Acknowledgments
Guilty was one of my favorite books to write. It was emotional and cathartic, and I hope that you enjoyed reading it.
Thank you to my wonderful editor, Kelsey, for her efforts to get this book over the line. Your comments and encouragement throughout the process help me more than I can say.
To my beta readers, Renee and Melanie—you are absolute gems, and I don’t know how I would manage without you.
To my ARC team—you make every release exciting. Thank you for cheering me on!
And finally, thank you to Mr. Monroe. You deal with my many moods and my crazy, post-writing delirium. I love you.
* * *
Engaged to Mr. Right
A Fake Marriage Romance
Lilian Monroe
1
Max
I take a deep breath before I squat down. I brace myself for the inevitable burning daggers of pain that will go through my knee when it bends. I know they’re coming. A bead of sweat dribbles between my shoulder blades, and I try not to let my apprehension show on my face.
My pretty, sympathetic physical therapist is watching me. Naomi’s big green eyes are glued on my knees, and her eyebrows are pulled ever so slightly together. The alabaster skin on her forehead, usually so smooth, is ever so slightly creased as she watches me.
A second ticks by and her sharp, green eyes flick up to mine. I can see the patient encouragement in her face.
Whenever you’re ready, she’s saying. I don’t feel ready. I blink, blowing the air out of my nostrils.
I guess I’d better go for it.
Ready for the pain, I bend at the knees and start squatting. My joints bend, my ankles flex, and the bead of sweat makes its way down my spine towards the waistband of my athletic shorts.
Down I go, deeper and deeper into my squat. I’m holding my breath, ready for the moment when the knee flexion will reach the point of agony.
Before I know it, I’m in a full squat. Naomi’s face breaks into a huge smile and my heart flips. My eyes widen and she starts laughing.
“Good work, Max!” She says, reaching her arms out towards me. I grab her hands, using her support to come back up.
“What…?” I can’t even finish my sentence. I bend down again, holding onto her hands and squatting almost down to the floor. I spring back up, my jaw hanging open. “There’s no pain!”
Naomi pulls her hands from mine and claps excitedly. I smile despite myself. There’s a slight tingling in my fingers where they were touching hers, but I try to ignore it. She looks like she’s almost happy enough to jump up and down.
The sun is shining through the window, making her red hair look like it’s made of pure fire. It’s pulled back from her face in a high pony tail, setting off the soft angles of her face. For a moment, I wonder what it would look like if her hair tumbled down around her face.
“You’ve made such great progress,” she exclaims. “You’ve been doing your exercises, haven’t you?”
“I have, actually,” I say, surprised.
“I can tell. I’m like a dentist who always knows whether or not you’ve been flossing,” she laughs.
I grin, bending my knee with wonder. When I started seeing Naomi three months ago, I thought it would be just another waste of time and money. Unexpectedly, she’s guided me through a new, comprehensive physical therapy plan and now my knee is finally starting to feel normal again.
It hasn’t felt this good since before the injury happened. That was almost four years ago, but it feels like it happened yesterday. The pain in my knee is a constant reminder of what I lost.
One bad tackle during my college football championship and I lost everything. I lost my football career, I lost my girlfriend, I lost my identity. I went from star quarterback, drafted to the NFL, to a washed-up nobody with a sore knee.
Every ligament in my knee was torn when I was tackled that day, but it was more than a knee joint that was ruined. It was my life.
And now, as pathetic as it feels to be proud of squatting down without pain, it actually feels good. Naomi is beaming, and I feel proud. I feel like myself again.
“Good,” she says. “Hop up here.” She pats the massage table beside us, kicking the step-stool towards it. I use the stool to sit on the table, swinging my legs up to lie down.
My eyes follow her, and I notice the way her blue, shapeless polo shirt clings to her curves. It has the words ‘PhysioFIT’ across the back. She bends down to pick up a long rubber loop, stringing it over a hook on the wall. Her yoga pants make her ass look perfectly perky.
I noticed how attractive she was during our first appointment, but suddenly it feels like my body has woken up from a long slumber. Watching her move is sending blood to parts of my body that should not have blood rushing to them right now.
Maybe I was too focused on the pain in my knee, or too focused on the fact that my injury would never get better for my body to react to her attractiveness. She turns back towards me and nods to the table.
I know the drill. I lie on my back as Naomi stands beside me. I wish I was wearing something with a bit more coverage than these loose athletic shorts.
“So how’s work going?” She grabs my ankle and bends my leg as I stare at the ceiling. She’s gentle but pushes me at the same time, moving my knee back towards my chest until I start to feel the first twinges of pain.
“It’s fine,” I respond through gritted teeth. Naomi straightens my leg again.
“Yeah?” She bends my knee again, straightening it up in the air and hooking it onto her shoulder. She places her hand on the table next to my chest and curls her other arm around my leg. She leans forward, bracing herself against me as she stretches my leg up towards the ceiling. A strand of hair falls across her forehead.
