Who knew pecs could be so thick? I bet they bounce when he runs.

“What the hell are you screaming for?”

Uhh . . .

What’s the question?

I’m sorry, but I’m sort of distracted by the absolute god who’s standing in front of me. Yes, it’s easy to see that he’s an attractive man. I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t. But I never noticed he was hiding so much more under his dress shirts. And I mean . . . so much more.

Thick, flat pecs, carved shoulders, biceps that look like chiseled marble. He has the fit build of a surfer, all muscle, from the neck down, all the way to his perfectly defined abs and the indented V in his hips. And because life isn’t fair, his boxer briefs cling to his waist just above where his shorts hang.

It’s official—my fake fiancé is a total dreamboat.

Too bad he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.

Still fuming, he asks, “What the hell do you want?”

Oh, right. I’m supposed to be mad at him.

One hand on my hip, I hold up the negligee and ask, “Do you expect me to wear this?”

His eyes fall to the black silk in my hand and then he looks back to me. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Uh, these are not pajamas.”

“I thought you sleep naked, so what’s the big deal?”

“Uh, I’m not going to sleep naked in a random stranger’s house.”

“Then what’s in your hand should be suitable.”

My eyes narrow. “Where are all of my clothes?”

“In storage.”

“Why?”

He drags his hand over his face. “Because they weren’t suitable for the role you need to play. This was discussed. Why are you bringing this up when I’m trying to get ready for bed?”

“Because I thought I’d have some of my own clothes to put on at least.”

“Not necessary, I made sure you have everything you need. Now if that’s all, I’d like to get some sleep.”

Could he be any more of a dick?

Probably.

I bet this is just the tip of the iceberg for him. I bet he could be way more of an asshole, which of course makes me wonder how far could I possibly push him. Seems as though I have some time to find out.

Clutching my new pajamas, I say, “You’re dreadful, you know that?”

“You’re no ray of sunshine yourself.”

Even though he’s at least a foot taller than me, I step up to him, crank my head back, and say, “I hope you have a sleepless night.”

“Sweet nightmares,” he replies back with such a level of snark that I think I might have met my match.

Little does he know, he’s not the only one who can play dirty.

I may have a contractual agreement with the man, but I sure as hell can make his life a horror film. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Nine

HUXLEY

JP: How was last night? We didn’t hear anything from you and I’m worried she blew it. Did she? Did she fucking blow it?

I stare down at the text from my brother and pick up my mug of steaming black coffee. I blow on the hot liquid and then bring the rim of my mug to my lips to take a small sip, letting the bitter yet smooth drink slip down my throat.

Did Lottie blow it last night?

She did not.

She didn’t blow one fucking thing . . .

If you catch my drift.

In all honesty, I didn’t expect her to look that damn good in the dress I picked out. Nor did I expect her to walk out of her sister’s bathroom looking like a goddess with her hair in waves and subtle makeup highlighting her mesmerizing eyes.

And I sure as hell didn’t expect to think about her last night, all last night, with that goddamn vibrator. After I got into bed, I swear I barely breathed, just hoping to hear her pleasure herself. After thirty minutes of staying quiet, my dick as hard as a rock, I relieved myself and then went to bed.

Three dildos. What woman needs three?

Lottie, of course. Because not only am I borderline fucking up my entire enterprise with my careless mistakes, but I had to pick the one girl who so easily gets under my skin. She’s annoying, frustrating, beautiful, and snarky. A total wild card. She makes me hold my breath with every word that comes out of her mouth, and then she surprises me with her brilliancy.

It’s exhausting.

I set down my coffee, taking note of the time. She’s two minutes late to breakfast. While I wait, I text back to JP.

Huxley: She didn’t blow it. Annoyingly, she exceeded expectations, made Dave and Ellie fall in love with her, and made me look good.

I take another sip of my coffee as my brothers text back.

Breaker: How is that annoying? Shouldn’t you be happy?

JP: Uh-oh . . . is there a problem in paradise?

Huxley: She’s a goddamn pill.

Breaker: LOL. Well, that makes me fucking happy.

JP: Difficult to work with?

Huxley: You could say that. She challenges everything, and she’s late for breakfast.

Breaker: You set a time for breakfast this morning? Dude, it’s Sunday.

JP: Let me guess, you’re being a complete ass to her. Classic Huxley.

Huxley: I’m not being an ass. I’m treating our interactions as business transactions. Because that’s what this is—business.

Breaker: He’s so romantic.

Huxley: There’s nothing romantic about this arrangement.

Breaker: So, you’re saying you don’t find her the least bit attractive?

JP: What does she look like, anyway?

Huxley: Does it matter?

Breaker: Yes.

JP: One thousand percent it does.

Huxley: Why?

Breaker: Because we need to know if this arrangement is going to end in you two fucking.

JP: We need to gear up the lawyers, make sure they’re on standby.

Huxley: This WILL NOT end in fucking. Trust me.

Just then, I hear the flop of slippers sliding across the hardwood floors, drawing my attention toward the stairs. Lottie comes dragging into the dining area looking as though she just rose from the dead, but fuck . . . she’s wearing those “pajamas.”

The shorts are barely shorts. They just slip past the juncture of her hip and thigh, smoothing over her curves, and the shirt . . . well, it shows off her midriff, just above her belly button, and then stops, minimally covering her breasts. The fabric is so thin, that if it were white, I know I’d see those tight, little nipples that are poking against the material.

Her hair is still in waves, but her face is clean and clear of the makeup she wore last night.

She looks, rumpled . . . cozy . . . and like absolute trouble.

There’s a place setting next to me at the table, and without saying a word, she drops down into the chair, picks up my coffee, and takes a sip out of it before slouching in her chair and resting her head against the back.

“You’re late,” I say. “And that’s my coffee.”

I reach for it, but like a rabid beast, she hisses at me, causing me to pull back in absolute fear. “Touch it and die,” she says in a deep, possessed voice.

Not a morning person. Noted.

After a few seconds and some large gulps of coffee, she sets down my mug and slowly turns toward me. “Your seven thirty breakfast is absolute horse shit.”

Really not a morning person.

From the kitchen, my chef, Reign, brings two plates of breakfast. Each plate has a slice of avocado toast, a serving of scrambled eggs, and a fruit salad, perfectly presented.

“Thank you, Reign,” I say. As he’s about to leave, I gesture to the devil incarnate next to me and say, “This is my fiancée, Lottie. Lottie, this is Reign. We’re very lucky to have him on staff. His food is impeccable.”