Bound to her Fake Fiancé Boss: A Fun Sexy Feel Good Billionaire Office Romance

by Hayson Manning

  “I don’t want to get to know her. I just need her to do something that will be mutually beneficial.” Like get my hands on the deed to the house, a house that I hate and love. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to visit. I’ve felt the pull over the years, but remorse and regret, my two best friends, hang out in my heart playing tug-o-war.

  Another quick shake of his shaggy head. “I’ll circle. Call me when you’re ready.” Gabriel brings the car to a stop.

  Good call. Probably be missing a few car parts—like wheels—if he stops, parks, and comes with.

  I step from the Bentley and make my way toward a nondescript apartment block with a group of teens hanging around looking shifty and bored. All turn and stare as I approach. A warm, California winter wind whips my hair, the clouds dark above us, and a rumble of thunder teases the sky.

  “You’re in the wrong neighborhood.” A teen pushes off the wall.

  “Possibly,” I say, striding up to him. “Do you know if Asia Brown lives here?” Dark, glittering eyes regard me. “She’s about four-foot, dark hair, smart mouth, wears a lot of brown, as in her last name, ironically.”

  He’s right in my face. Any regular guy would move away from a group of now pissed-off teens on approach, but I’m not normal, and I’m not going to smack a sixteen-year-old kid or a group of them.

  “What you want with Asia?”

  “Ah, she does live here.” I bound up the stairs. The main door to the building is open, which pisses me off. There should be some sort of security door.

  I make it to the fourth level, barely breaking a sweat, and meet a woman flicking through her mail. She’s standing across from apartment four zero eight—my destination.

  Our eyes meet. Her eyes sweep over my suit (handmade), my shoes (same), and she sniffs at my cologne (again, handmade). I take in her five-foot slim frame in denim jeans, green T-shirt. Long, dark hair curls down her back.

  “I’m looking for Asia,” I say.

  Without breaking eye contact, she takes a step and bangs on Asia’s door.

  “Girl, there’s an expensive smelling dude at your door. You want me to toss him?”

  I fight a growl and lose.

  I don’t have time for this shit.

  Her dark brows pull in.

  “He growled at me. Like I’m a cat.”

  “Tell him the answer is no,” Asia replies.

  This utterly infuriating woman. If I had anyone else to ask, I would.

  “Off you go.” Her eyes are back to sorting her mail, but her body is tense. She positions herself in front of Asia’s door.

  “Asia,” I speak to the paint-peeling blue door. “I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Say it,” her singsong voice calls from the other side of the thin door.

  “What?” I ask, perplexed.

  “That one little word.” I know she’s smiling.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “What are we, twelve?” I mumble.

  Her neighbor cocks her head. “Manners will get you a long way in life, my momma always said.”

  Yeah, well, I haven’t had a momma for twenty-three years.

  “Please,” I say.

  A ping from my pocket has me reaching for my phone, and my typically sixty heart beats a minute climbs. Maybe Gabe has been jacked.

  “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Asia leans a shoulder against the doorframe.

  I look up from my phone and do a double-take.

  Holy shit.

  This is not the woman who makes sure my presentations are perfection, who is best friends with all the secretaries in the building and possibly the universe. The same woman I hired because I’m not going to be sued, or who’d want to bang me on the boardroom table. Five had already tried.

  Her hair, which I’ve never seen out of a tight bun (which gives her face a slightly pinched look like it hurts), is now a mass of dark brown curls around her face and cascading down her back. My gaze drops to a tiny pair of denim cut-off shorts she must’ve stolen from Barbie. They barely cover her firm thighs.

  Jesus.

  My eyes linger on her pink toenails for a second, then rake up her tiny frame to a pink camisole that molds across her chest.

  I dig my hand through my hair.

  She’s fucking gorgeous, and my assistant, so end of conversation.

  Her head swings to something behind her, then back to me. “Oh shit. Catch.”

  My hands automatically catch a bundle of tabby fur.

  “Hey, buddy.” The cat proceeds to climb from my arms and perch on my shoulder like I’m some sort of pirate.

