Pretend You’re Mine
Natasha L. Black
Copyright © 2018 by Natasha L. Black
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Double Trouble (Sample)
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Introduction
I can't believe I'm that girl.
I woke up next to a complete stranger.
To top that, he’s my new husband.
He's a red-hot divorce lawyer with an ice-cold command.
Just pretend it’s real he says.
He needs a fake wife for the holidays to get his family off his back.
Maybe I can take this lemon and make lemonade..
Maybe the hot lawyer can do a trade and be m fake boyfriend in front of my parents.
Just for a few weeks.
Except we have wine with dinner. He feeds me dessert. Kisses me all the way to the bed...
All at once, it doesn’t feel like pretend anymore.
1
Naomi
I’ve had my fair share of nice dreams, but this one took the cake. Maybe it was my subconscious mind’s version of an early Christmas present?
Through my squinted eyes and throbbing headache, I could still make out that the sleeping guy in bed next to me was hot with a capital H. He had the chiseled facial planes of a Greek God, and the six-pack torso to match. Despite his eyes being closed, for some reason I knew they were the type of electric blue that made you stare, while his black hair was cut short and I had to stop myself from running my hand along the curve of his head.
In this dream, despite everything, I somehow knew I could trust this man.
Until, he opened his eyes and spoke. “Morning wife.”
Uh - what now? There was no way I’d heard him correctly. Not one way. Wife? What the actual fuck?
The eyes that were watching me were the blue I’d somehow known they would be.
It was only once my feet landed on the cool wood panels of his floor that it occurred to me that this was no dream.
His gaze was no longer on my face, but lower down where… oh shit.
Yep, there was my birthmark. The small mark right between my breasts that I only saw when I was naked.
I dove for the shirt on the floor that looked to be mine. Throwing it over me, I glared at him. “Who the hell are you?”
His brows raised. “You don’t remember last night at all?”
I paused. Last night was a blur that I’d lost the thread of somewhere around my sixth drink. And this guy…
I studied him. This guy with the blue eyes so sharp they stunned you and the obnoxiously still-bemused smile, I remembered him slightly. Or, I remembered that I had met him last night, at least.
“Babylon,” I said. “I met you at Babylon.”
“Yes.” The man rose, clearly unbothered that he was as naked as I had been. His confidence was borne of good reason too, as his painfully sculpted torso was no dream, and an equally impressive part of him looked happy to see me.
“Xander,” he said. It was then I noticed his hand was extended.
I ripped my gaze away from his rock-hard erection. “Nice to, uh, see you again, I guess. I have to go now though.”
I quickly hopped into my jeans and grabbed my shoes while I hauled ass toward the exit.
“You can’t just leave. We’re married,” he said once I was halfway to the door.
I froze, glanced at him, then away. “You’re crazy.”
“We both were. Last night. If you’d just give me a minute to explain.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think on some drunken night, I’d actually…”
“Look at your left hand,” he interrupted.
I did as told and that’s when I started shaking. There it was.
Clearly cheap and fake like those lame rings you find in drugstores, there it was, on my ring finger no less.
“What the fuck?” I yelled.
His smile was amused and I tried to rip the thing off and chuck it at him.
“Too bad,” he said. “I did warn you last night that it was too small, but you were determined.”
That was it. Grabbing my purse by the door , I got the hell out of there. Whatever he called after me went thankfully unheard. This was pure craziness. Screw the insane hot guy and screw his stupid ring. No way had I actually married him; drunk or not.
I sped-walked all the way out into the lobby, past a chic collection of armchairs all facing my way as if they were judgmental spectators. I marched outside where the birds seemed to be chattering ecstatically for the sole purpose of worsening my migraine.
Under the gleeful glare of the sun, I rushed down the sidewalk. Right then, I just had to get to some private place so I could freak out or scream my lungs out.
My head roved every which way like a tourist on uppers, but all I could see was that I was exiting the nicest apartment I’d probably ever been in in my twenty-six years on this planet. And that, as befitted the Nicest Apartment Ever, it was surrounded by greenery, sweeping hills, verdant forests, and gay flower beds that probably got more attention than my dating life had.
At least until last night. Was that what had caused this big mess – my stifled sex drive letting loose? My sneaker stumbled on a slightly raised sidewalk stone and I flushed in embarrassment at myself as I composed my posture.
