The Real Thing (Sugar Lake Book 1)

by Melissa Foster

  “Wills, there was a time when I was the only person you trusted to do you a favor. I’m asking the same of you.”

  She looked at him for a long moment.

  “Please? I need you, Willow.”

  “God, Zane.” The defeated whisper cut him to his core. “You’ll make sure I cater during some of the filming?” she asked skeptically.

  “Yes.” Please do this for me, Wills.

  “And it’s only for—”

  “Two weeks. A week when we go back to Sweetwater to get everyone used to the idea, then a week of filming. After that you can publicly break up with me and we’ll each go back to our lives. But you can’t tell anyone this is a fake arrangement.”

  “I must be crazy, but . . . fine. But you’re helping me clean out Chloe.”

  He hauled her into his arms again. “Of course. Anything. Thank you so much. You’re the best. For a minute there I thought you’d turn me down.”

  “Who was your fallback girl? Your backup plan?” She set her hand on her hip, glaring at him again.

  “You didn’t have a backup plan that summer. I didn’t think I needed one now.” He draped an arm around her waist. “Let’s get your stuff and put it in our room, and I’ll fill you in on our whirlwind relationship.”

  “Our room? No. No way.”

  He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “We’re engaged. Engaged couples share rooms. Besides, you’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.” He dropped his hand and patted her ass.

  She grabbed his crotch and squeezed.

  “Ow. Fuck, Willow.”

  She eased her grip, but the narrowing of her eyes told him she thought she was making the rules again. “This is pretend, remember? Keep your hands off me and I will allow your man parts to go unharmed.”

  Sweet, curvy, sass-mouthed Willow was sexy as hell. But pissed-off, demanding, in-control Willow? Hot. As. Fuck.

  She tore her hand away with a disgusted look on her face. “Oh my God! I cannot believe that got you hard.”

  He chuckled, unable to stop the grin tugging at his lips, and pulled her against his side. “There’s something about a hot blonde with her hand on my dick.” She rolled her eyes and he said, “There’s something about you, Wills. There always has been.”

  “Yeah.” She laughed. “I’m the only woman on earth who doesn’t want you. Deal with it.”

  Oh, I plan on it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “YOU’RE SLEEPING ON the couch,” Willow said for the fifth time in as many minutes as she and Zane left their suite. He was busy texting, and she wasn’t sure he was even listening anymore. He used to be such a great listener. When they were younger, he’d never acted like he was above her, despite the fact that he was the star quarterback, lead pitcher, and eventually the prom king, and she was two years behind and as awkward as a foal on new legs.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asked as they walked down the hall.

  “Yes. I just got confirmation. You’re catering breakfasts for the set. Cool?”

  “Yes, perfect. But did you hear what I said?”

  She had almost backed out of their deal twice since she’d accepted. First when she’d seen the king-size bed, which really drove home their situation, and again when Zane had whipped off his shirt to change and her sex-starved body had buzzed to life. She was still a little nervous about the whole thing, mostly due to that second issue, but she felt a certain obligation to help him. Regardless of how arrogant he was, she’d never forget how tender he’d been with her when she’d given her almost-eighteen-year-old self over to him, and he was a true friend, even if they had a weird friendship. The truth was, even if he hadn’t done her that favor before college, she would have agreed to his plan. She liked him despite his insatiable appetite for women. He was everything she loved in a person and more. He was confident and funny, direct and thoughtful, and honest when it counted. Painfully honest. The exposure for Sweetie Pie Bakery was just the icing on the fake-fiancée cake. What a difference national exposure could make.

  Zane shoved his phone in his pocket. “Yes. Sleeping on the couch. Got it. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  She laid her best damn-right-I-can stare on him and pushed the button for the elevator.

  “Fine. I’ll behave. Jesus, Wills, you’re never this uptight when I visit.”

  “You mean that five minutes twice a year?” Willow remembered how happy he’d been when he’d finally left town to pursue his dream of being an actor. He’d been bursting at the seams for a bigger life. But her “five minutes” comment wasn’t really fair. He never missed Ben’s birthday, and he almost always made it back for a few days over the holidays, even though his parents had moved to Florida right after he’d graduated from high school and left town. He’d been back a few other times when he was filming nearby. Even though she rarely saw him, their texts—and the fact that he was her first real love, even if he didn’t know it—had kept him in the forefront of her mind. Unfortunately, it also kept her heartbreak pretty close to the surface, no matter how deep she tried to bury it.

  The elevator arrived, and they stepped inside. Zane brushed his hard chest against her as he pushed the button, and her temperature spiked. She felt her cheeks burn, and he smirked. Asshat.

  “I hear they have great couples’ massages.” He waggled his brows.

  “No.”

  “Come on, Wills. We’re supposed to be a couple.”

  “A fake couple.” She stared at the lights counting down the floors to avoid his convincing gaze.

  Zane stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the numbers. If alpha male had a scent, it would smell like Zane Walker, rugged and musky, with an underlying hint of come-hither and a dash of panty-melting lust.

  “We need everyone to buy this,” he said smoothly. “That means doing things couples would do.”

