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)
This must be the groom's room. It's all earth tones and leather.
"I'm gonna fuck you. Take off your panties and get on the bed, baby." Liam shoots me a get real look.
"Oh, because you've never offered to fuck me?"
"You think I'm not good for it?"
"I know you're good for it."
He chuckles, but it's not with his usual joie de vivre.
"What happened?"
"Talked with Preston."
The groom's father. The man who's like a father to Liam. Not that he'd ever admit it. "Is he okay?"
"Yeah. Just a little mix-up."
"What kind of mix-up?"
"You know how you wear that ring everywhere?"
"Only when there are stock bros to avoid."
"So everywhere."
Okay, yes, there are a lot of stock bros to avoid in the Financial District. And the rest of Manhattan. And most of Brooklyn. "I do."
"And how you're here as my date."
"Your colleague."
"Yeah. But when the Ogle McGee over there was staring at your tits, you were happy to call in your fake fiancé. And I'm happy to play my role. Even if I can't blame him for looking." He motions to my chest. "You look fucking fantastic in that dress."
"Is that your idea of a compliment?"
"I said you looking fucking fantastic."
"It was about a jackass staring at my tits."
"They're on display."
"They are not."
He raises a brow really.
"A little." It's a party. I'm dressing festively. Men don't have to deal with this bullshit. They can rock a suit from work to dinner to the damn clubs.
Women have to ride the line between professional yet formal. Wear a suit skirt to a party and everyone will think you're uptight.
Show too much cleavage or upper thigh and you're a whore.
It's lose-lose.
Usually, I don't worry about looking "professional." That's one of the things I like about Liam. He encourages me to express my personality with my clothes.
All right, maybe he likes that my personality includes tight black pants and sheer blouses. His motives aren't noble.
But I don't have to wear a suit. The ends justify the means.
"You had a point?" I fold my hands over my chest.
His eyes meet mine. "I need a favor."
"You should write that on your forehead."
"I'll make it worth your while."
Of course he will. What is it about men with money? They think they can buy anything and everything.
"You work for me."
"I'm aware," I say.
"Because I'm smart."
"You hide it well."
He nods obviously. "Because you want to learn from me when you launch your start-up."
Yes. Of course. I wouldn't work for Liam—seriously, he is the most annoying person on the planet—if he wasn't also brilliant in the area where I need the most help: finance. "Are you going to repeat things I know?"
"What if I help you?"
"Aren't you doing that?"
"Real help. Seed money. Access to my team. Advice. Everything."
Everything. As in him funding my start-up? As in me launching my mental illness support app in the next six months? That's exactly what I want and he knows it.
"I'll keep you on salary for the next year. I only want ten percent."
"What happened to it being a favor?"
"It's going to take mid-six figures."
"But—"
"If you raise funds with a venture capital firm, you'll have to give away sixty percent."
Yes, that's true. And, sure, I only know it's true because I've learned it from Liam, but—"How is it a favor if you get a percentage?"
He shoots me that same really look.
Ten percent is a lot less than sixty, but it's too much for a favor. "Five."
"Nine."
"Seven."
"Seven and a half."
That's a good deal. I offer my hand. "What do you need?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks of…"
"Two weeks of active work. Then a few where you need to… keep a secret."
"What is it, Liam?"
"You know the engagement ring you're wearing?"
"Yes."
"And how you act as my date at these events."
"Yes."
"Because I'm introducing you to people you want to meet—"
"Because you need to show up with someone respectable—"
He motions kinda. "That's all it is."
"What?"
He runs his finger over the ring on my left hand. "That's it. Two weeks. Two weeks of keeping up this ruse."
"What ruse?"
"That we're engaged."
"What—"
"I need you to play my fiancée."
Chapter Three
Briar
No.
Hell no.
No way in a million years.
How many ways can I say no?
I still remember Spanish (it's no, pretty easy). French. German.
Which language best expresses my distaste for this idea?
Liam Pierce, as my platonic date, is bad enough.
Liam Pierce as my fake fiancée?
The list of reasons to say no is a mile long.
He's a player.
He's my boss.
He takes nothing seriously.
He's way, way, way too handsome.
"People already think we're fucking," he says.
"Is that supposed to entice me?"
"Yeah. They'll think more of you if we tell them we've been dating secretly."
"People will think that's how I got my job."
"This is how you're getting your job."
"Liam!"
"They already think it." His voice stays strong. "I agree. It's bullshit. You should be able to fuck whoever you want. Including me."
Ugh.
"People shouldn't judge you for having your tits on display. Or sleeping with the hottest guy at the office."