  “I’m sorry. Blossom, come here.” Adorable pink slashes Asia’s cheeks. “She launches herself at people like a missile.”

  “Blossom?” I reach up and pet the cat’s head, noting stumps where her ears used to be.

  Poor baby.

  “Yeah, I figured she needed a pretty name. Blossom has been in a few battles, hence the no ears, half a tail, and missing teeth.”

  A smile that could melt Antarctica transforms my assistant. Her hazel eyes sparkle, her pillowy pink lips tilt upwards, and, I swear, her entire body gets in on the deal.

  I’m mute like a fifteen-year-old who has hacked his dad’s premium porn account with my figurative dick hanging out of my pants.

  I’ve never seen her smile like that, and never at me.

  “Thanks, Darlene.” She squeezes the mail flicker’s shoulder, and I follow Asia into her apartment.

  “You’ve got terrible taste in music.”

  Her eyes widen. “You cannot not like ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’, that’s like illegal in all fifty-two states and territories.”

  I bite back a smile. It’s an awesome song, admittedly, but not on my playlist, being more of a podcast person. My boarding school dean’s words float into my head. Never stop learning. The minute you do, someone will be there to take your place.

  That someone is my twin brother who should be here. His and my mom’s lives aren’t celebrated, no flowers laid where their ashes are scattered. Forgotten by everyone but me.

  I push back the black dog who snarls on its chain in my mind. The fucker always lurks. There’s not a day that’s gone past since I was seven that I don’t see my brother’s smile, hear his laughter, then freeze when he screams.

  As if my father can sense my mood, I swipe open my phone at an incoming text. My mood sours to outer space dark when I read it.

  BEFAF or Biological excuse for a father: Running a bit low on cash. Investment didn’t pan out, I will pay you back.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket. He hasn’t paid me back the half a mill I’ve already lent him and never will. I used to think he wanted to reach out to his only living child. That died a long, drawn out, painful death. I should block his number, but a useless part of me holds out hope he’ll send a text asking to grab a coffee. Yeah, I know, I need an exorcism.

  I walk around Asia’s apartment, my hand on the back of the cat in case she falls. At six-two, it’s a drop.

  A queen-sized bed is covered in a ridiculous number of colorful cushions. I pass a sewing machine; fabric is heaped over every available surface, including a TV in the corner on an old wooden box. Nothing matches, everything’s old, but it works—a small kitchen with a stove, a fridge, and a tiny table with two chairs. I frown at the half-eaten instant noodles on the counter. Framed prints of Vogue magazine covers on the walls. I want nothing more than to sink on her worn yellow couch for five minutes. It looks way more inviting than my top of the line sofa that an interior decorator said matched the gray and black monochrome. It could be hot pink for all I care. I spend as little time at my apartment as I can.

  “Mr. Johnson, I assume you’re here to discuss your pressing problem and not my excellent taste in music. The answer is no. I’m not going to pretend to be your fake fiancée so you can get off the hook with your grandmother. Why don’t you fess up and admit to her you’ll never settle down?”

  I ignore
the Mr. Johnson comment because it pisses me off and turns me on when she says it in a low, throaty voice, like now. I turn from checking out a weird collection of tiny plastic toys. I pick up a helicopter and spin the rotor.

  “Kinder Egg toys.” At my apparently blank face, she continues. “You know, Kinder Egg, right?”

  “No.”

  “My sister and I used to collect them when we were kids.” Her hazel eyes mist. “It’s a nice childhood memory.”

  “Being a child is only a necessity to become an adult.” I don’t dwell on my childhood, ever.

  She shakes her head. “There you are, Mr. Cyborg.”

  The cat is getting restless, judging by the claws massaging my shoulders. I gently lift her to the ground.

  I get to the point of the visit, already bored and itching to hit my private gym. If I work out hard enough, maybe I’ll get a few hours of sleep tonight. “I’ll pay you fifty K for the ten days.”

