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Fake Fiancee Can’t Get Enough
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I hate her guts… and need every single inch of her.
Her drunk-driving brother killed my mother in an accident. Now I’m about to get deported back to Canada unless I do something drastic.
So we get married.
Stupid idea, I know, since I despise her. But she wants to make things right, and I’m willing to let her try.
Problem is, she’s gorgeous. Every curve, every inch of her drives me wild with pure animal need.
I can’t help but take my anger out on her…
Now we’re stuck in this fake marriage from hell. I want her and hate her and don’t know what to do.
If I don’t figure it out soon, I might drive her away forever.
Another Can’t Get Enough! This is probably my hottest to date. It was a lot of fun writing a story where he really hates her at first, but can’t help himself anyway. If you like a really steamy read with just a teeny tiny bit of bullying (and some groveling at the end), then this is for you. It’s hate-to-love and it’s a blast! As always, there’s no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a happily-ever-after is guaranteed. Enjoy! xo, BB
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I’ve never felt so terrified knocking on a door before in my entire life.
I don’t really know the man beyond this door. It’s just a little townhouse in South Philadelphia, in a quiet little neighborhood that I’ve probably biked through a million times over the years but never really noticed.
I think I might throw up, seriously vomit right on the sidewalk, but that probably wouldn’t help things at all.
So I knock. I knock on the stupid door and I stand there, feeling all terrified and vomity, waiting for this total stranger to come talk to me.
Knowing full well that he probably hates my guts.
Actually, he definitely does. Not that I can blame him. That’s actually why I’m here.
I shift nervously from foot to foot. I don’t hear anything inside, and I’m about to turn and run away like a coward, but suddenly there’s movement. The door unlocks. It swings open.
He stands there, staring out at me with a look between surprise and pure, vicious hate on his handsome face.
He’s gorgeous. I can’t help myself. Just looking at him makes my body tremble. He’s tall, easily over six feet, and muscular. He has tattoos on his arms, though I’ve only ever glimpsed them from a distance, and only ever just peeking out from the sleeve of a dress shirt.
His eyes are startling and green, and he has just the perfect amount of stubble. He looks tired though, like he hasn’t slept for a few days, but that somehow only makes him so much hotter.
I stare at him and suddenly don’t know what to say.
“What are you doing here?” he says.
That knocks some sense into me. “Hi,” I say, and instantly feel so stupid. I rush onward before he can object. “My name’s Grace. I know I’m the last person you probably want to see but I just… can I talk to you?”
He stares at me. The hate in his expression is so vicious, so visceral, that I think he might actually hit me. I mean, seriously, for a second I think he might hit me, all five foot five of me, right in the face.
Instead, he jerks his head. “Five minutes,” he says, and disappears back inside.
I hesitate there. I don’t know why he’s letting me in, honestly. I thought he’d just tell me to fuck off, I’d yell my apology at a shut door, and get the hell out of here. I’d try and put this entire fucked-up thing behind me, even if it never would go away, not entirely, not really.
Not for my brother and definitely not for this gorgeous stranger’s mother.
I follow him inside. The townhouse is tastefully decorated, which shouldn’t surprise me. From what I know about his mother, she had amazing taste. Exquisite little paintings line the wall, the floor tiled in this amazing little circular pattern of dark reds and blues, ending in polished hard wood. I walk through a clean and tasteful living room, cramped the way all Philly rowhomes are cramped, but still somehow cozy with throw blankets and pillows and a beautiful tapestry hung on the wall.
He takes me into the kitchen. He marches directly into the little space, heads to a cupboard, and pulls down a bottle of something brown. It has no label and I stare in horror as he grabs two glasses. Silently, he pours, and shoves one of them in my direction.
“You’re here,” he says. “Now you might as well drink with me.”
I don’t take the glass right away. I’m not much of a drinker and I prefer fruity, sweet drinks, but this… I can’t refuse and he knows it.
I take the glass. His gorgeous eyes stare into mine before he throws back the liquid. I follow suit, praying I don’t puke it up on his shoes.
It’s hot and disgusting. I think it’s meant to be whiskey, but it’s only vaguely whiskey. I’m pretty sure it’s paint thinner and I can’t help but cough like a moron.
He gives me a little stare, his expression unreadable.
“Okay,” he says. “Now talk. What are you doing here?”
I cough again, getting myself under control. Finally though, the coughing subsides, and I have to face him again.
Gorgeous Nathan Palmer. I know so much about him at this point, and yet I don’t know the man at all. He’s in his late twenties and worked with his mother for years. They’re originally from Canada, both Canadian citizens, but they came to America when his mother’s little boutique accounting firm started gaining customers. From what I understand, she was the face of the business, always out scouting new and interesting customers, while he was the brains. Apparently, they made a good team.
This was her house, up until a few months ago. I don’t know where he lived before this, I assume in some apartment. I didn’t bother trying to find out. I knew he was staying here though. I overheard him mention it to the lawyer one early morning, before the second day of the trial.