Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  Gabriella grabs a slice of bread, slathers it with butter then gives me a lengthy once-over before she bites. “So, tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”

  Okay. I usually tell Gabriella everything. Everything. The woman gets more confessions out of me than my priest on Confession Wednesday. Though for some reason, apprehension invades my being and I think twice before coming clean about my new acting gig.

  “I got a part.” Instantly, I begin to silently pray for a do-over, wishing my mouth had the wherewithal to hold back.

  “OMG, really?” Gabriella’s impeccably plucked eyebrows shoot up. “Honey, why wasn’t this the first thing out of your mouth when you got here?”

  Heat stains my cheeks. “Because it’s an unconventional part and, I admit, it’s a tad embarrassing. I’ll never be able to list it as credible acting work. But the pay is lovely and—”

  “Woman, will you just tell me what it is, already? Oh. My. God”—her fingers hover over her mouth—“it’s not a Stormy Daniels type of movie, is it?”

  I hesitate for a second, thinking it would be funny to tell her I’m starring in a new version of Debbie Does Dallas. Then shake my head and say, “No. But, I’ll be playing the role of a fiancée in her 20s.”

  A giddy Gabriella’s face lights up as she claps like a five-year-old awarded a surprise trip to Disneyland. “Congrats, girl! See? I knew something would come up for you.” She pauses in between bites, and a puzzled look crosses her face. “Um, what makes you say it’s unconventional?”

  I swallow a sip of water, along with a mound of pride. “Because I’m working for My Fake Fiancé Dot Com as a fiancée for hire.”

  The waiter drops off our salads just as I spit out my confession. His eyes go all goofy-wide, looking at me as though I’ve admitted to pulling off an epic bank heist.

  And as soon as he abandons our table, Gabriella says, “You’re, what?”

  “My Fake Fiancé Dot Com. It’s a company that employs actors and actresses to be a hired bride or groom-to-be for their clients. It’s actually an excellent way to sharpen my talent in between gigs.” After reciting all that, I feel as though I’m a spokesperson for Holly York’s company.

  Gabriella’s single blink morphs into a blank stare, followed by another blink before she begins to eat her salad. “Okay, I can see how that may help hone acting skills. Now, who will you be pretending to be a fiancée to?”

  It’s the billion-dollar question I too have been eager to know. However, Holly’s been super hush-hush about it all—something to do with a confidentiality clause and matching the right fiancé to the right client. Yet, to my surprise, she sent an email to me last night explaining when I’d be able to finally meet the guy with whom I’ll be faking it.

  “I’ll meet him later this afternoon.”

  2

  CHASE

  “Mr. Hunter? You have a three o’clock with Holly York at her West Hollywood office,” my assistant announces via intercom.

  Fuck. I totally forgot about that meeting.

  Without taking my eyes off the spreadsheet on my computer screen, I push the intercom on my desk. “Lottie, can we move that to another day? I’ve scheduled a Monday Meet and Greet with the people from Studio Zee.”

  “Actually, Sir, I moved that meeting to Wednesday morning, the day before you leave for New York.”

  It would be like my Executive Assistant to be super-efficient. In all the years she’s worked for me, Charlotte Adams—Lottie for short—has never failed to be on top of things. “Thanks, Lottie. Still, can we change my meeting with Holly York? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  Truth is, I’m avoiding the whole thing with Holly. Sure, it was my idea to sign up with MyFakeFiance.com because…well, it’s complicated. However, I’m kind of having second thoughts.

  “Sir, with all due respect, this is the fourth time you’ve rescheduled with Holly. With Christmas right around the corner, she’s got a vacation planned and—”

  “Okay.” I sink into my chair, rake my fingers through my hair. “I’ll meet with her this afternoon. But if she doesn’t have the right person for the part, I’m canceling the contract and will have you come with me to New York and pretend to be my fiancée.”

  Lottie giggles. “Sir, I’m beyond flattered, blushing in fact, yet it would be less convincing for me—a fifty-five-year-old married woman—to be your fake bride-to-be.”

  “I can tell them I’m into older women?”