  “Like you know the first thing about that?” She didn’t know why she was being so snarky. It wasn’t like he knew how hurt she’d been all those years ago when she’d romanticized their tryst—breaking her own stupid rules—and he’d gone on living his life. Plus, he hadn’t exactly forced her to agree to take part in this ruse.

  His lips tipped up in a sinful grin. “I know all the best parts, and you know the rest. We’re a team. So when I do this”—he ran his hand lightly up her arm, squeezing her shoulder just hard enough to send shivers down her spine—“that’s exactly the reaction they need to see.”

  She shifted her gaze away, pissed off at her stupid female hormones. Lifting her chin, she said, “We don’t have time for massages. I told you, we’re cleaning Chloe. It’s your fault she’s a mess in the first place.”

  Little did he know she’d named the ruined pastries after him. She often likened people to the pastries they reminded her of, or the ones they ate. Even though she rued the aftermath of their tryst, the pastries were as sumptuous and surprising as Zane had been that night. They were the perfect mix of pleasurable, memorable, and guilt inducing. Loverboys. The name perfectly suited both the pastries and the player Zane had become.

  “Right, the pastries,” he said. “I can get the car detailed while we go enjoy ourselves. Why waste our time?”

  “I’m not letting a stranger touch my car when we’re perfectly capable of cleaning it. Besides, you are not going to have someone else do your dirty work.”

  When they were kids, he and Ben used to wash the neighbors’ cars, mow lawns, help with gardens. They did anything they could to earn a few bucks. But she knew there were times Zane hadn’t charged some of the families because they didn’t have much money, or for other similar reasons. She wondered what happened inside a person’s head to flick the switch from taking pride in doing things himself to hiring out. What else did he hire out?

  Probably every single thing besides acting, friendship, and sex.

  The elevator doors opened, and he gave a leggy blonde who was waiting for the elevator a long, hungry once-over.

  “Are
you kidding me?” Willow pushed past him and stormed toward the concierge.

  “What?”

  She glared at him. “Fiancés don’t leer at other women. This is not going to work, Zane. You don’t have it in you.” She turned away, surprised when he approached the concierge and requested cleaning supplies.

  He stood with his back to her, running a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit he’d had since he was a kid. He turned with a serious expression pulling his brows into a deep V. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

  “Right.” Not in this lifetime.

  “I’m an actor, Willow. I’ve been doing this shit forever. There’s no role I can’t nail.”

  One of the hotel staff brought the cleaning supplies, and Zane took them from her and stepped closer to Willow. His gaze softened, and he gently stroked her arm. “That was rude and tacky, and I’m truly sorry. I respect you, Wills, and the last thing I want to do is to make you feel uncomfortable. Give me another chance, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  She’d expected him to smirk or to make a sexual remark, but the sincerity in his voice and the way he was looking at her, like he felt guilty and hopeful at once, made her feel bad for reacting so sharply. Being in a relationship was new for him, too, even if it was fake.

  “It’s okay.” They headed out of the resort. As they crossed the parking lot, his eyes were downcast, and he wore a pained expression. Silently chiding herself for being a bitch, she said, “I’m sorry for overreacting.”

  He met her gaze and tilted his head like a puppy waiting for a snack, melting her resolve a little more. And then those utterly kissable lips quirked up, and he said, “Told you I could nail it.”

  “Ugh! You really are a jerk, you know that?” She stalked away.

  “I think you mean a kick-ass actor,” he called after her.

  IT WAS ALMOST as fun to see Willow’s reactions in person as it was to check out her sweet curves as she bent down to retrieve her keys, which she’d dropped as she lectured him about what an ass he was being. She was the only woman who could keep up with his remarks. Her reactions were funny over text, but they had an even more powerful effect in person.

  “I still can’t believe you drove Chloe,” he said as she opened the door to her VW Beetle.

  She tore a few paper towels from the roll and handed the rest to him. “I thought I had an important meeting to attend. Don’t just stand there. You’re helping me. This is your fault.”

  “Helping you do what, exactly?”

  She waved toward the backseat, and he peered in through the window.

  “Christ, Wills. What’d you do, have a food fight in the backseat?”

  She ducked into the car, and he couldn’t help but take another long gawk at her perfect rear end. And it was perfect. Heart shaped and firm yet squeezable, unlike most of the rail-thin women he knew.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I did while I was driving a million miles per hour to get here on time. I thought, ‘Oh, what the hell. Let me ruin my most loved possession in the whole world.’”

  Whoosh—another gust of guilt blew through him.

  She glanced over her shoulder with an annoyed expression. “Stop looking at my butt and get in here.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and climbed into the back from the passenger’s side. “Jesus, it looks like someone jizzed all over your seat.”

  “Do you ever not think of sex?”

  He flashed a deadpan look, which she ignored. He reached over the mangled box and grabbed her hand. “Wills, seriously, I’m sorry. I know how much this car means to you.” The sadness in her eyes got to him. “On the plus side . . .” He dipped his finger into what looked like custard and sucked it off. “You’re still a hell of a baker.”

  She laughed. “Did you have any doubt?”

