Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  Our plates are delivered, and for a few minutes, all we do is devour our food in silence. Truth is, I have no clue what to say to a billionaire. What am I supposed to talk about?

  Money? No. Clothes? No. Wall Street? Heck, no.

  “You were right about this meal. It’s super-delicious,” I say, deciding food is a universal language.

  “Right? I swear, if I could learn to make this on my own, I’d eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  Our eyes lock in agreement before his break free, feasting back onto his gourmet dish.

  I dip a piece of fried chicken into some of the cinnamon butter, then shove it in my mouth. “I can totally make this.”

  He blinks up at me, chewing on a bite of his brown-sugar-dusted waffle.

  “It’s sort of this thing I do—have done, actually, since middle school, at least. See, I, um, find a favorite restaurant meal and basically challenge myself to recreate it.”

  A flicker of amusement crosses his gorgeous face. “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “In fact, I had a video blog series called Cook Like a Foodie.”

  He snort-laughs. “Cook Like a Foodie? My sister would love to watch something like that.”

  “Sister?”

  He smiles. “Younger. We’ve got twenty years between us. Mom and Dad decided to have another kid when I left home for college.”

  “Twenty years? So she’s…”

  “Ten”—he swipes his mouth with a cloth napkin—“going on seventeen. Maddie—that’s her name—is way too smart for her own good. Anyway, the girl is terribly obsessed with food. Absolutely loves to cook.”

  I put my fork down, amazed I managed to finish the entire plate of food. “I think that’s wonderful, the fact that your parents had another kid and your sister loves to cook.”

  A soft smirk, full of pure mischief, tugs at his lips. He whips his phone out of his suit-coat pocket. “What was the name of your blog again? Cook Like a Foodie?”

  My eyes narrow. “Why?”

  He slides his plate over, sets the phone in front of him on the table, and types in the name of my old blog in the Google search engine. “Because I’m dying to see if this video blog pops up.”

  I lean forward, praying it doesn’t—

  “Look here. I found it!” He picks up the phone, shows me the screen, and sure enough there I am, braces, pimples, and all.

  He taps the arrow to play a video, and I just want to die. Why did I open my big-ass mouth anyway? “Hi, guys. I’m Evelyn Bloom and welcome to Cook Like a Foodie. Today I’ll show you how to make Panda House’s famous orange chicken…”

  I place my hands over my ears, blocking out my high-pitched fifteen-year-old voice.

  Heat rushes up my face. Maybe someone will just shoot me now, put me out of my misery. “Oh, I’m surprised it still comes up. I could have sworn that blog had been shut down years ago.” I try to drag my gaze away from his, but just stare at him, blinking like a lunatic.

  He sizes me up. “What’s up with your name?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Evelyn. In the video, you introduce yourself as Evelyn Bloom.”

  Crap. I plaster on a fake smile that instantly morphs into a nervous laugh. “Well, Evelyn was my name, before I changed it to Ivy three years ago.”

  His brows snap together. “Why did you change it? I think Evelyn’s a lovely name.”

  Lovely? Is he for real right now? “Evelyn is boring, so not suitable for an up-and-coming actress, you know.”

  His conspiratorial head bob puts me on edge. “You should use your real name when you’re being my fake fiancée.”

  “Ivy is my real name…now.”

  “All the more reason for you not to use it.”

  I flash him a what? look.

  “Using another name will help you get into character. So be Evelyn. Not Ivy.”

  Contemplation absorbs my mind space as I trace my finger around the rim of the water glass.

  Be Evelyn. Seems like I haven’t been that chick for ages.

  Yet, this may be the chance for me to portray the kind of Evelyn Ma would have been proud of. “Okay. Evelyn, it is.” I survey his face for a few seconds. “Tell me, what else should I know about this fiancée of yours? Where does she work? Where is she from? What kind of food does she eat? How does she dress?” I remove the file folder Holly gave me from out of my purse. “Is all that information in here?”

