Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | Playboy Prince |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Crystal Kaswell |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
My playboy boss wants me to slip into a new position: Fake fiancée. After years mowing through all the eligible women in New York, Liam earned the nickname Playboy Prince. Now, the tech executive needs to clean up his reputation. He can have any women in the city. And he wants me. His purple-haired, smart mouthed assistant. Six months as his fake fiancée in exchange for the cash to fund my start-up. How can I say no? Too bad Liam is the most frustrating man on the planet. Demanding. Rebellious. Extremely charming. Plus the deep blue eyes. The devil-may-care-smile. The tattoos he hides under his suit. Pretty soon, our kisses don’t feel fake. Pretty soon, we don’t stop at kissing. Pretty soon, I do the one thing I shouldn’t: I fall in love with him. | |
| Books by Author: | Crystal Kaswell |
Chapter One
Liam
"You're like a son to me."
Shit.
Bad news.
No one follows you're like a son to me with this party is going to be off the chain. Let’s celebrate with the fine scotch I’ve been saving.
Not that I want the scotch.
I know, I know. I'm a spoiled rich kid. I'm supposed to wear designer suits, smoke cigars, sip scotch.
I've got the suit down, but the rest?
Cigars are nasty.
Scotch is bitter.
I'll take a mixed drink any day. The more embarrassing, the better. I love the look I get when I sip a cosmo or an appletini.
Men roll their eyes.
Women giggle. Ask for a sip. Fall into my fucking arms.
Easy peasy.
"Sit," Preston continues. "Have a drink with me." He motions to the leather armchair across from him. Pulls out a decanter filled with brown liquor. Two brandy glasses.
"Let me get that." I pick up the bottle. Fill both glasses. Sit in the burgundy armchair across from Preston.
The same way I have a hundred times.
Preston took over as my father figure when my dad died. Whenever I got into trouble (it happened a lot), he sat me down, told me how much he appreciated me. Then…
This.
I'm twelve again.
A helpless kid, waiting for news about his father's surgery. Desperate to hear anything other than I'm sorry, Liam, but he didn't make it.
It's the office. The stupid shelf full of economic theory.
The oak walls.
The hardwood floors.
The leather chairs.
It's too familiar.
"You're supposed to pour two ounces." He waits for me to settle. "But you've always marched to the beat of your own drum, Liam." He stares into the middle distance with a soft smile. One of those I'm lost in a memory smiles.
I appreciate the look on a former fuck. When it's oh God, do you remember that night in Paris, up against the wall? I've never come that many times before.
This?
I can't fucking do this.
"Give it a chance." Preston raises his glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers." I raise. Force a smile. Swallow a mouthful.
A little sweet, fruity, the distinct taste of expensive alcohol.
Not my preference. But if I'm having this fucking conversation?
I down half my glass.
Preston sets his on the side table. "How is it?"
"Fucking fantastic." I finish the rest. Refill. Settle into my seat.
Preston holds his gaze. The parental one I know. Only mixed with something I can't place.
Usually, I read people well. It's the key to fucking with them properly.
Right now—
It's bad. I know it's bad.
"Harrison's wedding is going to be great." I swallow another sip. Try to find some other change in subject. Harrison is Preston's son. His only son. This is prime celebration time.
Not prime sitting in the study wistfully time.
But, hey, there's booze. That's the common denominator. Drink to celebrate. Drink to mourn. Drink to numb.
Doesn't matter as long as it's good.
"It will be quite the spectacle." Preston nods. "He's over the moon. He adores her."
"It's good to see him in love." It would be. If his fiancée wasn't as awful as she is gorgeous.
"It is. He's over the moon." His eyes go to his cup of brandy. "I said that, didn't I?"
"Good to hear it twice." My next sip is sweeter. Fruitier. The alcohol is working. Thank fuck.
"I want him to enjoy the festivities without worrying about me."
"We've got a boss bachelor party planned."
"I'm afraid I'm losing my ability to keep up appearances."
Fuck.
"Liam, I mean it. You're like a son to me. Simon and Adam too." He mentions my older brothers. "And Bash… I still feel that loss. I can't imagine how much you miss him."
No, we're not going there. This conversation is torture enough. We're not adding my kid brother's death to it. "He was unstoppable."
"You've always been my most difficult son." He offers a soft laugh. "The best liar."
I don't like where this is going.
"I need your help now."
"Anything."
"I'm dying."
All the air leaves my lungs at once.
The room stills.
I can hear the hum of the air conditioner, taste the apricot in the brandy, smell the leather and oak.
He just—
I—
Fuck.
"I hate to tell you this way, son. I do." His words are practiced. Sure. "I hate to ask this of you."
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
"This is Harrison's time. The happiest in his life. I want him to enjoy his wedding without this specter hanging over his head."
"He'd want to spend time with you."
"He will. After the honeymoon. We're setting up the London office together. For six months. That's longer than… I'll tell him once we're settled."
That sounds like bullshit, but I can't exactly argue. Hey, dying father figure, take my advice on how to handle your relationship with your son. 'Cause I'm the expert.
"I know how much I'm asking, Liam. But I need your help."
"How?"
"The symptoms are starting to show. He's going to notice."
"And you need me to cover for you?"
"Like you did for Harrison, when he snuck out to meet his girlfriend."