by Lila Monroe
Now that I’m really here—in this strange apartment, getting ready to go pretend to be someone I’m not—I understand why Olivia was so hesitant. There’s a big difference between making schedules and doing research, and actually being the one having to put them into action.
What if I screw things up? It won’t be just me looking like a fool—it’ll reflect badly on the Agency.
And I’ll let Nick down.
“Ready to go?” Nick taps lightly on the open door as I’m touching up my makeup.
Wow. He’s in a tux, skin tanned against the crisp white shirt. He would put 007 to shame.
“Hi.” I gulp, my nerves ratcheting another level higher.
“You look great,” he says.
I exhale and smooth down the red dress I’m wearing. That red dress. Gemma’s hot mama outfit. I thought it might give me some much-needed confidence, but now I’m not so sure. The way Nick is looking at me doesn’t make me feel sure of anything.
Hot, yes. Horny, definitely. Cool as a cucumber? Nope!
“We should get going,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable.
Because he’s in my bedroom.
With me.
We’re alone in this room.
With a bed.
And he’s looking at me like he wants to throw me on it.
“Is she your ex?” I blurt suddenly.
He blinks. “What?”
“Lainey. I mean, the two of you … did you date?”
“Briefly.” Nick grins. “Years ago, in college. Just one of those things, you know?”
I don’t. Not really, but I don’t want to seem jealous, so I nod. “She seems nice,” I say, forcing a smile.
He nods. “She’s great. Had some wild party years, but she’s really turned it around. And this company means the world to her.”
“Uh huh. Well then, we better go.” I head for the door.
“Just a second,” he says, pulling his hand out of his pocket. “There’s something missing. Your engagement ring, honeybun.”
I look down. Do not get weird, do not get weird, I tell myself. But the ring, a chunky emerald-cut diamond set in platinum, is big. And sparkly. And so fucking stunning. Everything I ever wanted in an engagement ring. Except that it doesn’t come with an actual fiancé.
Stupid details.
I glance up at him. “Is it real?”
His left eyebrow goes up.
“Of course, it’s real,” I mutter. But the engagement isn’t, I remind myself.
“You like it?” he asks as he slides it on my finger. The fake engagement gods are smiling—it fits perfectly.
His touch is electric. Currents of lust zing from his fingers and shiver all over my body.
“Like is not the right word,” I say, my voice faint. I have to clear my throat.
“Don’t get too attached,” he says with an awkward chuckle.
“I won’t,” I say. He could be talking about him or the ring.
Either way, there’s a serious risk of me failing.
On both counts.
8
Alice
We Uber to the party, and I grill Nick on personal details about our cover story the entire way. I can tell he’s getting tired of all the questions, but I can’t seem to stop asking. His dossier had information, but was seriously lacking in the personal stuff couples know about each other.
“So no food allergies?”
He shakes his head.
“Ever broken any bones?”
“Broken? No,” he says. “But I guess I should tell you about my wooden leg, huh?”
I glance down as he snorts.
Just for that, I pinch his right thigh. Then the left. A girl has to know for sure.
“Ow!” he says, but he’s laughing as he captures my hand in his. “You’ll do fine. Just act like it’s a regular party. You’ve been to parties before, haven’t you?”
“Sure, black-tie, thousand dollars-a-plate,” I say with a dismissive wave. “I go to those all the time!”
His smirk suddenly looks more smug than normal.
I look at him sideways. “What?”
“Add a zero.”
“Ten thousand a plate?” I gape.
He shrugs. “It’s a business expense. And the charity is a good cause.”
I whistle. “Chocolate must be good to Lainey.”
“And her trust fund.” Nick gives me a wink. Just then the car turns into the circular driveway in front of the house. No, mansion. Not quite Downton Abbey, but pretty damn close. People are arriving in a long parade of Teslas and Porsches, so I take a deep breath.
I feel like an imposter. Nope: I am one.
Nick squeezes my hand. “You’ll do great,” he says softly. “Also, you will be the hottest woman there.”