Her lips are full and pink, and they’re stretched in a determined line. I groan as she stretches me, trying to ignore the heat that’s spreading through my stomach.
Why am I turned on right now?
I mean, I know why. I mean why right now?
I stare at the ceiling again, shifting all my attention to memorize the shape of a water stain on one of the ceiling tiles.
“Yeah, work’s good,” I finally respond. “We just landed a big contract with the government.”
“The one you told me about a couple weeks ago?” She asks, her hand drifting down to the crook of my hip as she stretches my leg up further. I try to ignore the thought of her slender, soft fingers so close to my crotch.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, that one. It took a long time to get past all the approvals and red tape, but they’ve agreed to let us supply the materials for one of their big construction projects down the coast.”
“That’s great!” Naomi answers, dropping my leg down. “On your stomach.”
I turn on my stomach and my heart starts thumping because I know what’s coming. I hear her squirt some oil onto her hands and I’m grateful that I’ve turned around. At least if my body decides to…misbehave… it’ll be hidden against the massage table.
When her oiled hands touch my leg, I forget what I was saying. It’s simultaneously painful and exciting as she kneads my hamstring and around my knee. How have I never felt like this before? I’ve never even thought of Naomi this way. She was just one of the many members of the team that are supposed to get my knee back to normal.
But right now, as her hands move further up my leg, this feels very different from the other times.
Maybe it’s because the shooting pain that’s usually associated with these physical therapy massages isn’t there today.
“How does that feel?” Naomi asks as if she can read my mind. “You’re not complaining as much as usual.”
I can hear the grin in her voice. “Complaining!” I say, turning my head to catch her eye.
She’s laughing to herself, kneading my hamstring a little bit harder as I yelp.
“You did that on purpose.” There’s a gleam in her eye when she glances at me, and a shiver passes t
hrough me.
“I’m just trying to get you better, Mr. Westbrook,” she retorts. “I’m glad to see you’re improving.”
“You’re going to injure me again with those hands of yours,” I grumble. But she won’t. I love what her hands are doing to me.
I love it a lot… maybe too much. My heart thumps.
What is going on?
Her hands move over my shorts and she starts digging her elbow into my ass. I groan.
“Your glutes are still tight,” she remarks. “Have you been using the ball I gave you?”
“It’s too painful,” I whine. I know I sound like a child, but I can’t help it.
“You need to loosen your glutes up, Max,” she reproaches. “Right here,” she notes, poking the side of my ass. “This muscle is pulling along here,” her hand drifts along the side of my leg towards my knee.
My cock pulses, and my heart races.
Thank fuck I’m laying on my stomach.
Naomi doesn’t seem to notice. “If you don’t loosen that up, it’ll keep pulling sideways at your knee and it’ll be difficult to get the right alignment in your knee joint. It’s important.”
“Right,” I groan as she digs her elbow back in my ass.
“It’s very common when people have had a total ACL and MCL reconstruction. We need to make sure everything aligns properly for you to heal.”
“I thought I was making good progress,” I grumble, turning my head again to look at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me how great I’m doing?”
She stops massaging me, putting her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow.
“I’m supposed to be getting you better, Max. I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear just to make you happy. Five minutes with the ball. Loosen your glutes up every morning like I showed you.”
There’s a gleam in her eye, and her lip quirks up a tiny bit.
“If you don’t like it, find another physio. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
“No,” I respond. “I think I’ll stick with you. You’ve got those great sharp elbows,” I groan as she goes back to work on my glutes.
Naomi laughs. She works on the other side of my body, and after a few minutes she finally pats my leg.
“Your torture is over, Max. Good work today.”
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the massage table. I try not to stare at the curve of her hip, or the way her yoga pants are stretched across her ass.
She turns back to me and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling.
“See you next week! You need any help getting out?”
I shake my head, grunting. “I’m good. See you next week.”
I watch her walk towards her office, hypnotized by the movement of her ass from side to side with every step. When she finally moves out of view, I shake my head and grab my stuff, heading towards the locker rooms.
Once I’m dressed for work, I put my tie on in the mirror, staring at myself for a few seconds. I shake my head. I need to get it together. Naomi is the best physical therapist I’ve had. I had the second operation on my knee two years ago, and this is the best I’ve felt since I was in college.
I can’t—no, I won’t—mess it up by hitting on her. There are plenty of other women to chase.
I bend my knee, waiting for the familiar crackles and pops that usually accompany any movement. There aren’t any, and I take a deep breath.
I definitely can’t mess this up. As attractive as she is, I need to think about my knee.
For the first time since the injury happened and my football career ended, I actually feel like myself again.
2
Naomi
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not!” I turn away from Meghan as my cheeks start to burn. I know I’m red—I can feel the blush creeping up my neck and covering my cheeks. Even my ears feel hot. I probably look like a Christmas bulb right now.
“You are so blushing right now.”
Her dark eyebrow arches gracefully as she watches me. I roll my eyes.