  Her mouth drops open, and it’s all I can do to run my gaze over her curves. God, I want to bury my face in her hair and sleep there for a week. It’s a riot of curls, and I itch to run my fingers through it and see if it is as soft as I imagine. She always wears it up in a tight bun which makes her look older than twenty-five.

  I read her face. Shock, surprise, then her eyebrows pull in.

  I jolt.

  God, if she thinks I’m doing this to sleep with her, she’s wrong. She’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. She puts up with me, makes me smile occasionally with her stupid horoscopes and even stupider song titles about lonely people.

  As if.

  It’s not like I can ask any of the women I date. They’d either hang up on me, send a sniper, or think we were getting back together. I like women, enjoy their company, but I have no plans ever of settling down behind a white picket fence. The dog and kids make my stomach roll. Work is my thing, and I’m good at making money. One day, maybe one day, if I make enough money, I’ll look in the mirror and like what I see.

  “One hundred thousand,” she says with her hands behind her back, her chin tilted, and her hazel eyes piercing mine. “With conditions.”

  Now it’s my turn to look surprised. “What do you need a hundred K for?” I ask. Curious, I look around. “Got it, you want out of here.”

  Most of my money goes to charity, which I keep on the down low. Being a ruthless, cut-throat bastard keeps competitors edgier when they walk into negotiating a deal with me. Suits me fine.

  “We should keep things impersonal.”

  “You’re right,” I reply, and truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m not into relationships. Outside of my boarding school friends who group text, I like my own company, which is why her daily comment about me being lonely pisses me off. I’m not lonely. I love being alone.

  “Good, so we have a tentative deal.” I stuff my hands into my pockets, holding in the grin. The easiest deal I’ve ever made. “We’ll keep it simple, set some rules, then have a quiet breakup soon after we get back.”

  She sits down on her couch and pulls a notebook toward her; its white cover is adorned with sketches of dresses.

  I glance around the room again, taking in a mannequin in a green dress I’d missed in the corner. I move a bunch of pins stuck in a sponge from the sofa and sit myself next to her. I’d sit across from her if she had another chair. It’s far easier to negotiate when my head is not lost in a fog of coconut and vanilla. Is it oozing from her pores like nectar or wafting from the mass of hair?

  “Are these your designs?” I ask, distractedly looking at the open notebook. Her sofa is tiny, and my leg presses against her warm, firm thigh. It’s distracting.

  “Impersonal, remember?” She shifts in her seat, causing the ribbon thing on her top to slip down her arm. My traitorous eyes shoot to the gift of her chest and the perfect handful of breasts pressing against purple lace.

  Jesus.

  “Yep,” I reply, gruffer than I intended. My mind may agree, but my dick doesn’t and salutes like the soldier he is.

  She flicks the notebook until she gets to a blank page.

  “Public displays of affection only when vital.” I snatch the notebook and write it down. “Nothing makes me want to vomit more than displays of affection, especially in public.”

  She grabs the notebook back. “Agreed. Though I love seeing a couple really in love swept up in the moment, or a man holding my hand just because.”

  I make a gagging sound.

  She shoots me a withering look, and I swear the temperature in the room drops. “No kissing.” She writes in her proper script.

  I look at her kissable lips. “I agree in principle, but to be convincing, there may be times when we have to kiss. We are supposed to be engaged.”

  The cat weaves between my legs. I scratch her head, tracing over the bumps and hollows on her head. She arches her back and leans into me. At least one female in the room likes me.

  I snatch the notebook back and scrawl, no tongue with kissing or anything else.

  The thought of dominating her mouth makes me smile.

  “You’ve got your weird eyes on. Stop it.” She snatches the notepad back. “No going off for trysts, however discreet you may be.”

  “For both of us.” I give her a pointed look to which she rolls her eyes.

  I snatch the notebook back. “No sex.”

  Her face pinks. “Well, of course, no sex. That’s a given.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “But by yourself is okay, right? Or with a discreet battery boyfriend.”

  Now it’s my turn for my mouth to hang open. I imagine this curvy bundle of woman getting herself off with her hand or vibrator.

