My Big Fat Fake Engagement
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Contents
Also by Lauren Landish
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Excerpt: My Big Fat Fake Wedding
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2020 by Coverluv.
Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.
Photography by LightField Studios, Shutterstock.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
Also by Lauren Landish
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts
The Tannen Boys:
Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country
Standalones
My Big Fat Fake Wedding || The Dare || Filthy Riches || Scorpio
Dirty Fairy Tales:
Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After
Get Dirty:
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets
Irresistible Bachelors:
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
Chapter 1
Courtney
“Looking good, Boss,” Jillian, my assistant, compliments me as I come into the office at ten minutes to eight on a gloriously sunny Monday morning. My office. From the subtle pastels in the wallpaper to the Janet Jackson poster, a reprint of her famous 1993 cover of Rolling Stone, it reflects me. “Glutes are on point.” She snaps her fingers with every word, making a Z shape in the air to add a little extra sauce to it.
I strut a little more for her, pretending the office is my runway and appreciating the compliment more than she knows.
I’ve known Jillian for a few years and hand selected her four months ago to move into my office after I got the promotion to Executive Vice President of Andrews Consolidated.
At the time, several other assistants who applied for the role were shocked by my choice, thinking I’d want someone young and hungry. Jillian is twenty years my senior and an outlier in the admin pool with an odd, kitschy style that she only slightly quashes for the office. Her outfits are always professional but funky pin-up versions like her favorite watermelon-print circle skirt, Mary Jane ankle strap heels, sweater set, and pearls. Each is complete with cat-eye, black-framed glasses and a bouffant hairdo she accents with knotted silk handkerchief headbands.
In passing, you might think she’s someone’s crazy aunt. In truth, she’s nothing short of amazing, and most important to me, her results are nothing short of superhuman.
Sure, she’s vivacious, a little wild, a little crazy, someone who likes to juggle a dozen balls in the air and then just for fun add a chainsaw to the mix as well. Plus, she’s got enough energy to power a small Midwestern city and still have enough to light up the office on dull days.
But that just makes her the perfect balance for me. I’m not talking myself down when I say that not only am I by the book, I’ve probably memorized it, notarized it, and sent grammar corrections to the book’s publisher. I’m straight as an arrow, a workaholic who needs someone like Jill to keep up with my B-shift tendencies. As in, be here before eight and be here after sunset if need be.
And with that weekly schedule, though she plays the dutiful assistant well in public, we’ve become the Odd Couple sort of friends behind closed doors, with her being the Oscar to my Felix.
“Thanks,” I tell Jillian, heading for my inner office. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine . . . and you could crack walnuts with that ass. Pow-pow.” From across the room, she air-squeezes each of my cheeks with one eye closed to help her aim.
That’s a new one. I spin, trying to look over my own shoulder, and she corrects me. “No, you gotta loosen up to throw it back. Like this.”
Without missing a beat, she demonstrates, strutting across the outer office in today’s floral-print pencil skirt and silk bow-tied blouse before popping her hip and dropping to pick up a paperclip on the floor in a back-arching, ass-swooping arc that’d have Nicki Minaj blush and Sir Mix-a-Lot dropping to his knees in worship.
“How in the world? Don’t throw out a hip, woman! It’s not covered by worker’s comp if you do it like that,” I sputter. I can’t help but laugh. I don’t think I’m even physically capable of moves like that. At least, not without a couple of years of tantric yoga and a scheduled hip replacement. Instead, I smooth my skirt over my hips, giving my ass a small pat of appreciation for its shapeliness, even if it can’t do gravity-defying moves like that. Yet.
“Thanks,” Jill says with a small curtsy, fawning over her imaginary fans who are apparently demanding an encore. A request she’s more than willing to oblige.
I head into my inner office, and I’m back to all-business as I stare out the window at the city view I wanted so badly and worked so hard to get. My hard work and hump busting are paying off and I finally have my chance.
Turning around, I call back out to Jillian, who of course has read my mind as usual and is waiting in the doorway, her tablet ready in case she needs to jot down something. And I do have some work for her to do. “About the AgroStar presentation. Everything prepared for the PowerPoint? I want to go over it a few more times today.”
“A few more dozen times, you mean,” she corrects me. “You could recite that thing in your sleep by this point. Even the Jean-Luc Picard quotes I snuck in on ya.”