  Chase reaches over, palms the file folder closed, halting me from opening it. “Let’s make up her attributes now. Forget what’s noted in that file. I gave Holly those expectations on the fly.”

  The waiter snags our empty plates, tops off Chase’s half-empty wine glass, and pours more coffee into my cup. “Would you two care to indulge in a bowl of our freshly churned candy-cane ice cream?”

  I feel my eyes widen with glee. Chase may be a sucker for chicken and waffles; I, however, am a sucker for ice cream. “You sold me on freshly churned.”

  Chase laughs. “Some for me too, please.”

  “I’ll be right back with those,” says the waiter, before he walks away, our empty plates in hand.

  “Now where were we? Oh, right. We were just about to craft you a perfectly fake almost-bride. Let’s start with her occupation. I mean she does work, right?” I take a pen out of my purse, ready to scribe notes on the front of the folder.

  Chase leans forward, posts his elbow on the table, and rubs the dots of stubble on his chin. “If you weren’t an actress, what would have been your career of choice?”

  “Screenwriter.” I don’t bother with hesitation. Dreams of becoming a screenwriter have been at the top of my fantasy job list, hands down.

  Chase’s slow and steady nod precedes a smile that faintly lines his lips. “Interesting. And why is it that you haven’t pursued this career choice?”

  “Can we just concentrate on building Evelyn, your fake fiancée, and refrain from making this an offbeat episode of Dr. Phil?”

  A sportive gleam blossoms in his eyes. “You, Ms. Bloom, are a borderline spitfire. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I bite my lip hard around the smile I feel tugging at my mouth. “Borderline spitfire? I can honestly say, no one has ever told me that. But, then again, no one has ever brought out the spitfire in me. Now, can we please continue with the task at hand? Focus on the creation of your fab dream girl. Not me.”

  He launches a fierce gaze upon me, as though he’s sizing me up. “Fine. Let’s make Evelyn a screenwriter.” He jerks his jaw toward the folder. “Go ahead, write that down.”

  With an eye-roll, I begin the ‘Evelyn List’ and jot down, screenwriter. “Okay, now that we’ve got that squared away, where was she born?”

  “London.”

  “As in England?” I toss my hair back and straighten my posture. “Does that mean, I’ll need to speak in a sexy, British accent?” I show off the British accent I perfected while at the Acting Academy.

  He beams. “Can you really do that? I mean, talk like that for the entire time we’re with my parents?”

  “Well, I am an actress, right?” I add sexy British accent, to the list.

  The waiter returns with our dessert bowls, and I don’t even wait for Chase to get his bowl before I sink a spoon into mine. “Ice cream is my true weakness. What’s yours?”

  Delight sparks in his eyes as they meet mine, and a sudden chill trickles down my spine. “Seems as though I may have discovered a brand new weakness, Ms. Bloom.”

  8

  CHASE

  I refuse to let Ivy Bloom get to me.

  Will I be able to successfully ignore everything about her that makes my body throb?

  God, I hope so.

  It’s not just her knockout looks or that innocent sex appeal she brandishes like an unconcealed weapon. But the fact that she doesn’t seem to be fazed by me—Chase Hunter—well, that’s a turn on.

  How one woman can so quickly consume my thoughts, is beyond me; especially after I sp
ent only a few hours with her last night.

  Yet, from now on, I’m treating this as nothing more than a business transaction. Our arrangement is simply that—an arrangement. And once the assignment has been fulfilled, it’s bon voyage, nice knowing you.

  “Mr. Hunter?” Lottie calls me through the intercom. “There’s an Ivy Bloom here to see you, sir. She, um, says you’re expecting her. Shall I show her in?”

  I glance at my watch. 10 a.m. Right on time.

  Last night, the two of us ended dinner after dessert and were both too worn out and full to carry on. So I asked her to meet me here today, at my office, in hopes we’d be able to finish sorting out the details of our impending…production.

  “Yes, Lottie. Please show Ms. Bloom in.”

  I rise from the desk chair and readily scan my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall. Indigo Armani jacket; black dress shirt and tie; blue, purposely-faded, jeans; and my favorite pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes.