  My suit’s uncomfortably small and hot. Boiling hot. I clutch the back of my neck and look down, fighting the image forming in my head.

  She shoulder-bumps me. “Kidding,” she laughs.

  I expel a big breath from my now-tight chest. “If you don’t stay for the whole ten days, the deal is off.”

  I want to get out of this room and far, far away, like the Arctic Circle where I can chill off.

  “Fair enough.” Her lips are thin. Her flat eyes catch mine.

  She’d rather cozy up with Satan himself than spend ten days playing my loved-up fiancée.

  “This arrangement is to stay in this room. No one at work needs to know. I don’t shit where I work.”

  “Agreed. The look of horror on my friends’ faces that I’d made a pact with the devil. I’d rather go on Naked and Afraid.”

  I have no idea what she means, but a large part of my brain would love to see her naked; the other part hates that she’d ever feel afraid. “Sign here. I’ll have a proper contract drawn up tomorrow.”

  She takes the notebook, adds a few lines here and there, then signs her name. “This is fine. I won’t break my word.” She tilts her stubborn chin. “Will you break your word, Mr. Johnson?”

  “No, I fucking won’t.” I stride toward the door. “I expect you to be a very convincing fiancée, Ms. Brown.”

  “I’ll be all over you like a rash.”

  Jesus, it’s going to be a long ten days.

  “Tomorrow, we’re going to Montana.”

  Chapter Three

  Asia

  I look up from reading the bio my boss texted me before we left Santa Monica airport. I attended Stamford Brook boarding school from the age of seven. Degree from Harvard. I don’t read fiction, I like sushi. Asking about my family is off-limits.

  “This is it?”

  I wave my phone, then take another sip of champagne. It’s like nectar from the gods. I’ve never had champagne before. It’s delicious, and I’m nervous. The reality of being stuck for ten days with my boss is finally creeping in. If it weren’t for the money, I would’ve laughed in his face, but I promised my grandmother I’d find my sister and get her the rehab she needs. Jamaica and I used to be best friends until opioids became hers. My grandmother passed from Alzheimer’s six months ago, and in a period of luci
dity, she begged me to find Jamaica, and I promised on her dying breath I would. I haven’t seen my sister in a year, and each day I feel her slipping further away. I have to get her away from her deadbeat boyfriend, Van, who feeds her pills like he’s dispensing candy. It breaks my heart that the confident, sassy, happy sister I adore could end up a statistic.

  Bag-of-bones-Malone, the private detective I’ve hired, needs money to follow up an out-of-state lead. I’ve poured everything I have into finding Jamaica, so I must make these ten days work. Warm memories of my sister wash over me. Besides finding my older sister, the money will help me open a tiny dress boutique so I can sell the one-off vintage evening gowns I design, which I’ve dreamed of doing since Ona, my second-hand doll, arrived on my sixth birthday. Designing her dresses out of paper or old pillowcases was my favorite thing. At the moment, I have one client who lives in Baltimore. She found my website and has purchased two dresses at a discount with a promise to talk me up on social media and left a wonderful review on my website. Luckily for me, she’s around the same height, but where I have curves, she’s dreamily willowy.

  The sound of computer keys being thumped as if they were harming someone pulls me out of my head. Jason scowls at his laptop.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I pull out a notebook and pencil, ready to take notes.

  We’re sitting in his private Gulfstream jet, and I’m trying not to bounce like a happy toddler in the seat which is wider than my couch.

  He’s tense, shoulders tight. There are dark circles under his eyes, which are bloodshot. He’s been digging his hand through his hair, which he does when he’s worried or agitated. He’s checked his phone a million times and has spoken to me in seventeen caveman grunts. When I told him the horoscope I made up when we stepped onto the plane, he didn’t look up and try not to smile.

  Open your eyes to the world around you. Invite joy, compassion, and love. Never lie to the ones you love. It will come back and bite you in the ass.

  Song of the day: Only the Lonely.

  “I don’t have a favorite color.” Dark, stormy eyes lift from his laptop. “You, on the other hand, have four, according to your unnecessarily long bio.”