“What if I am?”
“He’s a player,” she says, glancing towards the front door. “Max Westbrook is in the tabloids every second day. Do you know he left his fiancée at the altar? Literally at the altar. He just didn’t show up.”
“Poor woman,” I reply, shaking my head. “That must have been mortifying.”
“You can say that again,” Meghan grumbles, turning to face me. She leans her tall, slender body against her desk as I start wrapping up some resistance bands to put them away.
“So what’s going on between you two, anyway? There was lots of laughing going on for a simple physio session.”
“What, I’m not allowed to enjoy my job?”
“Not that much,” she retorts, grinning.
I try to swallow back the blush that threatens to light up my face again. I shake my head. “He’s making good progress, and I’m happy about it. When he first came in here he could hardly bend his knee. Now he’s squatting with no pain!”
“Must be all that dedicated, one-on-one work you’re doing.”
“Shut up, Meg,” I laugh. “Nothing is going on. He’s my client, and I would never do anything with a client. Plus, he’s not my type.”
Meg snorts, pushing herself off the desk and grabbing a protein bar from the shelf. She walks a couple steps and turns back towards me, unwrapping the bar and taking a bite. She points the protein bar at me and shakes her head.
“Max Westbrook is everyone’s type. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry.”
She stares at me for a few seconds, and I force myself to hold her gaze. Finally, she shrugs. “You decide what you’re wearing on Saturday?”
I sigh, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
Shit. Saturday.
Meghan makes a noise, and I can almost hear the smirk on her face. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I reply, turning towards her. Yep—she’s smirking.
“It’s our boss’s bachelorette party, Naomi!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really a ‘wedding’ person. Why are we invited, anyway? It’s not like we’re friends with her.”
Meg grins. “Maybe we are her friends, and we just don’t know it.”
“At least she said it would be on the company credit card.”
“So I take it that’s a ‘no’ to the question about what you’re going to wear?”
“I don’t know, I’ll wear jeans and a nice top, or something.”
“Wow, way to narrow it down.” She takes another bite of her protein bar. “Come over in the afternoon on Saturday. Ariana’s coming too.”
“Does Julia even know her?”
“Company credit card,” Meg laughs. “She’s crashing the bachelorette party.”
“Typical Ari,” I laugh.
“Come on, come over. We can get nice and buzzed beforehand and I’ll help you get ready. I have a couple dresses that you could try on.”
“I don’t think your clothes will fit me,” I say, glancing at her tall, willowy frame. My hands drift to my wide hips and I shake my head. “I’m about four inches shorter than you and a couple sizes bigger.”
“You are not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You just always wear clothes that are a couple sizes too big for you. Show off those curves, Naomi! You’re a knockout. Plus, you need to get laid, if only to stop going gaga over your freaking clients.”
“Mm,” I reply, turning to my desk and finding Max’s file. I can sense Meg’s eyes on my back so I turn to look over my shoulder. “Fine.”
A grin spreads over her face. “Good. I’m going for lunch. You coming?”
“Gotta finish this paperwork. See you when you get back.”
Meg makes a noise and glides through the door. I watch her leave before sinking down into a chair. Closing my eyes for a moment, I drop my head into my hand.
I open my eyes and stare at the stack of papers in front of me. Before
I know what I’m doing, I trace his name with my fingers: Max Westbrook.
Meg is way too perceptive. I was laughing more than usual, and it wasn’t because Max was making progress. It was the way he was looking at me. More than once, I got lost in those deep, blue eyes of his. I had my hands all over him—I mean, I had to. It’s my job! But this time, it wasn’t like his other appointments. When I was massaging his leg, it was sending thrills through my body that are still echoing through me now.
My hands drift down to my thighs and I remember the way his hard, muscled body looked and felt as he laid on my massage table.
I take a deep breath and put the stack of papers down. I jot down a few notes and file them away, shaking my head.
Meg is right. Max Westbrook is my client. Not only that, he’s a super rich, super out-of-my-league playboy. No matter how electrifying his touch is, or how deep and blue his eyes are, I can’t get involved.
I snort at the thought, shaking my head. Get involved? It’s not like I have the choice. He wasn’t exactly coming on to me or anything. He just looked at me, for crying out loud. And here I am, losing my mind over it.
I stare through the door and take a deep breath. Meg is right. I do need to get laid, if only to stop myself from going wobbly-kneed every time an attractive man walks through the door.
The last thing I need is to get distracted. There are dozens of attractive, athletic men who walk through these doors. Professional athletes come here with injuries all the time. Working here is a privilege, and I can’t forget that. Not even if Max sends a thrill through my body every time he’s near.
That’s just part of the job.
… Right?
3
Max
A can of beer hits me in the chest before I even know it’s coming. I catch it as it tumbles down my stomach, looking up to see who threw it.
“What’s up with you, Max?” Joel cocks his head to the side. “Bad day at work?”
Guilty: Confessions Series: Book 1 Page 19