  “Even I know that’s not true, Mr. Hunter.”

  At this point, whether the woman for hire is middle-aged or not, makes no difference to me. I just need her to be a knockout beauty with a brain and social skills. One who’ll keep my parents off my back with the son, you need to settle down, bullcrap.

  Anyone would think Chase Hunter, a man as successful as myself, wouldn’t have an issue finding a real fiancée to gloat around, right? Well, the struggle has been crazy, because that’s all I meet. Crazy women who lack ambition and drive, looking for a Sugar Daddy to whisk them off their feet. And the non-crazies are just as overzealous about their work as I am, leaving no time for even a simple cup of coffee.

  Rising off my chair, I press the intercom once again. “Lottie, be a dear and have Henry ready to pick me up downstairs in five minutes, please.”

  California is indeed the cream of the crop, but with all the infamous traffic, I know it’ll take ages to get to West Hollywood.

  “I’m on it, Mr. Hunter. Henry is already waiting in the town car.”

  “What would I ever do without you?”

  “Not a darn thing, Mr. Hunter,” she says with a chuckle.

  Once in the car, Henry zooms onto Wilshire Blvd, making his way to the busy freeway while I take advantage of my smartphone and answer emails. As the Chief Operating Officer of a successful investment firm, a ton of emails swarm my inbox each day. The firm—Hunter, Inc.—is family-owned, based in Manhattan, New York. It’s primarily overseen by my father, Chase Hunter Senior, who works out of the New York office; however, I’m set to be named President next year when he retires—that is, if he believes I’ve settled down enough to run the company on my own.

  Following my father’s footsteps has always been expected, and I can’t complain since it’s afforded me the lifestyle most men wish they had.

  Money. Fame.

  A luxury home in Malibu.

  Even a private jet.

  Yet, my parents are fixated on me proving I’m no longer a playboy and instead, possess the maturity needed to run the entire firm on my own.

  First of all, my playboy days have long passed. Second of all, why the heck do I need to be married to prove I’m mature enough to run the business?

  So, I caved at Thanksgiving dinner; told Mom and Dad I was newly engaged and would bring my sweet bride-to-be home for Christmas. This was after the two double-teamed, hounding me like a pair of ruthless wolves, chanting over and over again how life is too short to spend alone. Then, they went on to say how much Dad wants to retire, hand the business to his one-and-only son, once I’m ready to settle down. The last part hit me like a punch to the gut and my flight or fight reaction was to lie. A lie that’s kept me stressed out the last couple of weeks, wondering if I’d be able to pull it off. I can’t go home with just anyone. She has to be the polar opposite of those I’ve dated in the past—ditsy and shallow.

  This woman needs to have substance.

  Sophistication. Finesse.

  Which led me to MyFakeFiance.com.

  A commercial seeking sign-ups, either as clients or fake-outs for hire.

  Mr. Desperado. Yup. That’s me.

  Believe it or not, if I could, I’d forgo Christmas at home altogether. But ever since Mom fell ill—thank goodness she’s fully recovered now—I vowed to spend as many holidays home as possible, savoring every precious moment with my fam. Even if I show up this Christmas with a make-believe fiancée.

  “Mr. Hunter, we’ve arrived. Shall I wait or come back in an hour or so?”
Henry’s stiff voice slays my thoughts as the car glides to a stop in front of a high-rise building.

  I shove my phone in its dedicated slot inside my briefcase. “How about you come back in an hour? Go get yourself a cup of coffee or something.”

  Henry nods, looking at me through the rearview mirror. He’s been my driver for the last six years and has overheard my end of the most confidential of conversations. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you back here in an hour.”

  Once I step out of the town car, closing the door behind me, my eyes trail up the tall glass building. MyFakeFiance.com is on the thirteenth floor.

  That alone could be a bad sign.

  Doors slide open as I approach the tall, all-glass building and behind me, a high-pitched bark catches my attention.

  Before I know it, there’s a miniature, rat-looking dog, teeth ferociously tugging the cuffs of my Armani slacks, as a woman’s voice cries out, “BB, please mind your manners!”

