Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Because the Sinclairs hold too much influence,” she says, as if that explains everything. “We need them on our side.”
I know she’s right—about the influence, at least—but that doesn’t make this any less infuriating. Pretending to be madly in love with a man I’ve never met? Spending a week playing the perfect fiancée while fending off Wade’s creepy advances and keeping my parents’ business afloat? Keeping my grandmother happy? Not exactly my idea of a relaxing getaway.
My fingers hover over the last dress I’m supposed to pack. It’s a white lace number that screams “I’m so in love, I’d definitely wear this while strolling hand-in-hand with my fiancé through a picturesque meadow.” I toss it in without folding it. Maybe wrinkles will make me look more authentic.
My mother leaves the room, and I sigh, trying to remember why I’m doing all of this.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door, and I glance up, expecting to see one of the house staff. Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man steps into the room, his presence taking up more space than seems possible. He has dark hair that looks like it hasn't seen a comb in days, a rugged face with a few too many sharp angles, and eyes that are scanning me with the kind of casual interest that makes my skin prickle.
“Charlotte Lane?” he says, voice low and gravelly, like he’s already tired of this whole thing before we’ve even started.
Which irks me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s so gorgeous. Maybe it’s because instead of being snarky, I’d rather have him toss me on the bed and lay claim to me right here and now.
I need to stop reading my sci-fi romance novels late into the night.
“That’s me,” I reply, crossing my arms as I assess him right back. So, this is the infamous Asher Hawke, my fake fiancé. I bite back a groan. He’s definitely the tall, dark, and dangerous type, but his clothes—black jeans, worn boots, and a plain, fitted t-shirt—scream more “security detail” than “sophisticated society fiancé.”
Great.
He steps farther into the room, giving my half-packed suitcase a glance before turning his attention back to me. “Your mother sent me up here. Said we should go over the plan.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The plan?”
“Pretending to be in love,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—in his eyes. “I hear we’re engaged now.”
My lips twitch, but I refuse to smile. “Lucky me.”
He cocks his head, studying me for a beat too long. “Lucky? That’s one way to look at it.”
I can’t help it, but my eyes roll on instinct. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just for the week.”
“Trust me,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy sort of posture that’s clearly designed to look casual, “I’m not thrilled either.”
I let out a slow, measured breath, trying—and failing—to bleed off some of the tension crackling in the air. The entire room hums with it, thick enough to choke on as we size each other up like opponents in a ring. Well. This is off to a great start.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I say, more sharply than intended as I zip up my suitcase with a firm tug. The sound slices through the heavy silence. “Try to act like you’ve actually seen a five-star hotel before, and maybe we’ll survive the week.”
Across the room, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just leans one broad shoulder lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding casual dominance. His lips tilt into a slow, infuriating grin that makes me want to throw the nearest pillow at him.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice deep and warm, with just enough amusement to stoke my annoyance. “I can play the part.”
Sweetheart? The word slithers under my skin, both condescending and way too distracting coming from that mouth. I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. But before I can deliver the scathing comeback teetering on the tip of my tongue, he pushes off the frame, unfolding to his full height with deliberate ease.
He gestures toward the door with a slight nod, entirely too pleased with himself. “Shall we?” he asks, tone light and controlled—as if he’s already dictating the pace of this game.
I bite back a retort, snatch up my bag, and march past him without a glance. “This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter under my breath, words meant only for me.
Except nothing gets past him. His deep, velvet chuckle follows me down the hall like a slow burn across my skin.
And somehow, from the warmth curling low in my stomach, I know he agrees.
And worse? Some part of me might already be bracing for exactly that disaster.
3
Asher
The moment Charlotte Lane steps onto the driveway, every sensor in my head lights up. I try to focus on potential threats, but it’s hard when she’s this close to me. She isn’t old money flashy—she’s composed, chin high, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the perimeter like she’s already bored of this “fake-fiancé” op. Translation: a walking complication. And, inconveniently, gorgeous.