

Polly. Molly. Brunette. Brunette. Staring at the images available to her on her laptop screen, with the curly haired Tom Abbot clutching his Polly, the half-Italian former model with the obscenely long legs that now worked as a biologist minimized her previous fear. The one fear she shared with Mary when she'd just heard of Tom's engagement after having spent a couple of months with 'the most amazing woman he'd ever met'; that this woman would be a copy of her.

Luckily the photographs certainly put an end to those thoughts, unluckily other thoughts started to flutter through her system, especially as the wedding invitation sat docile on her coffee table reminding her of her own non-existent love life. She was still very single, and somehow, this was a very bad thing according to their mutual set of friends, "You don't still have – feelings – for him?" Despite her refusals, which came hurried and unrehearsed – no one believed her; as her being single made everyone think she was going to go into hysterics any time soon.

She considered not going, pretending that work was too much at an uproar, though she could feel her best friend Meena practically snort at that, "Honestly, it's dead people they can wait." But, the nonbelievers in her lack of distress went, "Oh, are you upset about him getting married?" They assumed her not going meant she wanted him back, which was why she ticked off 'yes' with a 'plus one'. But the news travelled fast, rather quicker than she'd assume when Tom's foreign number showed up on her phone, "Got yourself a boyfriend, then?" he said, sounding absolutely delighted, "Polly wants to hear all about him."

This was how she found herself with Mary Morstan, the only one she could properly commiserate with, and the only one who she knew wasn't invited to the wedding, besides the rest of the lot, but the only sympathetic ear at least. "Obviously she wanted to hear all about him. She probably doesn't even want you to come," said Mary shaking her head, "So…I'm getting from your face that you lied."

"Yep," said Molly taking a large swallow of her wine, which Mary watched warily, unfortunately still breastfeeding Adelaide, "Told them I've been seeing someone for months."

"Have you?" said Mary mildly puzzled.

Molly settled her glass of wine on the table with a sigh, her fingers clutching firmly at the stem of the glass, "Ian."

"Ian?" Mary's bemusement reached new levels, "Ian?"

"First name that came to my head," said Molly giggling, "After that it became easier lying, even I started believing that Ian existed."

Mary gave her a sympathetic smile, "What are you going to do when they find out Ian's a fake?"

She averted Mary's eyes at that, bringing the glass quickly to her lips again, savouring the wine, as Mary's eyes narrowed, "Molly."

Putting down the empty glass, she looked at Mary, "I've – I've done something really, really stupid."

It was amazing what some online shopping could get you; she'd only intended to buy a new jumper to subdue any urge of self-pity, which had been alarmingly high, but then again wine had been involved.

"How stupid?" said Mary.

Instead of a new jumper or any kitten-pattern socks, she'd bought 'a boyfriend' or well an escort was the term set by him, however, possibly commonly known as, "A prostitute!" said Mary with wide eyes, her voice a screech.

Her head was pounding already, the hangover appearing all-too soon, but it was already paid for – an alarming sum – a whooper – "6000 pounds!" exclaimed Mary horrified, who soon meant she'd been cheated, "This bloke didn't claim he was a Prince or something?"

The flight had been dreadful, filled with various assortments of exuberantly drunk people, some of them blissfully unaware of her state of mind – her date – Ian – would be awaiting her when she landed. She had argued with Mary that she had to cancel, that St Bart's would need her, that someone, or something would happen, and she really didn't have to board that plane, but Mary had more or less shoved her towards the gate.

Ian was meeting her when she landed, their correspondence had strictly taken place through email, despite his number being available for her to use. She'd barely managed to dial the number, before her nerves started to appear, pressing delete hurriedly instead, as she meant he was real. She didn't need a confirmation by hearing his voice.

Molly had seen photos after all – handsome, rugged, tall, like some male model plucked out from Vogue or Tatler, and obviously he'd have to be – at that price. He'd informed her of the other prices, the ones that were to be kept if she needed 'company' post-wedding, or pre-wedding, depending on her mood, but she'd been persistent in stating that there would be no hanky-panky.

Not exactly those words, as she was at least giving him the idea that she was a serious woman who didn't have those particular needs – "You might require it." Those were his words, like she was in a fragile state, like she actually did care that Tom was getting married, and she might have found herself guzzling down some champagne during the flight, but it was due to the mild turbulence that occurred, or at least that's what she repeatedly told herself mid-drink.

