Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  A gratifying smile stretches over her face. “Chase, BB’s trying to make up with you.”

  “Oh.” I kneel, settling down on bended knee, and extend my lowered hand as a peace offering. At the same time, I begin to question my fucking manhood. “Come here, little princess,” I coo.

  BB bark-sniffs, then charges me, taking a leap into my arms, showering me with licks to the face.

  “Does this mean we’re on good terms?” I chuckle in between her smooches.

  Ivy claps her hands. “Yay! I think you two are officially besties.”

  Setting BB back down, I rise and head for the three suitcases in the center of the room—two large the color black with pink bows and a hot-pink one the size of an overnight bag.

  “The large ones are mine; the smaller one belongs to this little girl.” She picks up BB, massages her between the ears. “It’s got her clothes—mainly sweaters—some toys and specialty food.”

  “Of course. Shall we get going?”

  Ivy pulls a light coat over her white T-shirt and blue jeans. I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t steal a surreptitious glimpse of the way those jeans cling to her scrumptious ass.

  The woman is gorgeous. Beautiful in more ways than one.

  And it’ll take a true miracle for me to follow our own set of rules.

  Thankfully, Christmas is the season of miracles.

  12

  IVY

  His home is a dream. Pristine.

  A two-story mansion like the ones seen on dated episodes of Homes of the Rich and Famous.

  I’m pretty sure a gasp spilled out of my mouth when I walked in a few seconds ago.

  Chase sets my suitcases onto the tiled floor. “Um, I’ll give you a quick tour?”

  My eyes survey the spacious foyer. “A quick tour? Chase, by the looks of this house, the tour could last hours.”

  “Good thing the evening is still young.”

  Leading me through the grand entryway, Chase begins the tour—of what I think should be named Palace Malibu—in an office with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace, and a portion carved out for lounging. “Sometimes I read when I’m trying to purge my mind, free it from anything business-related.”

  “Oh, what kind of books do you read?”

  “I’m really into sci-fi mysteries and have discovered some cool indie authors along the way. Gotta support those creative entrepreneurs.”

  We walk through more chicly decorated spaces, all with a windowed view of the ocean, including the one in the small powder room. We maneuver through a massive area tastefully furnished; the ivory-colored grand piano as its centerpiece makes me picture Chase sitting at the bench, pounding keys. Then a dining room, an elegant living room, and onto a deck, the ocean breeze hitting my face as we step out.

  “This is where I come to chill. Sometimes with a glass of wine, other times with a cup of coffee. It’s rather peaceful: the waves, the sound of seagulls’ soothing caws, the crisp air. It’s mood cleansing.”

  On the deck I’m speechless, its glass enclosure lending my eyes a colorful array from the sun glistening in the water as it dips below the horizon. The two of us briefly stand, admiring the sun as it sets, a treasured keepsake of how each day begins and ends gracefully.

  “All right, let’s see the upstairs.” Chase gently cups my elbow, his touch taking my attention away from the hypnotic view.

  Upstairs, the spread is just as dynamic as the floor below: four bedrooms, his master equipped with an ensuite bathroom, a tub the size of a jacuzzi. Then two more, each with its own private bath, and one room, its pink-splattered walls decorated for a teen.

  Chase leans on the doorframe. “This one belongs to my sister, Maddie; she visits at least two times a year.”

  “It almost reminds me of my room when I was a teen. The color pink never dies.”

  He leads me down the hall to a room tucked away in the corner. “This one’s for guests,” he says, palming the door open. I get a glimpse of his bicep, its natural, hunky flex poking out from the short sleeve of his silk shirt. Swoonalicious. “I figured you and BB can crash here for the night, or, there’s also a guesthouse much larger than this, just off the outdoor living room and kitchen.”

  BB squirms about in my purse when I walk in, her face popping out, nose on sniff-alert as if she needs to form her personal assessment. I mean, the room is larger than my entire apartment. Queen-sized bed, cozy chair, a mirrored wall, a roomy bathroom, and a floor-to-ceiling view of the ocean. There’s no need for me to be stowed away in a guesthouse. “This spot is perfect for me and BB, thank you.”