  “No, but really . . .” He scooped some of the blue frosting that was smeared over the inside of the box onto his finger and held it out toward her. “Taste.”

  Rolling her eyes, she grabbed the spray cleaner from behind her and applied it to the carpet. She glanced at the sweet treat on his finger, then went to work scrubbing the offending stain. The buttons on her dress stretched to their limits over her full breasts, revealing a large amount of smooth, tanned cleavage. Her breasts swayed with her effort, and he forced his gaze up to her face, which was equally gorgeous. Even as a teenager she’d hated being so well endowed, and she’d gone to great lengths to hide her assets. Although like today, nothing could hide those beauties. They were as appealing as the rest of her.

  “Come on, Wills. You know it’s your favorite.” He wiggled his finger, and when she didn’t take the bait, he climbed across the seat, his broad shoulders knocking against the seats, earning one of her killer smiles. Man, he’d missed seeing her smile. He’d even missed those damn eye rolls she was passing out like candy. He reached around her shoulder, drawing her closer. Her eyes darkened, and his pulse kicked up. She smelled just like she had as a teenager, like her mother’s homemade lilac lotion. The familiar scent brought a rush of memories, rendering him momentarily numb. He could still feel her silky skin beneath him, the frantic beat of her heart against his chest as he pushed inside her, and he remembered the fear and trust he’d seen warring in her eyes. Swallowing hard against the memories, he could do little more than watch as she lowered her mouth over his finger and sucked the icing off.

  Fuuuck.

  Licking her lips with a seductive glint in her eyes, she said, “Mm. You’re right, Z. You always have been my favorite flavor.”

  Z, that’s what she’d called him that night by the creek. She’d whispered it breathlessly so many times he’d heard it in his midnight fantasies for weeks—months? Years?

  “Willow.” The heated whisper rushed out before he could stop it, and the lustful look in her eyes brought him closer. He closed his eyes as his mouth came down over hers—and she pulled away. His downward motion continued, and he lost his balance, catching himself with his palm in a glob of custard. “What the hell?”

  She lifted a thinly manicured brow. “Just a kick-ass actress playing a role.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER WILLOW AND Zane cleaned her car, they took a walk down by the marina to discuss the elaborate backstory Zane had concocted for them. He’d just finished telling her that they’d supposedly been hooking up on the sly for months.

  “Hooking up?” Boy, did he need lessons in coupledom. “Zane, couples that are serious about each other don’t hook up. They get together, or sneak away, or . . . I don’t know, but they definitely don’t hook up.”

  “Good point. So, we’ve gotten together at least twice a month.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this. I tell Bridgette everything. Why would I keep this from her?” Her youngest sister had lost her husband to a tragic car accident shortly after Louie was born, and she owned a flower shop that adjoined Willow’s bakery. Bridgette almost always knew where Willow was and why she was out of town. “And what about Talia? She’s always coming to the bakery to grade papers. She knows why I leave town and when I do, too.” Talia was her eldest, and most reserved, sibling. She worked as a professor at a nearby college, and although they weren’t as close as Willow and Bridgette, they were close enough to make his story not quite so believable.

  A breeze swept off the water and blew a lock of hair in front of her eyes. Zane tucked it behind her ear, like a real boyfriend—fiancé—might, and said, “Because what we have is private. Remember the weekend you told your family you were going to DC for the baking convention?”

  “You mean the weekend I actually drove to DC and attended the convention?” Where on earth was he going with this, and how did he remember she’d gone to a convention in DC? That was months ago.

  His eyes warmed. “Wills, you don’t have to pretend with me. I remember that weekend like it was yesterday. We spent all afternoon holding hands and sneaking kisses along the streets of DC. We visited so many museums yo
u said you felt like you should apply to be contestant on Jeopardy!” He laughed as if he were lost in the memory. “We ate lunch on the lawn by the Washington Monument and made wishes with nickels in the Reflecting Pool because we were out of pennies. I told you our wishes would come true five times over, and, baby . . .” He lowered his voice. “Don’t you remember how long we lay on the grass kissing? You said you wished we could lie there all day.”

  “I . . .” She was too caught in the fantasy to respond.

  “I know you remember when you insisted we climb onto Lincoln’s lap and take a selfie.” His gaze, and his tone, were so earnest she wanted to remember it. “I have the picture hanging on the wall in my bedroom. Of course you know that, because we’ve spent so many steamy nights there. It sounds silly, but I still get sad every time I think of how you cried at the National World War II Memorial.”

  He pulled her closer, and she could almost remember the event that had never taken place.

  “It’s one of the reasons I fell so hard for you. You have such a big heart, babe.” He cupped her face with his big, warm hand, moving his thumb lovingly over her cheek. “We forgot to eat, and we ended up having dinner at around nine that night at that little café. Remember? We ate by candlelight and shared an entrée because you said you were too happy to eat. But later that night, in the penthouse of the Marriott, we ordered dessert and . . .” He brushed his lips over hers, and she was too lost in him to react. “Well, what we did with the whipped cream was nothing short of sinful.”

  She blinked several times, reveling in the romantic rendezvous he described. She smiled, picturing all the things he’d just shared.