  3

  IVY

  I’m running late and to make matters worse, BB has gone full-on Cujo, attacking some yummy, I-wear-my-designer-suit-well-and-I-know-you-want-me type of guy.

  “Um, does this belong to you?” He holds up his leg, BB dangling, hanging on for dear life, her teeth clinging to the cuff of Designer Suit Man’s pants.

  The way he refers to my sweet baby pooch as a this, almost makes me want to go all Cujo-mad-dog, too. But instead, I calmly free my pup from his pants. “Her name is BB,” I huff out, then force a smile. “Sorry, I truly thought she was over attacking men in suits.”

  My half-smirk disappears when the crease-browed expression on his face shows me it’s clear my sense of humor has sailed way over his head. “That should be on a leash.” He flicks his chin at my precious baby, who simply barks two times at him in response.

  That’s right, BB. You tell him, girl.

  “Again, her name is BB, and you’re absolutely right about the leash. She’s usually in here”—I place Bruiser Bloom into my purse—“but she jumped out of the Uber car faster than I could grab her.”

  Designer Suit’s gaze gives me a scrutinizing once-over as if he’s taking in my mere existence, then he advances through the double doors of the glass high-rise. I inspect the numbers on the building’s facade, making sure it’s where I’m supposed to be, since the last time I met with Holly, was at her office in Burbank.

  8733 Sunset Blvd. Yep, this is the right place.

  Now in the building, I pace only a few steps behind, who I’ll now refer to as Stuck-Up Guy, high-stepping my way toward the elevator. The sound of my heels click-clacking along the tile echoes throughout and Stuck-Up Guy peers over his shoulder as though he’s wondering why I’m following him.

  We both pause in front of the elevators and he presses the call button, staring at the high-vaulted, gold-plated ceiling, making it more than obvious he’s trying to avoid any eye contact with me.

  I stand, tapping the ball of my high heel on the tile, humming We Wish You A Merry Christmas, which happened to be the last song the Uber driver was playing.

  There are four elevators, and I silently pray all open simultaneously so I don’t have to step onto the same elevator as Stuck-Up Guy.

  Admittedly, he’s pretty wonderful-looking. Tall, with the kind of dark hair my fingers would love to trail through during a steamy make-out session, eyes the vivid color of glimmering emeralds, and a stance that commands attention. He’s probably someone who works in one of the top-floor executive suites.

  The sound of the elevator’s sharp ping pulls me out of my daydreamy-like condition and, of course, only one of the elevators slides open.

  I internally grimace. Lovely.

  But at least Stuck-Up Guy displays a gentlemanesque quality by motioning me to embark onto the elevator first.

  Once on board, we both claim opposite sides of the elevator as if it’s our own sacred spot and press button thirteen—his hands in his purposely-creased pant pockets, my fingers clenched to the oversized purse where I feel BB squirming about.

  He clears his throat and glances at his fancy watch while I suddenly feel ill. What if Mr. Wonderful-Looking Stuck-Up Guy is…

  I shake my head, chasing away that notion because, well, my luck isn’t that bad.

  When the elevator crawls open at a snail’s pace, we exit and step straight ahead to a double-doored entryway marked, My Fake Fiancé: Where Make-Believe Looks Real.

  My heart thumps a bit faster.

  A single bead of sweat dances across my forehead.

  Why is he walking into My Fake Fiancé?

  “Hello, do you two have an appointment?” The bright-eyed, sleek-haired lady behind the receptionist desk looks up to me, then up to Stuck-Up Guy.

  “I do.”

  We both pass one another a scowling eye after we offer her that same reply in eerie unison.

  The receptionist chuckles. “Right. Well, have a seat. Make yourselves comfy. Holly will be out shortly.”

  Two leather couches face each other in the center of the quaint lobby. I sit down on one, and he sits on the other. BB sticks her nose out and sniffs like she’s trying to assess whether or not there are any bad guys for her to harass. She’s as overprotective as they come, and since I’ve had the little diva since she was a puppy, protecting me like I’m the most important person in her world seems to be her main goal in life.