  A parade of goosebumps march along on my skin when his eyes, piercing and mesmeric, lock on mine. I shiver.

  “Are you cold? I can turn on the heater.”

  “No, I’m fine actually,” I say, rubbing my arms, an unsuccessful attempt to rid them of the prickled trail of goosebumps.

  “Okay then. I’ll bring your bags up, allow you and BB time to get settled.”

  Plopping down onto the plush bed, I pull BB out of my purse, let her roam the queen-sized mattress, sniffing to discover a spot she deems suitable to rest. Of course, Little Miss Diva chooses to nestle atop one of the fluffy pillows. Whimpering, she spins round and round until dizzy enough to finally curl up in a little ball. I reach over, pet her fur, taking in the luxury and finesse of this guest room.

  Being a fake fiancée to a billionaire apparently comes with perks.

  A new wardrobe, a dream pad to crash in, and man candy—the best perk of all.

  Chase is delicious. Lovelier than what I’ve read about, a complete three-sixty-degree pivot from Stuck-Up Guy my precious BB attacked a couple of days ago.

  My heartbeat fluctuates, a circumference of warmth wrapping around my core. If I were to ever catch the love bug, I’d choose a man like Chase Hunter to be the host of that virus.

  “Here are your bags.” Chase reenters the room, setting my suitcases down by the closet door.

  BB stands on all fours, lets out a muffled bark.

  “Is there somewhere I can take this little girl to relieve herself before she turns in for the night? I can tell she’s about ready for bed.”

  Chase nods. “Yeah, there’s actually a small patch of grass on the courtyard.” He approaches, lifts BB off the pillow. “C’mon, I’ll show you. Besides, I’ve got a surprise for her.” His green-eyed gaze meets mine, eyebrows hitched. “And one for you, too.”

  Downstairs, Chase opens a glass sliding door, unearthing a divine pine-tree-speckled courtyard with an outdoor living room and kitchen smack in the center. Over to the right, next to a smaller building, accessible by stairs, sits a rectangular patch of grass. I assess straight away—the building is the guesthouse he mentioned earlier.

  BB gallops to the patch of grass as if it’s her own slice of paradise, frolicking about, then circling, nose to the green, until she finds a territory in which to claim potty-time.

  “You two come back inside when she’s all done. I’m going to get her surprise ready.” Chase saunters back into the house and I can’t help but notice he looks just as yummy from behind.

  BB charges toward me once she’s finished, and as soon as we’re back in the house we find Chase sitting on the couch, a black box with white polka dots beside him.

  I beam. Mouth dropped.

  BB barks, wags her tail, and whirls around, undoubtedly delighted to lay her big, brown eyes on the familiar-looking package.

  “Chase, you went to Pups Fifth Avenue?”

  He grins, his perfectly white teeth a contrast to his tanned skin tone. “Sure did, in an effort to win BB’s heart as you suggested.”

  He plucks the lid off of the box, BB whining, standing with one raised paw, ready to receive whatever goodies await.

  “But, how did you know about Pups Fifth Avenue? Only dog owners know of Hollywood’s best-kept secret.”

  BB barks, reminding us both she’s got some goodies to get her paws on.

  “Oh, s
orry to make you wait, BB girl.” Chase picks up the box, filled with fun times, and places it on the floor. And before he can even take anything out, my little diva makes a dash, and skillfully nudges the box, flipping it over, dispensing its contents. Chew toys, a bag of gourmet treats, and a cute custom-made T-shirt that says I Luv NYC.

  I place my hand over my chest, moved by Chase’s generosity. “This is all so perfect and beyond thoughtful. I can tell you’ve definitely won the heart of BB.”

  Along with a little piece of mine.

  13

  CHASE

  On my living room sofa, there’s a content little chihuahua fast asleep, next to her new favorite chew toy. Mission complete.

  BB is a riot. Two days ago, I would never have imagined Spitfire Junior would bring a smile to my face.

  For the record, Ivy does too.

  The two of us are in my kitchen now, the room in which I plan to hold her surprise reveal.