I smile. “You haven’t seen all the other women.”
“I don’t need to.”
Just as my heart is leaping out of my chest, the driver opens my door. We head for the entrance, and Nick keeps one hand on the small of my back. Reassuring me, or making sure I don’t bolt. Either way, it feels good. Grounding.
We follow the crowd through the high-ceilinged marbled foyer to the opulent ballroom. Yes, this mansion has a ballroom. I’m not talking a great room made into a ballroom, but a legit room with a stage and a shitload of chandeliers and sconces. The floor-to-ceiling windows are draped in velvet curtains. The ceiling is gold. I’m not even kidding.
Gold!
I laugh as I notice the decor. “It looks like a bag of jelly beans threw up in here!”
Nick snorts. “Smells like it, too. Something tells me we’re going to be riding sugar highs by the end of the night.”
The room is decorated in the CandyShack colors. Which is to say, all colors. There are about a dozen tables set for dinner surrounding the dance floor. The centerpieces are clear tubes filled with candy. Each place setting has what looks like foil-wrapped—you guessed it—candy on it.
Then I see it: a giant truffle bar on the other side of the room. An entire table dedicated to chocolate.
“Come to mama,” I sigh with pleasure.
“Easy there, sugar fiend,” Nick says, laughing.
I grin at him.
“Champagne, Mr. Cameron?” a waiter appears at Nick’s side.
Whoa. Is this ball so exclusive that the waiters know everyone’s name?
“Thank you,” Nick says, plucking two flutes off the tray. He hands me one as I look at him questioningly.
“He’s one of mine,” Nick explains quietly. He takes a sip. A small sip, I notice.
Right. Because we’re on the job.
I lift the glass to my lips. Too bad we’re on the job—the champagne is so good. Tonight will be a test in resisting all temptations. But then what Nick said sinks in.
“You have people planted here?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“Just the one,” Nick says casually. “Jackson works for me sometimes. He can be invisible here, listen to conversation as he serves. No one thinks to censor themselves in front of wait staff.”
I turn to look, but the waiter is gone.
“All right.” Nick’s body stiffens. “There’s Janssen.”
“Our target.” I follow his gaze.
This guy, research was easy. Bertram Janssen, the CandyShack CEO. He’s in his late fifties, and handsome in a young Colonel Sanders kind of way with a shock of silver-gray hair and a tall, lean frame. Bertram started his career at Godiva before leaving to start CandyShack, which has grown in a major way, and will keep doing so, especially if their new chocolate bar—the one based on Lainey’s recipe—launches soon.
“Ready?” Nick asks, taking my hand.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, resisting the urge to chug the champagne. “But … Nick?”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“We will be visiting that truffle bar.”
His smile spreads like chocolate syrup—slow and delicious. “Counting on it.”
If I thought Nick was hot b
ack in Manhattan, then here, he is nuclear.
Exhibits A through a million: he’s wearing a tux, he’s got a hint of an Italian accent, he didn’t shave his sexy stubble, he’s schmoozing with everyone in sight, and (maybe most importantly) he keeps touching me.
Like, he can’t keep his hands off me. We’re holding hands, and every once in a while, he glances over and squeezes my fingers encouragingly.
I know it’s an act, but he should win an Oscar, a SAG, a Tony, and a Grammy for his performance. And yes, I know Grammys are for music, but the way he’s making my body sing has to be worth a trophy.
At least I don’t have to act at being turned on by my fiancé. In fact, I’m so hot right now, I’m actually glad that he’s talking to Mr. Janssen about golf.
“… never thought it possible,” Mr. Janssen says. “But I did. At Pebble Beach, no less!”
Nick laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t believe it,” he says. “A hole-in-one? I am sorry I missed it. I’ve heard it’s a beautiful course.”
Mr. Janssen tilts his head. “You in town long enough to play a round? It’s only about a hundred miles from here.”
I would bet my Manolos that Nick angled for just this invitation.