  No wonder she called my suit stuffy. Quickly, I lose the tie, toss it into my desk drawer, and undo the top two buttons of my dress shirt, believing that’s enough to kill Mr. Stuffy.

  Lottie swings my office door open, an amused look painted all over her face. “Here you are, Ms. Bloom. Would you like coffee? Tea? Water?”

  Ivy steps in, looking like a slice of heaven in a white, form-fitting pantsuit. Instinct makes me glance to the ceiling and silently pray for strength to keep my eyes, along with my fast-growing heart rate, in check.

  This is a business transaction. That will likely be my pitiful mantra for the next several days.

  The words, “I think I’m good, Mrs. Adams. Thank you for offering,” part from Ivy’s heart-shaped lips, painted the same color as her sexy stilettos. All I can think of is how it would be to kiss them. Her lips that is, not the high heels.

  Lottie’s dark browns crash-land on me like a hawk vetting its prey. She mouths, very pretty, as she backs out of my office, slowly bringing the door to a close.

  With high heels noticeably hitting the marble-tiled floor, Ivy takes a few steps toward me. She’s a tall glass of water: long, lean, with miles and miles of curves I’d love to hug. She tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear and produces a mind-blowing, feisty, smirk. “Shall I have a seat? Or are we gonna conduct this meeting standing face-to-face.”

  I cough into my fist. “Oh, yes. Please, have a seat,” I say, jerking my chin in the direction of the chair facing my desk. “And thank you for coming here today. This really shouldn’t take long. We were able to iron out several details last night.”

  She sits, legs crossed, and I settle down into my chair, the mantra business transaction playing on repeat in my head.

  “So, where did we leave off?” I rock back and forth in my seat, biting the tip of a ballpoint pen.

  Ivy removes the file folder out of her purse. “We left off at Evelyn having a British accent.”

  I laugh. “At least that will add a spark of fun to this whole thing.”

  Her eyebrows hitch up. “You don’t think this will be fun?”

  “Lying to my mom and dad isn’t something I view as fun, Ms. Bloom.”

  She taps her fingernails along the folder and I notice her nail color is red today instead of yesterday’s pink. “You do realize the ball is in your court, right? It’s not too late for you to back out, change course, and come clean.” She pauses, head tilted, her eyes assessing me. “Or we can embrace this, and have fun pretending to be a happily engaged couple.”

  “I’ll accept the latter. So let’s get our ducks in a row and pull off an award-worthy performance.” I sit up in my chair, turn off my computer to ward off any distractions. “Okay, what’s next?”

  “What kind of food does your dream bride love to eat? You know, is she a meat-lover or a vegan?”

  “Well, since I’d like you to be comfortable while at my parents’ house, Evelyn should eat whatever Ivy likes to eat.”

  She releases a breath, hand over her chest. “Thank goodness, because I was sure about to cry if I had to portray a vegetarian and miss out on scrumptious turkey or ham during Christmas dinner.” She looks down as she scribbles something on the folder, then blinks up at me again. “Your family does have Christmas dinner, right?”

  I lean back in my chair, trying to ignore how cute her eyes look when blazed with curiosity. “Yes, of course, they do. A rather large feast, in fact. Turkey, ham, and side dishes galore. What’s next?”

  She gnaws on her lower lip. “How does she dress? Conservative? Or does she don jeans and T-shirts?”

  “What do you prefer to wear? I mean, other than pantsuits and the amazing outfit you wore last night?” My mantra smacks me in the head. Careful with the compliments.

  “Oh, you thought my outfit was amazing?”

  Among other things. “Why yes. I mean, professionally speaking, it was rather perfect for our business meal.”

  The subtle hint of excitement slowly vanishes from her face. “Yes, of course.” She shifts in her seat to sit up taller. “Well, I prefer both conservative and casual, depending on the circumstances. Holly gave me a wardrobe per diem to buy some outfits to match your fiancée’s personality. Speaking of which, can you describe her personality?”

