My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

  Lauren Landish

  Edited by

  Valorie Clifton

  Edited by

  Staci Etheridge

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: My Big Fat Fake Wedding

  About the Author

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Big Fat Fake Series:

  My Big Fat Fake Wedding || My Big Fat Fake Engagement

  Standalone:

  The Dare

  Bennett Boys Ranch:

  Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts

  The Tannen Boys:

  Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country

  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

  Prologue

  Abi

  Weddings. Both the joy and bane of my existence.

  Stressed doesn’t begin to describe the level of tightness working its way through my body on a daily basis right now. My shoulders are constantly knotted, sometimes to the point of seizing up. My stomach revolts at the idea of food, mostly because there’s not enough time to eat and stay caught up. My mind spins with orders, ideas, and replayed conversations with customers so much that I haven’t slept in weeks.

  I’ve always been a hard worker, but it’s literally become all I do. While everyone around me is partnering off and finding the love of their life—with a little help from me, if I do say so myself—I’m going home to an empty apartment, reheating leftovers from the Chinese place that delivered beef with broccoli two nights ago, and curling up on the couch alone. At ten p.m. after working a fourteen-hour day.

  That’s why I even considered my current course of action tonight. Weddings are about meeting people, right? And that tall, dark, and fuckable bad boy over by the buffet is someone I need to meet.

  Am I really going to fuck him? Of course not.

  But does pointedly mentioning him and then working my way across the room toward him keep everyone else from worrying about poor, lonely Abigail who can’t find a man? Yes, it does. I can feel their eyes on my back, my whole family fretting about me, but I forget about their concern as I focus on my next mission.

  He’s like a delicious reward for all the blood, sweat, and tears I put into making sure the flowers for this wedding were perfect. Nothing but the best for my sister, Courtney Andrews. She deserves it, and I made sure I delivered.

  I let my eyes drink him in from head to toe as I swerve this way and that through the crowd. His thick black hair is perfectly flopped over in that casual way that takes skill to appear effortless, and arched dark brows frame his brown eyes which scrutinize the food as if it has personally offended him. His olive skin is tanned and marked with tattoos at the collar of his white shirt. I want to lick along those swirling lines, tasting his skin as I follow the ink down to where it disappears behind the buttons of his tailored shirt.

  This is so not like me.

  I’m no saint, no innocent virgin, but I’m not exactly a one-night stand type, either. I guess I fall somewhere in between pearl-clutching ‘I would never’ and ‘What was your name again?’. But my plan for a little fun flirting is quickly shaping into something else in my mind.

  Sometimes, there are only so many ways you can scratch your own itch. Other times, you can sense that someone can rock your world and leave you a panting, sweaty pile of satisfied goo.

  Lorenzo.

  Violet, my bestie and sister-in-law, said he’s her cousin and is new in town. Well then, call me the Welcome Wagon because I’m honestly considering rolling out some red carpet and inviting him to a private party in my pants.

  God, Abi! You sound like a horny, sex-starved Desperate Housewife!

  I do. There’s no sense in denying it, not even to myself. But I’ve earned a break, a chance to cut loose and go wild. Within reason.

  I have a reputation for being more than a bit crazy, but the truth is, it’s only in some ways. Mouth? Zero filter. Fucks? None given. But even I have a line I won’t cross. But maybe I could pretend that’s not the case for just one night and then get back to the grindstone because the deadlines don’t stop and the creative ideas in my head are loud and demanding taskmasters.

  “Hi,” I say as I sidle up next to him. My voice is breathy and too high, so I take a sip of my champagne to soothe the dryness of my throat.

  “Hello.” As those eyes turn on me, I see the flaring of heat ignite there and am glad this isn’t one-sided. Not that I expected it to be. I know what I look like, what my assets are, and how to play them up. Though my back is already straight and my shoulders back to highlight my breasts, I turn slightly to show them off.

  Come to Mama, I think as excitement courses through my veins and heat pools in my core. This bridesmaid’s gown, with its chiffon sash, might not be a sexy club dress, but it’s fitted impeccably. Courtney-the-perfectionist wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I offer a hand, expecting him to shake it. “I’m Abi Andrews, Courtney’s sister and Violet’s bestie.”

  Instead of shaking my hand, he grasps it gently, pulling my hand toward his lips. I’m mesmerized as he puckers, thick pillows becoming even more kissable. He presses them to the back of my hand, kissing the flesh there like I’m an actual lady and not a sorority-level slut looking for a disco stick to dance on. I’m not, but I’m another step closer to pretending to be for the night.

  As long I get right back to work afterward, I bargain with myself.

  I’m so close to my goal of paying off my business loans for SweetPea Boutique, my flower shop. A loan I got myself, not from my dad and not because of my last name but rather because I had a good idea, a solid business plan, and a long list of clients that has grown along with my reputation.

  But I need this. A few minutes of wild and crazy isn’t too much to ask, is it? It can be like a bucket list thing I look back on fondly when I’m old and gray, rocking on the porch of the nursing home.

  “Ah, yes. I was a wicked one in my younger days. A lover of love. Once, I even sexed up a foreign stranger at a wedding. We drove each other mad with lust and only made it as far as the janitorial closet before we were all over each other. He was something else,” I’ll say with a wistful sigh.