He acts surprised. “Absolutely. What golf fan could turn down an invitation like that.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Janssen says. “We’ll take my helicopter. We can take a scenic ride down the coast.”
My ears perk up at that. A helicopter ride down the coast? Count me in.
“Tsk! Golf, Bertram?!” The stately Mrs. Janssen glides up to us. “The hole-in-one story again?”
She smiles indulgently, and Bertram chuckles. “So sorry, chéri. Have you met my lovely wife, Veronique?”
“Charmed.” Nick smoothly kisses her cheek, then speaks in rapid-fire French.
Because, of course.
“This one is a charmer.” Veronique smiles at me. She’s elegant, with dark hair in a chignon and an understated navy silk dress.
“Yes, he can be,” I agree, fluttering my eyelashes at him in true “besotted fiancée” style. I catch a look from Nick, and realize I’m up.
“Shall we leave them to their sports talk?” I suggest. “I’d love a guided tour of the candy table.”
Veronique smiles. “Yes. A wonderful idea,” she says. “Are you familiar with our products?”
“Some,” I say as we walk away from the men. “I was actually at your Times Square store last week. I had a s’mores milkshake. It was worth the extra miles on the treadmill at the gym,” I sigh at the memory.
Mrs. Janssen laughs. “I’m glad it was worth it.”
We get to the table and I’m in awe of all the treats. Where to start? I couldn’t possibly sample everything.
Could I? I feel like I could die happy by trying.
“You know what I could really go for?” I ask as we each take a plate from the stack at the end of the table. “A petite mort. I had one a few hours ago, but I feel like I need another. I think I’m addicted.”
Mrs. Janssen stares at me. “Pardonnez moi?” she says, looking appalled.
“Have you had one?” I ask. “They’re amazing.”
That’s when it sinks in. Shit. Why would I bring up Lainey’s new truffle at this CandyShack event? Well done, Alice.
“I mean, this chocolate fountain looks great!” I grab a strawberry and coat it with chocolate before I bring it to my lips. Because if I have something in my mouth, I won’t say stupid things.
As Mrs. Janssen stands there, staring at me like I’m a maniac, chocolate drizzles down my chin. Before I can stop it, it lands on my right boob.
Oh God.
I look down. Yep, there’s a blob of chocolate right there on the red fabric over my nipple. Basically, a chocolate pasty.
My face must be as red as the dress.
“Whoops!” I say with a laugh, trying to save face.
As though I haven’t just ruined everything. Not only have I made a mess of my gown, I’ve somehow insulted our host. Nick is going to dump my incompetent ass and send me back to New York. To deal with Olivia. Who will not just do the I-told-you-so dance, but because this fail is so epic, will hire the Rockettes to do it with her.
“I’d better go take care of this,” I say, and flee in the direction of the nearest bathroom.
I find the cool expanse of marble hidden behind one of the ornate doors, and set about running the cold water, trying to dab the stain away.
“Oh, honey.”
I glance up into the bathroom mirror at the woman who’s just materialized beside me. She’s about my age and gorgeous in a blonde bombshell kind of way—petite, curvy, and heavily made up with bright pink lip gloss and sweeping false lashes.
“Let’s get that taken care of,” she says, reaching for one of the hand towels on the counter.
“It’s okay, I got it,” I say. Which is a huge lie. Thankfully, she looks prepared to ignore me and help anyway.
“Chocolate fountain?” she asks after inspecting the blob.
Somehow, this makes me smile. “How did you know?”
She grins. “Occupational hazard. Working at CandyShack, I can clock a chocolate stain at ten paces.”
Ah, an employee. Interesting.
“So you were sent to save me,” I say, only half-kidding.
“Call me your fairy godmother.” She grins and puts the towel under the tap. “The thing with the fountain is it’s a lot of oil mixed in with the chocolate. That’s how they keep it flowing. So you want to use warm water. Cold sets the chocolate, hot sets the oil.”
Who knew so much chemistry would be involved?
She hands me the moistened towel. “Pat, don’t rub.”
I follow her instructions gratefully. “I’m Alice Jones, by the way.”