  “Ms. Bloom, Evelyn should have your personality. I quite like it.”

  “Borderline spitfire?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We both take part in a mirthful, ha-ha. Then she sets the folder atop my desk.

  “There is just one more thing we’ll need to work out before moving on.”

  I lean forward, hands on the table, fingertips forming a steeple. “Okay, please enlighten me.”

  “My Fake Fiancé Dot Com supplied me with their Rules of Engagement, which are pretty black and white. But, I think it’s best if we adopt our own set of rules.”

  “Ah,” I dip my head down, then up. “I see. What sort of rules?”

  Her blue eyes, sharp and resolute, settle on mine. “Ones that will keep us grounded, so to speak. Rules that will keep us from…”

  “Falling?” I close her sentence with my assumption. “Believe me, Ms. Bloom, I am in no position to allow this arrangement to morph into anything more than that. I’ve got an empire to run and have little time to squeeze in a relationship or a simple fling, for that matter.”

  “Wonderful. Shall we go on with the creation of our own set of hard rules?”

  I wave my hand. “Proceed.”

  She retrieves a sheet of paper from the file folder and reads off of a list she seems to have previously compiled. “No kissing, no touching, no sleeping in the same room, no—”

  I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bloom. You and I will be pretending to be an engaged, seemingly happy, couple. How are we to pull off regular stuff—like holding hands, an embrace here or there, or whatever it is couples in love do—without touching? Now, the no-kissing along with the sleeping arrangements? I one-hundred percent agree with all of that.”

  Ivy sits back in the chair, the sound of her shoe tapping the front of my desk like a constant sonic boom to the room’s silent atmosphere. “Fine. We may partake in the occasional holding of hands, but no kissing—”

  “On the lips,” I interject.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We won’t be convincing enough if we don’t at least plant a few kisses on each other’s cheeks. Besides, are you not an actress? Play your part. Even if that means smooching with the costar. I mean, you did say this job will help you hone your skills, right?”

  More shoe tapping commences. “Okay. Kissing on the cheek permitted. Now, are there any particular rules you’d like to add?”

  I sit, swiveling back and forth, the chair slightly squeaking beneath me. Mr. Stuffy comes to mind and I’d give anything to never hear her refer to me as stuffy again. I swallow the hard lump of shame willing to be set free. “I don’t have any rules to add; however, I do have a favor to ask.”

  A flicker of uncertaint
y canvases over her features. “Sure, what is it?”

  “I need help with my own wardrobe. You called me stuffy the other day and—”

  She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it when I hold up my hand.

  “I can see how my attire sometimes gives off that vibe,” I continue. “But rest assured, I’m not at all stuffy. I need help getting me into something, say, a woman like Evelyn would prefer to see me in.”

  Even though I should be the one feeling embarrassed, a sheepish twitch curls the corner of her mouth. “Chase, for the record, I called you stuffy because I was defending BB and needed to come up with a word other than asshole.”

  I snicker at her candidness, mainly because I truly was an asshole that day.

  “But”—she smiles—“I’d be honored to help un-stuff you. When would you like to go shopping?”

  I turn my computer back on, check my calendar for availability. “Unfortunately, I’m all booked before the trip to New York. Can Lottie accompany you? She has access to my charge card and since she’s shopped for me in the past, knows all my sizes.”

  Ivy lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. “Okay. I’ll do some shopping of my own, as well. But I’d like to do this today. I’ve got commitments tomorrow.” She raises her index finger. “Before I forget, I need to confirm it’s okay to bring my precious BB along with us to New York. I can’t bear to be away from her for an entire week.”

  “As long as she doesn’t attack me again,” I quip.

  “Well, Chase Hunter, you’ll just have to figure out how to win BB’s heart.”

  I ring Lottie via the intercom, ask her to accompany Ivy on a shopping trip, and Lottie practically dances into my office, grateful to spend the rest of the day on Rodeo Drive.

  When they leave, I sit back down at my desk, open the Google search engine on my computer, and key in, How to win a chihuahua’s heart…

  9