Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  IVY

  If you look up Chase Hunter on the internet, the term stuffy doesn’t come up.

  Wealthy. Single. Playboy. Those are the terms of reference sprinkled all over Google.

  When I sputtered out the s-word yesterday, I never expected he—the confident man who tends to make my heart free-fall into the pit of my gut—would grow a freaking complex.

  Nonetheless, here I am, in the back of the town car with Mrs. Adams, as Henry escorts us to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

  “So, you’re the pretend fiancée?”

  Mrs. Adams seems like a delightful woman. Elegant, statuesque. Like someone who would be in charge of a London charm school. I’m almost afraid to breathe in fear she may order me to correct my posture.

  “Yes, Mrs. Adams.” I clear my throat. “That’s me.”

  “Excellent choice. You’re very pretty and I’m sure you’ll put on a convincing performance.” She pats my shoulder, smiles assuredly. “And please, call me Lottie.”

  As Henry weaves in and out of traffic, through what’s known as the Wilshire area of Los Angeles, I peer out the tinted window: palm trees adorned with mini Christmas wreaths; business storefronts decorated in holiday cheer; people shuffling about, some carting briefcases, others tugging along with shopping bags in tow. It never ceases to amaze me how this city, and its residents, never sleep. I was nervous when I first arrived here, taken aback by the city’s allure. Sure, I’d seen movies and postcard pictures, but seeing is believing. Still, there are times I miss New York, the architecture, the pop-up stores, and of course the 24-hour bodegas.

  Henry turns onto Rodeo Drive, a popular shopping district in Beverly Hills, and shortly after, pulls to a stop alongside a curb in front of Tiffany’s. Admittedly, Rodeo isn’t the place I typically shop. It’s way too out of my league. However, with the per diem, I don’t mind spending a little on clothes for fake Evelyn.

  “Shall I return in a few hours, Lottie?”

  Lottie glances up at Henry. “Yes, hon. I’ll text you about an hour before. Will you be heading home until then?”

  “Yes, love, I need to finish hanging the Christmas lights.”

  Lottie flicks her gaze over to me as I try to figure out the dynamics between these two.

  Are they involved? Or just comfortable offering terms of endearment?

  Lottie must have caught wind of my bewilderment. “Henry and I are married, my dear. Chase was sweet enough to give Henry a job when he retired six years ago and wanted something to do besides be bored at home while I was at work all day.”

  “Aww, how sweet,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

  Henry cranks his head, eyes crinkled at the corners as he turns his attention to me. “Chase is a nice man, extremely generous, so don’t be fooled by anything you may have heard or read on the internet.”

  Lottie and I exit the town car and I follow behind on the sidewalk as she snakes her way through the crowd of shoppers. She stops in front of a store—its name I can’t even pronounce. “Shall we begin here? They have a lovely assortment of suits, coats—”

  More stuffy clothes? “How about we try another store. I’m thinking Brenada Boutique may have some items that would look amazing on Chase.”

  We walk a few shops down to Brenada and once we make our way inside, two young women greet us. Immediately, they make me think of the two snobs who dissed Julia Roberts’ character in the movie Pretty Woman. Not because they’re rude, but because of the way they scan us from head to toe when we walk in.

  “May we help you, ladies? Are you looking for or shopping for someone in particular?” the one with dark hair asks while the one with raven-colored hair stands next to her, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

  Lottie grins, hand on hip. “Yes, we’re shopping for Chase Hunter.” She cocks her head to the side, her tongue noticeably grazing the inside of her cheek. “You two may have heard of him, right?”

  “U-uh,” dark-haired snob stutters, “of course we’ve heard of Chase Hunter.”

  “Wonderful. Now, Ivy here has the task of buying clothes to make Mr. Hunter feel a tad more hip.”

  Raven-haired snob’s eyes widen. “You’ve come to the right place. Follow me.”

  After an hour, Lottie and I walk out of the men’s clothing boutique with bags and more bags of chic threads. Jeans, slacks, sweaters, Oxford shirts, silk tees, and even some PJs.

  “You’ve got an eye for nice clothes,” Lottie says. “Maybe you can spruce up my wardrobe sometime.”