I had promised myself that after Eric I’d be careful. I would not settle down, until I knew, until I was 1000% certain, that whoever I was with was a good guy. Not a good-for-now guy or a good-time guy or even the more tempting good-enough guy. But a genuinely good guy, who would be good to me and bring out the best in me.
Taking another wild look around and finding what appeared to be some signs of life in the distance didn’t reassure me much. All my big hopes and promises to myself, and would you look at me now. Lost, in the middle of nowhere with a dead phone, and one big fat crazy mystery of a last night hanging over my head.
I tugged at my hideous ring once more, giving it a good yank, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge.
Xander had to be crazy. No matter how drunk I was, no matter how sexually and fun-repressed I’d been this past year and a half, there was no way, no way in hell I’d do that. Not to mention that there was no way he would.
Although I was no man expert, I knew enough to see when a guy was really into me. Xander hadn’t looked at me like he was really into me. He’d looked at me like I was the answer to a puzzle, if that made any sense at all.
You didn’t get married for pract
icality, not in this day and age. And not when you were a hot rich guy. Unless…
I shoved the thought out of my mind. In the hazy waters of my memory, last night was far out at sea, and I couldn’t trust that whatever I was thinking now was real or not. And there couldn’t be worse timing with Christmas just around the corner.
Merry Christmas Naomi, you got yourself a husband.
As it turned out, the first signs of civilization was a Subway. It was a squat afterthought of a building with a fallen-down overflowing garbage bin out front, but I was in no position to complain.
“Huh?” the guy who looked to be all of twelve years old behind the counter said when I made my request.
I took a breath. “My phone died and I need to call a friend. Is there any way I could use your phone? I’ll buy a sub or whatever.”
He scratched his freckled mouth and, when his hand was removed, there was a smile on his face. “Alrighty, yeah. Why not.” He pointed behind him and, taking his as an ‘ok’ to go there, I did.
Please pick up, please pick up, I prayed as I dialed the number. If Teren was one thing, it was glued at the hip to his phone. But still. The phone rang once, twice – what the hell was I going to do if he didn’t pick up? I guessed I could always call a taxi. Three rings, and then, “Hello?”
His voice was suspicious, already annoyed, probably pegging this unknown number for some ambitious telemarketer.
“It’s me,” I said. “Sorry, my phone died.”
“Naomi? What the hell? Where the hell are you?”
I winced. My headache was still pounding in full force, and Teren’s piercing voice wasn’t helping matters.
“Where did you go last night? I went to the bathroom while you were talking to this guy and next thing I know you were gone. I thought you were kidnapped or something!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Here’s the thing, I’m not really sure. But please Teren, just pick me up and I can explain.”
He gave a loud sigh. “Fine, fine. Where are you then?”
I looked over to the cashier who was pretending not to eavesdrop but was clearly eavesdropping. “What’s the address of this place?”
“243 Cherrytree Drive,” he said without missing a beat.
I repeated the address to my brother and he snorted. “What, did you marry some Romanian prince or something?”
A cough choked out of me as the pounding of my headache intensified. “Just come. Please.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there.”
Although, of course, he wasn’t. I paced and paced and finally took refuge in a cookie and waited some more. It wasn’t Teren’s fault, though. He was on the opposite side of LA, so it would take him at least thirty-five minutes to battle traffic to get to where I was.
When he did pull up, not caring what kind of crazy desperate person I looked like, I ran out there as fast as I could.
Teren stared at me as if I was some stray from the street with a bad perm who had just propositioned him. Finally, he said, “Your shirt is on backwards.”
Startled, I glanced down. Yup, the kind of tag-sticking-out backwards that would’ve been completely humiliating if it weren’t for the morning I’d just had. I grabbed his car charger and plugged it into my dead phone.
I let out a long sigh, then he said, “What the hell Naomi? Last night I kept calling and texting. I was really worried.”
“I’m sorry. I honestly don’t even remember what happened.”
Too bad I couldn’t say the same for this morning. Good morning, wife.
Teren still looked like I’d run over his favorite teacup Chihuahua. Clearly more damage control was needed.
“Listen Teren,” I said. “I messed up and I’m sorry. I think I blacked out. “
“Mhmm,,” Teren said in the tones of someone who may be won over if significant groveling was involved.
“And right now, I’m sticky and sweaty and I just want to go home and take a shower and pass out, ok?”
“Fine, but I can tell you’re holding out on me. As soon as you get cleaned up and get some rest, you’re gonna spill it sister. Or else,” he said, tossing me a sideways glance.