No, there were other worries really - if Ian looked at all like his photographs, and not like a middle-aged short man with glasses, but at this point she'd take anyone. She didn't care, she'd given up, as it was obvious that the only way she'd have a date was paying for one. When she'd first told Mary, the woman had gone on and on about setting her up with someone, but in the end, she gave way to the idea, "Maybe you'll learn something."

She couldn't exactly imagine what she'd learn from paying for someone to take her to a wedding, except that even love had a price tag. The whole thing was going to be an unmitigated disaster, and she was sure of it. But Molly kept her back straight, got her passport checked, picked up her luggage, and strode out to arrivals, her trolley held before her. She almost lost her nerve, eyes tearing trough the crowd of people, some waiting for their loved ones, other holding up signs, and she was slightly taken aback to see her name on one of the plaques. She stopped in her stride, taking in the sight of the short middle-aged man donning a suit. Perhaps this was Ian twenty years later, and perhaps, it only served her right, "Miss Hooper?" he said with a thick Italian accent, breaking her thread of thought.

"Ian?" she said hesitantly, blinking at him stupidly.

The man laughed in return, "No, no, miss, I am driver Michele. Take you to hotel – Mr Ian wait for you there."

"Oh," she said, Thank God.

It hadn't been a part of the plan, but she was relieved by it nonetheless, despite the suspense increasing on actually meeting the man. Michele however, talked non-stop, his speech a combination of Italian and English, forcing her to bring up her translator, but she kept up the conversation with him happily, concluding that if he had been her date, he wouldn't have at all been a dreadful one, as she spent the majority of the drive laughing.

"Bella, don't be sad! Mr Ian will be magnifico!" he said, when she turned silent, "Promise!" She only nodded her head, catching the sight of the glamorous looking hotel, which was reserved for all of the guests attending the wedding.

It's golden arches and fountain making her almost watery-eyed at the sight, a clash of colour and class, and frankly, a bit tacky. Stepping out of the car, she was quickly helped with her luggage, as she waved Michele away, the man throwing her a kiss, before driving speedily off, less mindful of the traffic when she'd left the car.

"Miss Hooper, we will take your luggage to your room – go to reception for your room key," said a young attendee with a less heavy accent, lugging her bags away, while she strode off to the front desk.

She was given the number of her room and a plastic key card. It had a double bed, and apparently, according to the toothy receptionist was one of their finest rooms. Molly wondered if it was a part of the package, her previous reservation had been a simple room, as she hadn't really thought they'd be sharing. She really hadn't thought through all of the details, though it was too late when she'd gotten into the lift. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her hands physically trembled, her teeth biting harshly into her lower lip, while she bounced on her feet, waiting for the number to turn to seven, the other passengers ignoring her. Finally, the lift stopped at her floor, and she almost ran out, slowing herself down when she saw people staring, and with a furious blush she sought out room 127. This is it, this is it, and it's now or never… Her hand was poised to enter the key card, but she pursed her lips instead, eyeing the slot with difficulty – Do not enter – was hanging on the door handle.

This didn't mean her, but she almost obeyed, wanting more than anything to possibly head downstairs to eat, and perhaps do some sightseeing, instead of just getting it over with. Just do it – she popped the card in, slid the door handle down and opened the door.

It was a beautiful room, less flamboyant than the ground floor, but still elegant. She drew for breath, eyeing the spacious room, which certainly didn't fit the profile she expected. This was a four stars room with its sitting area, large flat-screen telly, large double bed, fresh flowers, and everything that spoke volumes about the price.

Molly wondered bitterly if it was the value of 6000 pounds, her frown dropping the second she heard sounds of water running – a shower in fact – and she found her eyes widen – he was there.

Of course he'd be there! She mentally slapped herself, trying to make herself calm down, immediately pacing, and wondering if it would be rude to pop in to check – but before she'd even managed to collect her thoughts – a man strode out of the bath, a towel barely hanging around his waist.

Dark hair was plastered against his forehead, one large slender hand sliding hair away from his steely blue gaze, as water slid down his pale torso, the towel still arguing against his muscled frame.

Molly's jaw dropped, her brown eyes taking in the man who stood dripping wet in front of her, not even a tad bit bashful or ashamed.

She went from disbelief to downright anger, her cheeks turning crimson, as she ignored the fact that he was scarcely wearing anything, because he was certainly not the man she was expecting, "Sherlock!" she cried out.