  I smile, trotting on the sidewalk toward another small boutique. “My minor at the Acting Academy was fashion design and merchandising. For some reason, my little brain thought that would come in handy someday. And now look at me, shopping for a billionaire.”

  Lottie giggles. “Indeed you are.”

  Walking past a few more shops, we land at Mimi’s Boutique. “This is where I’ll spend the ‘per diem’ Holly at My Fake Fiancé Dot Com gave me.”

  While I shop and try on clothes, Lottie fills me in on everything that is Chase Hunter: his work habits, the kind of food he dislikes, even his last girlfriend. “Oh, how he was utterly infatuated with her. But between you and me, she was quite a B, if you know what I mean. Vindictive. Not to mention selfish. They met at a business conference; she works for an investment firm similar to Hunter, Inc. Valerie—her name—used Chase, not only for names of failing businesses to target, but also for his money.”

  I set down a pair of six-inch stilettos, deciding even Carrie Bradshaw wouldn’t spend three-hundred bucks on them. “You’re right, she does sound like a B.”

  Lottie lets out a pity-sigh, the conjured-up memories casting a frown upon her lightly made-up face. “The woman spent loads of Chase’s money, tossing it around as if she’d earned it herself. Personally, I couldn’t take seeing him turn a blind eye. I showed him his account statements with specifics on how the money-sucking leech moved money out of his accounts, right into her own.”

  My mouth falls open. “How long ago were they together?”

  Lottie looks over some dresses on a rack. “It’s been about four years since they split up. He went down a spiral of living this playboy-like lifestyle. Women galore, with no strings attached. He said it was because he didn’t want to commit to one woman again. I know it was because he didn’t want to risk a broken heart.”

  Hearing Chase’s story makes my heart ache. It must be difficult for someone like him to ever feel as though they’ve found true love—an open target for users and abusers.

  “It’s difficult to come back from a broken heart,” I say as Lottie walks alongside me on my way to the cashier.

  “Are you speaking from experience, dear?”

  “Me?” I shake my head. “Oh, no. I’ve never had a broken heart.”

  She pins a set of eyes on me, askance, speculative. “Really? How have you been so lucky?”

  “It’s simple. I’ve avoided falling in love.”

  10

  IVY

  “Wait, girl. Did I hear you right? You’re pretending to be engaged to Chase Hunter? The millionaire?” Gabriella’s mouth flies open, chow mein noodles hanging out the side of her mouth.

  “Billionaire,” I correct, adjusting the video-chat screen on my home computer. “We leave for New York tomorrow morning.”

  Gabriella tosses her hair back, surveys me through the screen. “Is he hot? I mean, I’ve never seen photos of him. His image is practically unsearchable.”

  It’s true. You can find out a shitload of information on the billionaire investment mogul, but none of that information points to a photograph. Not even a single social media profile can be found. “Yup, he’s pretty hot. Tall, dark…and arrogant.”

  I dare not admit thoughts of Chase have been flashing through my mind like a collage of bedazzled memories. The protruding muscles underneath his shirt. That dapper smile. The fluctuating trill of his voice when he calls me Ms. Bloom. The chill that slithers up and down my spine from a simple whiff of h
is cologne. Chase Hunter has single-handedly turned the word ‘ham’ into an acronym for Hot. Ass. Man.

  “Honey, they’re all arrogant at first—even Brad was in the beginning.” She takes a bite of an egg roll. “I thought he was the most haughty piece of sexy shit I’d ever come in contact with. Then, he became this kind, thoughtful guy, who I couldn’t get enough of. Next thing I knew, I was head over heels.”

  I eyeball her, mostly because the takeout lunch she’s eating is making my mouth water. “Well, I can guarantee I won’t be falling head over heels. I’ve got a job to do, nothing more. Plus, you know I make it a point to never fall in love.”

  Her wide-set eyes are speckled with bemusement. “Yeah, you avoid love as if it’s a communicable disease. But they don’t issue vaccinations for the love bug—sooner or later, you’ll catch it. Anyway, what did your mom say? Is she excited?”