  Pointing to the center island, I gesture for Ivy to have a seat. “Now you sit there and relax for a few minutes, but please don’t open your eyes until I say so.”

  She places her hands over her eyes, bow-shaped lips curved up. “Whatever the surprise, it sure smells good.”

  “Close your nose, too,” I joke.

  She snorts out a giggle, followed by a bite on her lip. If the woman, who’s a hot bundle of pretty and sexy, were my real fiancée, I’d swoop in close and take her full mouth with mine.

  Reluctantly freeing that thought from my head, I plate up the meal I spent the last few minutes heating up—a little something I prepared earlier. After sliding her plate over to where she sits, smile lingering, I pour some white wine in a glass, then grab my own plate and glass of vino.

  “Ms. Bloom, you may open your eyes now,” I say, sliding onto the high-back, swivel stool beside her.

  Blue eyes spring open and so does her mouth until she quickly shuts it. She flicks those tempting eyes on me, glistening, lashes fluttering. “Chase, is this…”

  I pick up my glass, take a sip, swallow a pesky set of nerves, and say, “Panda House’s famous orange chicken prepared step-by-step via Cook Like a Foodie.”

  She peers down at the plate of food, shakes her head in disbelief. “It looks so damn good.”

  “I was curious, kind of wanted to see if it would taste like the real deal.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  We both dig in, taking bites of the orange-glazed chicken and fried rice. After following her video blog’s instructions, I actually felt like an accomplished cook.

  And after taking the first few bites, I have to admit, the meal tastes pretty damn good.

  Ivy squeezes her eyes shut, chews slowly as if she’s savoring each and every morsel. Her eyes open. “Chase, this is fabulous. You did good.”

  “It was your blog that helped me create this. Why did you stop? This recipe alone had over two-thousand comments—all positive.”

  She sets her chopsticks down, swivels the chair to face me. “I don’t know really. I was only a mere teenager. At the time, I discovered my love of performing in front of a camera and decided to pursue acting. Cook Like a Foodie was something I did to pass my free time. Before I knew it, that free time was taken up by me studying acting and rehearsing lines for plays.”

  I feed her a half-cocked smile. “I suppose if you hadn’t switched focus to the pursuit of acting, we wouldn’t be here tonight.”

  She lifts her glass, tilts it to mine. “Cheers to that.”

  Eating in silence, my mind drifts to when I was a teen and how much I wanted to escape the family business to play football. A star quarterback since my Pop Warner days and all the way through high school, it was my love of that sport, the game, that won me a scholarship to Yale. Dad said I needed to pay my way through college in order to appreciate it. The scholarship allowed that and in doing so, I chose not to major in business. Instead, almost out of spite, I earned a four-year degree in environmental studies. As it turned out, earning that degree gave me a broad understanding of social opportunities which has proved to be an essential asset in discerning which companies to invest in. With that, Hunter, Inc., was able to expand to the West Coast. Subsequently, revenue has tripled.

  “You’re in deep thought.” Ivy’s soft hum of a voice tugs me back to now.

  “Yeah, a short trip down memory lane. A time when I wish I chose a different path in life.”

  She twists a bracelet around her wrist. “Really? And what path was that?”

  “I wanted to be a quarterback for the New York Jets.” I scoff at that dream, almost thankful I gave it up.

  “Football quarterback?” She gives me a once-over. “I can totally see that.”

  “Oh, you mean my muscle-toned arms?” I tease.

  “Nope. Your primadonna attitude,” she fires back.

  I throw my head back in a chortle. “Ms. Bloom, you are a fascinating woman.”

  Lifting the bottle of wine, I gesture to pour more in her glass—she nods in acceptance, and after I fill hers, I do the same for mine.

  She brings the glass to her mouth and says, “You never told me how you discovered Pups Fifth Avenue.”

  I laugh internally at the thought. “I stalked your Facebook profile, noticed the pet boutique was a place you recently checked in to. You know, you should really turn your profile settings to private.”

  Her eyes widen into balls of wonder. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended. I can’t believe Chase Hunter’s a social media stalker. And wait. I searched for your Facebook profile and nothing came up.”