She’s right, and most of the quotes were actually pretty good. I have most of the main body of the presentation down by heart. Now it’s all about strategizing and anticipating any questions the owner of AgroStar, Jane Crabtree, might try and hit me with. She’s known for having a mind like a katana and the ability to throw out curveballs that’d make a Major League pitcher jealous.
But if she’s the business equivalent of Clayton Kershaw, then I’m going to be Barry Bonds. I’ve practiced, I’ve honed my craft, and when she offers something up, I will smash it somewhere into outer space. Hence, the Jean-Luc Picard quotes.
It’s who I am. Stubborn and persistent? Absolutely. I once put together a one-thousand-piec
e puzzle in all white simply because I wouldn’t give up.
Calculating and analytical? Of course. I didn’t get my bachelor’s degree in mathematics for nothing.
Strategic and able to see the big picture from all angles? One of my best traits. In addition to my major in math, I minored in international business because I found the challenge exhilarating.
All of which is why I deserve this office and that title on the door, regardless of my last name. Yes, four months ago, this office belonged to my big brother, Ross. I was my father’s executive assistant. But now it’s mine, down to the interior decoration.
I love my big brother and wasn’t jealous of his success at all. But to be honest, I thought he was a bit of a mental case over this job. He kept whining about nepotism and how it made his life hard.
It made my bullshit meter go off, ad nauseum, because he was, and is, the shining Chosen One of our family. Both firstborn and male, he had all the skids greased for him. Luckily for him, he’s got the goods to back it up. Good looking, competitive, and with more business smarts in his pinky finger than most MBA grads will ever have, he blazed a trail in the company that outshone a lot of C-suite-level execs.
And I’ll give this to my brother—he’s not the kind to be born on third base and claim he hit a triple. He just chafed because he wanted to hit grand slams.
I knew that taking his job when he left the company was going to come with a lot of challenges. And now, I’ll admit that maybe he wasn’t being a big brat about the whole thing. There are issues, and then there’s the mountain I’m still just figuring out how to climb.
But the fact is, I paid my dues, and paid and paid again. Now, I’m right on course for everything I’ve planned and dreamed. One day, when Dad’s ready to retire, it’ll be my name on the CEO door. And I will have earned that responsibility and privilege.
Not that anyone cares. They see my last name, my youth, and that I’m a woman and instantly discount me. So the next goal is to prove to Dad, the board, and everyone from the top floor to the basement that I deserve this title and the next one because of my vision, not my last name.
“Jillian, go ahead and call for lunch delivery,” I call out as I sip at my second coffee of the day while reviewing the figures for the presentation just to make sure nothing’s changed in the past twenty-four hours. “Something light for me, maybe a turkey salad. It’s going to be a late night, and I don’t want to have office chair ass.”
“Okay . . . but in my not-at-all humble opinion, you need a break, Court,” Jillian says. She’s offered the same piece of advice approximately one billion times, and more than likely, she’s going to say it at least ten more times today.
She’s not always so blatant, often covering it up with other suggestions. How about this gala? What about this art opening? Want me to update your eMatch profile?
At least she hasn’t made me a Tinder profile yet. Or at least, not that I know of.
“I’ll take a break after this presentation,” I finally tell her, downing the rest of my coffee and setting the cup on the corner of my desk for her to refill. Jillian picks it up dutifully, but I can’t help but notice her perfectly penciled raised eyebrow.
She’s not saying it, but she knows I’m lying. And she knows I know. She just doesn’t care. “Court.”
I sigh, unable to hold back my frustration. “Okay, fine. You want the truth? I’ll have a personal life when I’m CEO. I’ll find a man then, settle down, have a happy marriage, all that stuff. For now, everything outside the business can wait. This is it for me right now.”
Jillian tuts softly, going over to the coffee machine and refilling my cup for me. “That’s not healthy, mentally or physically. At least you go to the gym, but you’ve got to get out there and talk to people about more than market shares.” She drops her voice, even though my office door’s currently closed. “Get some dick, honey. It’s not good for you to be so uptight. Good dick will help loosen you up.”
She shimmies her shoulders, the wiggle working its way down to her hips and then finally to her tapping toes. She does look . . . loose. Not in a bad way, but in a feminine way that I’m not sure I remember feeling.