“Just take me home please,” I begged. “Whatever,” he said, pressing his foot into the gas. “You’re just lucky I didn’t meet my own tall, dark stranger last night, because then you’d be on your own.”
I smiled thinly. Teren was right in more ways than one. Pretty much every other night we’d gone out, Teren was usually the one who ended up drinking too much and hooking up. Last night should’ve gone that way too, and would’ve, if it weren’t for all this stress about Eighteen.
Although Teren had his own things to worry about too. He still hadn’t mustered up the nerve to introduce any of his longer-lasting boyfriends to our parents, and I couldn’t blame him. Mom and Dad were the ultra-conservative, cross-wearing, every-Sunday-church-going types, and the only thing I can ever remember them saying about homosexuals was that they were “abnormal” with disgusted faces I’d never forget.
Despite Teren’s precautions, including a half-hearted attempt at a ‘girlfriend’ that had lasted all of two weeks when he was eighteen, I think they were starting to get suspicious.
Right now, as we drove, Teren was glaring at the non-existent traffic and green lights, getting us back to my place in record time. His silence was getting to me. I’d had enough bullshit in the past twenty-four hours to have to deal with his attitude too.
“Stop pretending you’ll hate me for all eternity,” I said. “I’m really sorry. It was a total bitch move to just ditch you and then not answer my phone. I won’t do it again.”
Teren gave an exasperated sigh. “All right then. I suppose I will forgive you.”
“What a martyr you are,” I quipped, rifling through my purse until I found my forgiveness bribe.
When I handed him the extra-large Oh Henry bar, Teren’s expression didn’t change.
“The things I do for my sister,” he said, taking a big melancholy bite of it.
My smile was cut short when my phone went off. The text was from an unknown number, but as soon as I read it - I wasn’t kidding - I knew exactly who’d sent it.
The picture attached to the message showed a marriage certificate which would’ve been unremarkable, even with Xander Peterson signature scrawled on the left-hand side. Except, there at the right-hand side, was mine: Naomi Peterson.
2
Xander
“Yes, Papa, I got married,” I said, bored, as he burst into expletives and then finally descended into a morose, “When were you planning to introduce us to her?”
“Christmas, of course.”
“And you thought that marrying a woman you’ve known for less than a year and had never introduced to your family was a good idea because…”
“I love her,” I said simply.
That shut him up good. Papa knew better than to argue – he and my mom had eloped when they were just eighteen.
He started to say something else, but the deed was done, I was ready to get to work.
“Listen,” I told him, “I’ve got to go work now, but she’ll be here for you to meet when you come in a few days.”
“I should hope so,” he growled. “Being your wife and all.”
“Goodbye Papa,” I said firmly.
“Goodbye,” he said.
As I hung up, I checked my phone.
Still no response from Naomi.
I rose and went over to my office door. Although I was tired and sulky, it was time to get to work. I’d gotten there through pure willpower – forcing down the coffee, ignoring the whining inner dialogue, and now I planned to continue to do the same. Work, work, and more work.
It would do me good to go into work mode. Declutter my thoughts. Last night had been insane, to say the least. No point in spending all day Sunday having Saturday night roll around my head.
When I opened the door, Mrs. Birmingham was already there, Chanel bag and headache-orange-red
scowl in tow, evidently having muscled past my receptionist. Mr. Birmingham looked miserable, as usual, beside her.
“Our appointment, ” the old bat said, pointing to her watch.
“I was two minutes late,” her husband complained.
Mrs. Birmingham protested, throwing up both her fleshy hands as if her words were guns. “Yes, I’m sure your morning was stressful. What? One of your floozies forget where she tossed her panties last night?”
The insult sounded suspiciously like a line from a movie, which wasn’t unheard of. Mrs. Birmingham was a C-list actress and channeled all her energy from her unsuccessful career into making life a living nightmare for her husband. Not that he wasn’t a character himself.
“Look who’s talking,” he said from beside her. “You got about five different boyfriends after we split. And where are they all now? Chase them away with that winning personality?”
I cleared my throat.
“Marybeth.” I gave her thin smile. “Ryan.” I nodded.
I tried to keep my tone calm and neutral. No need to add fuel to an already simmering fire.
“So, shall we get started?”
Mrs. Birmingham stomped her foot like a petulant child. “Let’s just get this over with.”
If either of them had been willing to give an inch, we could’ve had everything worked out in a reasonable amount of time. But it wasn’t to be. The fought over the meager possessions they had, and just about anything else they could think of to fight over, and it got ugly.
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