“Tiffany Trout,” my savior says, with a rueful look. “And yes, I’ve thought about changing it.”
I laugh. Now I really like her. “So what are you doing here?”
“I had to come. I’m Executive Assistant to Mr. Janssen,” she explains, hopping up on the countertop. She swings her feet—clad in chunky black sandals, with neon pink nail polish.
Which I nearly don’t notice, because I’m too busy filing away her job for future reference.
Assistant to the big boss? Very interesting.
“I just totally messed up in front of Mrs. Janssen.” I admit, wondering if she has any intel on the couple.
“Ouch.” Tiffany looks sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it, she’s always got a stick up that perfect French ass. What did you do, use the wrong fork?”
I shake my head. “I had this truffle earlier today and it was so good. I wasn’t even thinking and asked her if they had any on the table. Even though it was from a CandyShack competitor.”
Tiffany pulls out her lip gloss and reapplies the bubblegum pink. “What kind of chocolate?”
“A petite mort.”
She cackles with laughter. “You asked Mrs. Janssen—the queen of the prudes—if there were any petites morts on the menu?”
I think back. “Actually, I told her I could really go for one. That I’m addicted to them.”
At this, Tiffany shrieks like a banshee.
“Does someone want to explain the joke?” I ask helplessly. “Because I really don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry,” she snorts, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “I really am. Let me guess, you don’t speak French.”
“Not much,” I admit. “I know that it means small death. Doesn’t it?”
“Literally, yes.” She snickers. “But it’s also a euphemism for orgasm.”
It takes a second. But then: “Noooooooooooo! I thought it was like petit fours—like, little desserts. Death by chocolate?”
Tiffany shakes her head, laughing again. “Nope, sorry, girlfriend.”
I want to dunk my head under the cold faucet. “I did not just say that to the CEO’s wife.”
“I think you did. The CEO’s dried up, van
illa, sex-once-a-month-and-only-in-the-dark wife.”
Oh. My. Fucking. Godiva.
Tiffany wipes at her teary eyes. “And I’m really sorry but it’s about the funniest fucking thing I’ve heard in forever. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to see it.”
I look around the bathroom for an escape window. Of course there isn’t one. I sigh. “I’m so screwed.”
“Did she look scandalized?”
I chuckle. “She did. She looked like … I don’t know. Like I had just asked her to strip down and cover herself with the chocolate from the fountain.” I cringe. “She was … yeah, not good.”
Tiffany starts hooting again and suddenly, it’s totally contagious. The whole thing is so ridiculous, I can’t help myself. A moment later, we’re both carrying on like lunatics with a day pass.
A second later, there’s a sharp knock before the door opens. A man sticks his head in. I’m not 100 percent sure, but I think it’s the waiter from before—Nick’s guy. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yes, we’re fine!” Tiffany shrieks at him.
He looks at me. I nod, so he leaves.
“Fuck me, but I can’t stop laughing,” Tiffany says, pressing her hand to her stomach. “Best ab workout ever.”
My purse buzzes. It’s a text from Nick: What is going on in there?
Fun’s over.
But hey, at least I made a new friend. Oh, and got rid of the chocolate nipple.
I thank Tiffany profusely, and return to the party to find Nick at the center of a group of men, including Mr. Janssen. They’re all standing there, clearly enraptured as he speaks. He’s animated and charming, telling some sort of sailing tale in his Italian accent.
I stand back and enjoy his performance. Not only is he Hottie McHotterson (or whatever the Italian equivalent of that is) in his tux, but he’s quite the showman. It doesn’t take long before I’m sucked in, holding my breath and waiting to hear how the story of that time he went overboard during an important race will end.
He suddenly catches my eye and he stops mid-sentence. His face softens and his lips spread into a sexy grin that makes my lady parts take notice. Because it is directed right at me.
“Cara.” He says the pet name in a way that nearly takes my breath away as he walks toward me and takes both of my hands in his. “There you are, my beautiful fiancée. I missed you.”