  “Ma doesn’t know and there’s no way I’m telling her. In fact, I don’t even plan to share the details of this gig with her.” I lean forward, closer to the screen. “And you better not either. I know she calls you sometimes, trying to squeeze information out of you.”

  Gabriella swallows a sip of bottled water. “Didn’t you say you’re going to New York, though?” She waits for my nodded reply. “Does that mean you’ll visit your parents while you’re there?”

  It is something I’ve thought about ever since Chase told me we’re going to the Big Apple. But how am I to slip away? “No, I don’t think I can. I’ll be working. Anyway, I already told Ma I won’t be coming home for Christmas.”

  The thought saddens me a little. I’ve gone home for Christmas every year since I moved to California. Yet, I knew when I signed up for this project, being available through the holidays was a prerequisite.

  “If it helps, I won’t be going home this year, either. Brad booked a cruise to Jamaica.”

  She’s so damn lucky. Brad adores her, gives her the sun, all the moons, and their stars. In a sea full of heartbreakers, men like him are hard to find.

  “A Christmas cruise to Jamaica sounds like a lot of fun. Bring me and BB a T-shirt, please.”

  She lets out a yawn, food coma no doubt kicking in. “Are you taking BB to New York with you?”

  “Of course I am.” BB jumps in my lap, places her paws on the desk, and licks my computer screen.

  Gabriella laughs. “Thank you for the kisses, BB girl. And you be good for your mama in New York.”

  BB barks, wags her little tail, then licks the screen once more, before she hops back onto the carpeted floor.

  “Anyway, girl, I’ve gotta go. I’ll text you before heading out on my trip. Love ya.”

  Gabriella throws me a kiss. “Love ya too, babe.”

  Packing has never been my thing—the planning—matching outfits to anticipated weather patterns. And just my luck, it’s expected to snow the whole time we’re in New York.

  Yet, all in all, I think I’m ready for this trip. My hair’s been highlighted, nails done, body waxed—not that I’m expecting any between-the-sheets action—and all suitcases packed. BB’s ready too, especially after her doggie spa day, complete with a massage. Dr. Addison, her vet, gave me something to give preflight to ensure she’s calm for the whole four-hour plane ride.

  Our flight leaves tomorrow morning, 5 a.m. sharp. I’m assuming Henry will be sent over to pick me up, but Chase hasn’t been in contact with me to let me know, so I’m relying on the information Holly provided in the file folder.

  Maybe I should call his office to confirm? Or send him a text message? I’ve already entered his contact information into my cell phone—Fake Billionaire Fiancé.

  Part of me wishes he’d cancel this whole thing. Lying to his parents makes me nervous. I’ve never been good at lying—which is crazy since I’m good at acting.

  But canceling would mean I’d have to give back the advance Holly gave me and forget about the rest of the money I’m to receive once the assignment is over. That money will be enough for me to put a down payment on a car, plus have a little extra left over for saving. Heck, if this all ends up being a piece of cake, I’ll stay on Holly’s roster for future gigs.

  Exhausted, I plop down on my bed feeling like it’s 1 a.m. instead of 1 p.m. BB barks, clawing at my mattress so she can join me and curl up under my legs. “Wanna take an afternoon nap, sweetie?”

  For once, I think a nap isn’t a bad idea, but first I decide it’s best to set my alarm. I don’t want to sleep the rest of the day away. Picking up my cell phone, that’s been charging on my nightstand for most of the morning, I see a pop-up on the screen.

  Two missed calls and a text message.

  Fake Billionaire Fiancé: Call me back, please. It’s important.

  11

  CHASE

  My heart is racing. Anxiety building.

  This is the way I always feel before going home to visit my parents; albeit, it’s stronger this time. Apprehension, guilt, with a dose of what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-myself-into.

  This plan had better work.

  It’s Wednesday, one day before my trip to New York.

  After leaving my meeting with Studio Zee, a small production studio in Westwood, I came straight home to pack. Ivy did an impeccable job buying me a brand new wardrobe to take with me. That woman—I take in a deep breath, sitting on my deck overlooking the waves—thoughts of her won’t stop swirling around in my mind. It’s been a while since I’ve allowed an army of dragonflies to swarm my stomach in excitement over a woman. I use the analogy of dragonflies as opposed to butterflies—it’s an alpha male thing. Still, excitement or not, I know Ivy only comes with Project Fake Fiancée, then the two of us shall undoubtedly part ways.