And also, it’s weird to hear her tell me to get dick, no matter how many times she suggests it. And not just because of her age or our professional roles. But that’s not exactly a prescription for a happy life. I know she’s worried I’m going to burn out bright and fast like a sparkler, but dating, or specifically, fucking, can’t be the cure for everything despite her advice.
“I like talking market shares and stock market analysis,” I protest, hating that I sound weak. “That’s what I do for fun.”
That sounds pathetic even to me, and in my mind, I start flipping through my calendar. When was the last time I had sex? A year? Was it . . . no, that was just a date that ended with me at home using my vibrator. What about . . . no, not then either.
Is it a bad sign if I can’t remember? Shit, that’s definitely a bad sign. I make a note to masturbate tonight. Jillian’s right. An orgasm would be good for me.
I’m scheduling masturbation sessions? Someone needs to change my office door sign to Courtney Andrews, Executive Sad Panda.
But for now, it’s all I have time for.
I’m married to spreadsheets, data points, and advancing my career. Other than in my wardrobe choices and hygiene, I barely even remember that I’m a woman. And I don’t see that changing.
Sure, deep down inside, I sometimes want the domestic dream life with a husband, kids, and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. I can’t lie to myself about that. But if I want to climb the ladder to the top, that’s all it’ll be. A dream.
Once, there was someone I was interested in. I saw him all the time and even sometimes made an excuse to see him when he worked here in the office.
But it was never like that with him, could never be. Still, I know whose face will be floating through my mind when I cross that vibrator date off my calendar.
Kaede McWarren. My brother’s best friend. I’ll come hard, wishing I’d have said something to him back when he worked at what’s now Jillian’s desk as Ross’s right-hand man . . . and then that fantasy will wash down the drain so I can tackle another day at the office grind of Andrews, a multimillion-dollar empire that one day I will rule.
What a life.
* * *
“Boom, baby!” Kaede yells, deftly faking a drive, pulling up, and unleashing a jump shot. Kaede’s eyes track the ball as it sails through the air, but mine are locked on him. Sweat glistens on the muscles of his bare chest, running in rivulets down to the shorts slung low on his hips, and I’m struck with the desire to chase each one with my fingertips, or maybe my tongue. “Score!”
Hell yeah, I’d like to.
“Whoo, that’s what I’m talking about!” my big brother, Ross, cheers, his fist pumping in the air twice before he comes over to pound Kaede on the back.
The two guys they’re playing make some good-natured grumbles, demanding a rematch after they refuel.
As the four guys rally around the bench, guzzling Gatorade, I realize this is my moment. If I have to track down my brother on the weekend for work shit he should’ve handled yesterday, I plan to get some mileage of my own out of it because I know what Ross does on Saturday mornings.
He plays basketball with Kaede. Calm, cool, collected, and sexy as fuck Kaede.
So though I’m dressed casually, I chose these ass-hugging jeans and the red heels intentionally. Click-click-click. The sound is foreign on the court, garnering attention.
“Holy shit,” I hear one of Ross and Kaede’s friends sputter. I smirk, glad that my appearance seems to be having its predicted effect. But when I look at Kaede, his eyes are dark and hooded. Is he upset?
“What the fuck are you doing here, Court?” Ross snarls.
“As per usual, cleaning up your messes,” I say coldly. “You forgot to sign these. Here and here.” As though this little meeting
is all business, I hold out a pen and point to the two lines that need his signature.
But that’s not what this memory is about.
It’s about Kaede possessively stepping between those other guys and me to block their view, as if it’s his alone.
It’s about Kaede’s eyes glancing down my body so quickly I could pretend I imagined it, but I know I didn’t because I can see the new tightness in his jaw as he grits his teeth.
It’s about the exhale of his heated breath that I swear I can feel on my skin like a lover’s touch.
It’s about the pucker of his brown nipples, even though I know he’s hot from playing.
And last but not least, as I take back the signed papers and walk away, I look over my shoulder and see . . .
This memory is about the moment Kaede McWarren adjusts his cock as I bust him looking at my ass.
The memory flushes me, and as I listen to the humming throb of my shower massager pressed between my legs, the warm water pulsing over my clit, I moan helplessly.
It doesn’t take me long. Memories of Kaede, especially that particular one, push me over quickly, and it only takes a few more pulses, a pinch of my nipple, and my hips start to buck helplessly, taken over by an instinctual need for something more than anything my AquaDance can ever provide.
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