  “Who’s the stalker now?” I ask, one eyebrow lifted. “I do have a profile, but took measures to make it completely unsearchable. Only the people in my circle know it exists and only a few end up on my friend’s list. I’ve sent you a friend request, Ms. Bloom.” I wink, raise my glass, and sip.

  She says nothing in response, but the pink hue dusting her cheeks tells me more than words alone. “I’ll be sure to accept your friend request once I get upstairs to my phone, you know, before you boot me out of your circle of friends.”

  “Ivy Bloom, I won’t be booting you out of anywhere.”

  We finish our glasses of wine, then spend the next half-hour cleaning up our dinner dishes.

  Ivy retrieves a worn-out BB from her living-room-sofa slumber. “Thank you for the wonderful dinner Chase. I should probably turn in since we’ve got an early flight.”

  “Yes, I plan to turn in myself. We leave at 3:30 a.m. and have to be on the tarmac at 4:30 sharp.”

  “The tarmac?”

  “Yes, I have a private jet, a private hangar at Burbank airport.”

  She follows me upstairs and the two of us part ways, retreating to our rooms. After a hot shower, I slip on shorts and a T-shirt, then climb into my king-sized four-poster.

  ‘Twas the night before I go home for Christmas, I’m alone in my bed…while visions of Ivy Bloom dance vividly in my head.

  14

  IVY

  Four years ago, I came to California with dreams of making it big. Never did I imagine I’d someday pretend to be the future Mrs. Chase Hunter, riding alongside him in a ritzy private jet.

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee?” the attendant asks me.

  “No, thank you.” I blink up at her. “I’m already a pile of jittery nerves without caffeine.”

  Chase eyes me. “Relax, Ivy. It’s only a week of pretending. After that, life will zip back to normal.”

  Back to normal? Who’d want that?

  Hunter, Inc.’s private jet, a Gulfstream G650, is smaller than a commercial, but roomier in a sense because it houses fewer seats—which, to my surprise, convert into beds for ultimate relaxation. Chase explained the company also owns a custom Boeing 747 that, inside, looks more like a Las Vegas hotel suite, with a fully equipped master bedroom, a dining room, a small conference room, and a bar. They use that monstrosity when working with higher-end, overseas clients.

&n
bsp; We’re two hours into this flight, halfway to New York City. Soon after we took off, the attendant served us mini omelets with toast and juice. BB was fed before we even left Malibu, and I was sure to give her the calming-aid I received from the vet. Little Diva quickly became Sleeping Beauty.

  Chase has been slightly occupied with work, but has taken breaks in between to chat with me. As far as I can tell, the man is one hell of a catch. Thoughtful, respectful, and of course, a finely crafted male specimen. Whoever manages to win his heart will be one lucky woman.

  He clears his throat. “We have some final details to go over before we land because once we do, it’s game on.”

  “Yes, of course. Let’s get them all sorted out. We want to be sure we have no blunders.”

  “First things first”—he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvet, black box—“I meant to give this to you last night.” Flicking the box open to reveal a five-carat, heart-shaped sparkling gem, he says, “A fake engagement won’t seem real without a proper ring, right?”

  I nod hard enough to knock something loose as a shower of heat storms my face. For a split-second, I believe there’s a chance I may pass out.

  He unbuckles his seat belt, shifts to face me, holding the shiny ring between his thumb and index finger. “Ivy Bloom, will you pretend to marry me?”

  I extend my left hand, shaking as if this moment wasn’t make-believe. He slides the precious stone onto my ring finger and I gasp in surprise. “It actually fits!”

  “Yep, Lottie guessed your ring size and I purchased this, paying extra to have it sized and ready before this trip.”

  Raising my hand, I wiggle my fingers, gawking over how gorgeous my one finger looks decked out in shimmer and shine. “Chase, this isn’t…”

  “Real? Of course, it is. Everything about this venture has to seem as authentic as possible.” He shifts again, refastening his seat belt. “Now, about those details. Shall I share a bit about my parents?”