Two Truths and a Marriage Read Online Nicole Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)

The grumpiest billionaire accidentally scores a sunshiny fake fiancee and pure chaos in this hilarious, sweet, and deliriously steamy romance by Wall Street Journal bestselling author Nicole Snow.

I can still pinpoint the exact second when my life became two truths and a lie.
You don't forget delivering a mountain of fresh-baked sweets to a man like Dexter Rory.
I never wanted to see his scowling, bossy, brutally godlike face again, no matter how well he tipped.
If you told me I'd wind up wearing his ring, I would've died laughing.

But here I am, trying to cling to my sanity while I confront the undeniable.
Truth #1: I'm spiritually allergic to this man.
He's as grumpy as a storm, twice as unpredictable, and he thinks my life's work is the devil.
Truth #2: I need his money—it's the only Hail Mary I have to keep my family bakery alive.

That's why we're living a ginormous lie that can't last.
I mean, who would believe we're engaged when we can barely share the same oxygen?
But Dexter can be wickedly convincing when he needs a win.
And the way he kisses me dizzy right in front of my adoring grandmother...
Hello, butterflies.

What happens when the truth matters less by the day?
What happens when you start falling in love with a lie?

This standalone read brings heat, heart, and mammoth feels all the way to the happily ever after. Witness two opposites attract, collide, and go down fighting the beautiful truth called love.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



There are days when I wish I was a college girl.

Not often, mind you. And not because I love the thought of having a gazillion dollars in debt on my shoulders, either. Because with the Sugar Bowl creaking along on its last legs, the very last thing we need is more debt.

But a few more math classes would sure as hell help my brain hurt less with these numbers.

“That can’t be right,” I spit.

I rub my eyes, squinting at the spreadsheet for the fifth time.

Nobody warned me that inheriting a business means spending more time hunched in front of a computer screen than actually working. My already pale skin practically glows white. I’m ninety percent sure the blue light from the screen is making my hair frizz.


Ugly money numbers.

Numbers with sharp teeth and a ferocious appetite for chewing up my dreams.

Yeah, things aren’t looking good.

I take a break from the nightmare on the screen and glance around. The back office looks about like it did in Nana’s time.

Same old tall metal filing cabinets propped up against the dusty wallpaper—probably less dusty when Nana ran the shop with an iron fist, of course—and the old faded photos hanging everywhere.

Same awards plastered to the wall. Newspapers and cards and bronze plaques proclaiming some version of best in Kansas City! for more years than I can count.

As I always do when I need a moment to get my wits, I stand up, push my chair back—ignoring that one squeaky wheel that cuts my ears—and pace the room, slowly taking in the wall of photos.

There’s Nana, young and bright, standing by the shop with her parents on its opening day in June, 1955. The date is recorded at the bottom of the photo, taken at a time when the world would shine in black and white with a certain charm no Instagram filter will ever match.

My gaze flicks to photos of the interior renovation in the late fifties. And again right around 1970. Before 2000, the Sugar Bowl had a stunning redesign every decade or two, and each one generated a flurry of news and happy, hungry customers pouring in for the grand reopening.

Unimaginable now.

I’m surrounded by an entire gallery of reasons to succeed, to keep going, to remember this bakery’s greatness. But I’m also buried in the fact that those fond memories and fabulous accolades come to a screeching halt in 2021—the year Nana stepped down.

Glaring evidence of my failure to take flight.

This is my family’s legacy, all wrapped up in a store that used to soar.

With me at the helm, it’s struggling to even crawl.

It’s enough to make my throat close up.

If I was the woe-is-me type, I’d have thrown in the towel a year ago. Instead, I put my hands on my hips and look around. My eyes stop on another photo, Nana and my mother when she was a little girl.

“You better not be watching, Mom,” I warn. “This isn’t my finest hour. I mean… neither was last year or the year before that. Come back in a few. The store will be hopping again or the sign will be swinging in the wind.”

I wince at another possibility—we’ll keep stumbling along, just like we have been since I took over the place, twenty-two and fresh-faced. Back when I still had a boyfriend and sky-high hopes for the future.

Better times.

Easier times.

I take one last melancholy look around at every sharp reminder of why I need to step it up—and why I suck—before turning back to my computer.

“Hunk of crap,” I whisper. The ancient thing was probably on the Titanic with its boxy monitor that’s big enough to fit Nana’s flower garden inside.

One day, it’ll give up the ghost, just like everything else here, but I don’t dare replace it.

Not when revenue looks so thin I’ll be lucky to buy an ink cartridge for the printer next quarter.

My chest swells as I sigh and melt into my chair.

The spring menu’s pushing new coffees and light pastries, but they’re lower ticket items for a fast-casual customer base.

Two weeks ago, the ovens randomly stopped firing and our accountant retired, meaning we had to shell out big bucks for a new guy with triple the fees.

Not to mention the payroll needed to run this place, cutting deeper and deeper into my skeletal profits.

My projected turnover, if these damn numbers are to be trusted, looks like—

Well, let’s just say it’s litterbox territory.

Instead of pressing my face into my hands and screaming until my throat rips—totally reasonable under the circumstances—I lean forward until my forehead thunks against the screen.

The very hot screen.

Which almost certainly shouldn’t be hot enough to slow cook an egg.

“Oh, no. Oh, shit,” I hiss, shoving back and almost knocking the giant machine off the creaking desk.

That’s when Emmy pokes her head in. Perfect timing. “Hey, Junie!” she says, tucking her static curls back with one hand. “There’s a guy waiting at the register.”