  We fly out early tomorrow morning, at 5 a.m. But with Los Angeles traffic, even an early morning dash to the airport can take forever. So, I’ve devised a remarkable plan, only I can’t seem to reach Ivy to execute said plan.

  Why won’t she answer her phone or return my calls?

  Ocean waves crash-land below, a crescendo of never-ending beauty. This deck is a sweet spot, the place I come to unwind, think, or simply be. My house, on Malibu Drive, has been a little piece of sanctuary since I moved in it two years ago. The house before this one had too many memories tied to it. Memories of a time when I thought I was the absolute shit. A time when I played women, using them like a new drug, as I searched for a temporary fix. In reality, I was only searching for a way to mend my shattered heart.

  Valerie Marks.

  The one who turned me into the ruthless, billionaire-playboy—a snapshot of that life splattered all over the internet. Valerie was the one I was certain would become Mrs. Chase Hunter. The one who stole from me, made a fool out of me, and broke my heart.

  I’m over her now and feel ready to love again. Maybe.

  My cell phone rings; the name Ivy Bloom flashing on the screen makes those dragonflies swarm.

  “Hey”—a smile tugs at my mouth—“I’m glad you’ve called back.”

  “Sorry, I was packing and didn’t hear my phone ring. What’s up? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  I stand, shove my free hand in my pocket, and pace the floor of my deck. “No, uh, I thought I’d run a plan of action by you, one that could make our getting to the airport in the morning easier.”

  I hear BB bark in the background. “Oh? What plan of action?”

  “Yeah, well seeing how we take off at 5 a.m., I was thinking it may be best for me to pick you up, bring you and BB here, to my place…tonight.”

  Nothing but silence from her end of the call consumes the air.

  “Um, there’s plenty of space here, even a guest house equipped with a kitchen, if you prefer your own space.”

  She clears her throat. “Okay. If you think it will make accessing our early bird flight easier…”

  Yes! I pump my fist. “Great. When’s a good time for me to swing by and pick you two up?”

  “You’re going to pick us up? Not Henry?” He
r tone epitomizes playful mockery.

  I laugh it off. “I do drive, you know. Plus, I gave Henry and Lottie the rest of the week off for Christmas break.”

  A pause lingers before she mutters, “Give me a few hours to shower, dress, get BB fed, and do some last-minute housework. Oh, a bit of a warning: I’ve got three suitcases for your muscle-toned arms to lug to the car.”

  I curl my arm, observing the gun show. “What makes you think I’ve got muscle-toned arms?”

  She giggles. “Well, if you don’t, you’ve got time to pump iron.”

  A little over an hour later, after a few push-ups, a shower, and taking time to finish preparing a surprise for Ivy and BB, I hop in my black Mercedes G-Class—chosen over my Porsche because Ivy mentioned having a few bags of luggage.

  When I arrive and find a place to park, Ivy greets me downstairs, all dolled up, smelling like a field of flowers, hair a waterfall of honey-blonde curls, eyes gleaming. “We’re ready to go; I just have to get BB while you grab my suitcases.”

  I follow behind, as she moves like lightning, zipping up the spiral staircase in six-inch stilettos, to her third-floor apartment. The open-courtyard-style building is quaint, old-fashioned, reminiscent of where I lived while attending college. We enter her apartment—a cozy, single unit, much like a one-thousand-square-foot, hotel suite with an upscale kitchen.

  Her eyes survey the space she calls home. “It’s small, but it suits me and BB until I can afford something larger.”

  “I was just thinking how perfectly efficient this is. Charming, snug, completely modern inside. Almost makes me want to ditch my home and move into something sweet like this.”

  BB makes an entrance, coming from out of the kitchen. She prances toward me, trotting on all fours like a best-in-show. Stopping only a few feet before me, the little diva sits, chin up, and barks.

  I glance at Ivy for explanation, as if she can translate dog bark.