  As I wait for Holly, legs crossed, flipping through pages of an outdated issue of Vogue, I avoid looking at the man seated across from me, even though my eyes are itching to disobey.

  Is he an actor? Because I refuse to believe he’s the man I’ll be playing fiancée to. I mean, why would a man like him need a pretend bride-to-be, anyway?

  Oh, wait. It must be his attitude. Rude. Snobbish.

  Dog-Hater.

  Clearly, he needs to watch the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs.

  The door next to the receptionist’s desk swings open and out pops Holly, a grin smeared across her happy-go-lucky face. “Come on, you two, let’s go into my office so we can have a proper start.”

  I freeze. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m no longer breathing.

  Stuck-Up Guy rises, straightens his overpriced suit jacket, and scratches his head. “Holly, maybe this is—”

  Holly, who closely resembles Mrs. Garrett from the sitcom The Facts of Life, interrupts with a raised hand. “You sir, like to play a good game of move your appointment. After today, I’m on a much-needed vacation. Let’s get this initial meeting started before you try to back out of your signed contract.”

  With sunken shoulders, he complies with Holly’s command and shuffles through the doorway.

  Holly then flashes me an are you coming look, and I dutifully rise, meandering closely behind Stuck-Up Guy.

  Once inside her office, Holly closes the door, inviting us to have a seat on the couch. I wait for him to claim one side of the couch before I plop my butt down on the other.

  Holly takes a seat in a recliner-type chair facing us on the couch, then retrieves two file folders from off the round table beside it. She peers up at us through her thick-rimmed eyeglasses. “I’m so happy we’ve finally been able to schedule this meeting.” She serves Stuck-Up Guy a meaningful glare. “Lord knows I’ve been trying to get you in here since last week.”

  He clears his throat.

  I fold my arms.

  BB whimpers as she gets comfy in my purse.

  “Chase, meet Ivy Bloom, your fake fiancée.” Holly’s lips curve up in amusement.

  And I’ve…well, I’ve pretty much stopped breathing again.

  4

  CHASE

  “Now, wait a minute here. I can’t possibly bring a wanna-be Elle Woods home for Christmas.” I spring from the faux-leather couch and begin pacing the hardwood floor.

  The blonde with the crazy mini-dog rises, hands on hips. “And what is so wrong with Elle Woods? I’ll have you know, she just so happens to be an intelligent, Delta Nu alumni. Besides, the fact that
a man like yourself”—her eyes scan me up and down—“knows anything about Elle Woods, is quite disturbing.”

  As she stands before me, lips pursed, eyebrows defiantly raised, it’s hard to deny she’s smoking hot.

  Blonde hair, real, not dyed.

  Stunning turquoise-blue eyes.

  Nice boobs, natural, not the kind women wish money could buy.

  Killer looks, pure beauty without all the makeup.

  Back in my playboy days, she was the type I’d gravitated to. However, those days, are long gone. Plus, this woman is way too animated, albeit in a strikingly cute sort of way.

  I need someone more refined to be my pretend bride-to-be.

  Someone I won’t be tempted to…

  “Just what do you mean a man like myself?” I ask after my brain finally captures and dissolves her claim.

  She scoffs and lifts her chin. “You, with your dark hair, perfectly stuffy suit, cocksure attitude. You’re like a wanna-be Christian Grey, not someone who watches chick flicks.”

  “Actually, Christian Grey’s got nothing on me. And regarding chick flicks, they aren’t my thing.” I tug at my cufflinks. “However, I did watch Legally Blonde during Netflix and Chill night with a woman two years ago, which is how I got to know Elle Woods. You even have the type of dog she had in the movie.” I pause long enough to smirk. “Hers was much cuter, though.”

  Just when I’m sure Blondie is about to swing at me, Holly steps in between us to play referee. “Well now, this is going wonderfully.” She lays a hand along our backs, easing us closer to the couch. “Why don’t you two calm down, have a seat back on the couch, and let’s begin this meet and greet all over again, shall we?”

  Reluctantly, I take a seat and so does Elle Woods—or whatever her name is. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Her name is Ivy, and while she’s not the brunette you requested, I—”