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Faking it never felt so good in this red-hot new standalone by New York Times bestselling author K. Bromberg—available in audio first!
Zane Phillips mistook me for his dog walker. It shouldn’t surprise me that the man with a suit more expensive than my rent would assume that I was there to serve him. The positive? I put him in his place. The negative? I missed my job interview because of it.
Now I find out he’s a rich Australian entrepreneur, and he wants to make up for tanking my interview. Yes, he’s impossibly hot – but he’s also an arrogant jackass—so . . . no thanks.
But after a little white lie I tell spirals out of control, I’m somehow offered the chance to play Zane’s girlfriend to help promote his new dating website – and the best part? He can’t say no because he’ll get caught in his lie too.
Little did I know this would entail sharing a tour bus with him for the next few months. The fact that the bus has just one bed isn’t the most ideal of circumstances, but this spokesperson gig might be the kick in the pants my career needs, so why not take a chance?
Famous last words.
Now I’m crisscrossing the country–and sharing that bed—with the one guy I can’t stand. And even worse, my traitorous body is wondering at every turn what it’s like to be down under the gorgeous Australian. But as the miles unfurl, so does our passion…and if I’m not careful, I might end up believing that fairytales really do come true.
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THERE HE IS.
You know the one. That jerk who pushes into the crowded elevator, thereby moving the mass of people so you end up shoved against the wall in the back. The one who talks too loudly on his phone so everyone knows he’s there when it’s kind of impossible not to know since he just became the twenty-fifth person on a twenty-four capacity elevator car.
“Good onya then,” his voice booms around the crowded space as we all shift when he throws an arm out to gesture. “But mate, she just wasn’t the right fit. Sure we . . . you know, but at some point, brains need to factor into the mix.” A baritone laugh. “You have no idea . . . but uh yeah . . . it’s all a crock. No one believes anyone meeting on a site like that wants anything more than sex . . . meaningful goes out the door the minute you swipe whichever way you have to swipe.”
I roll my eyes as the people around me shift in discomfort. I stare at the back of his head. At the glimpse of dark lashes and the dust of stubble when he turns his head for the slightest of seconds.
His Australian lilt makes me want to listen to him all day long while the content makes me want to tune him out.
I’m done with dicks. Well, not actual dicks—those definitely have their purpose—but jerk dicks. The guys who think they’re too cool for everything. Who think you owe them a date when they hold a door for you . . . well, never mind, that doesn’t happen anymore. Chivalry is dead.
This guy owns the space. Doesn’t care that anyone else is on the elevator and if he did, he just wants us all to know how awesome he is when he probably still lives at home with his mom.
It seems way too many men do these days.
Oh hey, my name is Harlow Nicks . . . a model just trying to make her place in this big, bad world.
So here’s where my story begins . . . I’ll let you read the rest for yourself.
“CRAP.” I GLANCE AT MY paperwork and the ink where I’d written the interview location is smeared. I narrow my eyes and try to discern the suite number: either three hundred and thirteen or three hundred and eighteen.
Thirteen. I’ll go with thirteen.
Or is it eighteen?
With a deep breath I put my hand on the knob of suite three hundred and thirteen just as it’s pulled open.
“Good. You’re here.”
I look up startled to find Arrogant Aussie Guy from the elevator, a look of impatience on his face and irritation etched in his voice. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him so I chalk it up to the elevator ride.
“Yes. Hi. I’m here for—”
“You’re late. Smudge needed to go out thirty minutes ago. Promptness is what I pay you for.”
“Wait. No. I’m not—”
And before I know it, a leash is thrust into my hands and I’m distracted by a very excited bulldog. He snorts and then lunges down the hallway before I have a firm grip on the leash.
Taken off guard on all accounts—the door that was just shut in my face, the dog now bounding down the hallway—it takes me a second to get my wits. Instinct has me chasing after the dog. I can’t just let him run away.
“Smudge!” I say in a harsh whisper as I try to chase after him in high heels that don’t do well at top speeds. Smudge? What the hell kind of name is that?
But I chase. Not because I want to but because it’s the right thing to do regardless of whether his owner mistook me for the dog walker or not.
It takes forever to corner the cute little bastard. He’s all snorts and wiggles and has the most adorable but ugliest face I’ve ever seen.
That is until he makes a dash to escape me.
It takes everything I have to not fall flat on my face when my heel gets caught in a rug. I hear the snap. Any woman who wears heels knows that sound and cringes before they even look down.
My heel is broken.
And I have an interview.
I lift my heel and try to put it in back in place—the tack of the remaining glue and a few of the staples holding it in place by a thread—but know without even attempting to put weight on it, that it’s going to fall off if I try.
Of course this happens to me.
I shouldn’t even be surprised.
Deciding that I can stand on my tip toes and fake the heel being fine once I get to my interview, I take it off. With gritted teeth and the leash in my hand, I cringe when I check my watch, but getting the damn dog to move is impossible. Another few minutes pass before I finally get I-refuse-to-budge-Smudge to move. With enough coaxing, I limp back to the office.