  This fantasy might be a little extreme considering I’ve barely told him my name, but my mind’s always been prone to fanciful wanderings.

  “I’m Lorenzo Toscani. Violet’s cousin, though I suspect you already know that.” His deep voice drops to a murmur, keeping the words between the two of us. His brow rises incrementally,
daring me to challenge him by disagreeing.

  He’s flirting, or maybe it’s just the Italian way? Whatever it is, it’s sending pulses of electricity to my needy nipples and clit. And he still hasn’t let go of my hand.

  “She said you’re new to town, and I thought you might like a . . .” Words fail me because all I can think of is ‘fuck buddy’ and ‘one-night stand’, neither of which are appropriate to be tossing around at a wedding reception with a videographer sneaking around to record the festivities.

  “A dance?” he suggests.

  That is definitely not what I was going to suggest. Mostly because I’m a shitty dancer.

  I mean, I can hold my own on a crowded club dance floor where everyone’s gyrating and grinding. But actual dance moves? Like a salsa or foxtrot? No way, and that’s after Mom insisted that we take cotillion classes as kids and several Zumba classes with Courtney.

  “Sure.”

  Who said that?

  Oh, shit, I think I did because Lorenzo is smiling at me, white teeth framed by those lips I’d like to feel on my skin again. Maybe on my hand. Maybe somewhere else.

  My hand still in his, he leads me away from the buffet and to the center of the dance floor. The DJ seems to be on Team Get Abi Laid because he plays a slow song. It’s something I haven’t heard before, but the beat is deep and driving. Lorenzo holds our joined hands out and then looks me straight in the eye as he gently puts his other hand on my lower back.

  Hallelujah and Praise Armani! And thank you, Courtney, for choosing this bridesmaid dress with a low back because the instant Lorenzo’s warm palm touches my skin, a barely perceptible shiver works its way through every cell in my body. He notices, not that I’m trying to hide it.

  Ordinarily, I’d swipe the smug tilt of his lips right off his face with a well-placed barb. Right now, it’s mere confirmation that we’re on the same page.

  We sway with the music, the inches of proper space between us disappearing with every turn and maneuver. I wish our clothes would do the same thing, simply vanish into thin air, so that I could feel more of his warm skin along mine. I follow the line of tattoos again, wondering how far beneath his shirt they go.

  Does the ink cover his chest? His arms? His back? More?

  Oh, God! I wonder if there are piercings to go along with the tattoos? I’ve never been with a pierced guy before, but I hear exciting and naughty things. I’d be willing to check that off my bucket list too if Lorenzo’s got a Prince Albert hiding behind those tailor-fit slacks.

  I step a little closer with the next sway, trying to see if I can tell through the fabric. And though I feel something, I don’t think it’s a piercing. It’s too big, too long, and too rigid against my belly to be a tiny barbell.

  “Abigail,” he growls, liquid velvet over grit. A warning? A plea? I’m not sure, but I feel the syllables along my skin and want him to say my name again, though it’s the first word either of us has said since we began dancing. Words haven’t been needed. He’s that good at this.

  And why does his saying my full name sound so sexy? Usually, the only time I hear that is when I’m in trouble. Oh, that’s probably why. I am in trouble. The good kind.

  His eyes burn like fire, and his hand is firm on my back as he pulls and guides me where he wants me. Our breaths pace with each other, as do our racing hearts. All from a dance on a crowded floor.

  A stray thought tries to take shape in my mind, a worry that maybe a bad boy type isn’t what I need, but I squash it down. This is exactly what I need. A night of freedom—from expectations, from responsibilities, from my last name, from questions about when I’m going to finally get married myself. As if that’s all I’m good for despite creating a successful business of my own from scratch.

  I’ll pick up all those weights and carry them on my shoulders again tomorrow morning. But tonight, I want to pretend I can be someone else, anyone else, and give in to this electric chemistry with a guy I’ve never met before and probably won’t see ever again. Judge me if you want, but I need this so I can keep going at my frenetic pace. A step off the straight and narrow path, a momentary walk on the wild side I used to visit regularly, and a tiny bit of crazy so that I can stay sane with everything else going on.

  “Yes?” It’s more air than sound, and I swear he leans in as though he wants to feel my breath along his cheek.

  “Would you like to go—"

  Before he can finish whatever he’s trying to say, strong fingers grip my arm. “Abi, there you are. It’s time for the toasts and you’re second in line after the best man.”

  Erica, Courtney’s wedding planner, doesn’t give me a chance to say no or even to pause, simply hauling me toward the front of the room with surprising strength. Erica has been an amazing help planning the wedding of Courtney’s very specific dreams, but right now, I could kill her without a single blip of remorse for cockblocking me.

  I look over my shoulder to see Lorenzo’s gaze trailing me. His eyes are heated, his look hungry.

  Tink, tink, tink.

  The sound of a spoon tapping on a glass quiets the room, even the DJ lowering the now classical music to something soft, keeping it as mere background noise.

  Ross, my brother, stands at the front of the room looking comfortable as can be as every eye turns to him. “I’ve got a few things I’d like to say about the man marrying my sister and a few more about the woman marrying my best friend.”

  A small titter of polite laughter works its way through the crowd. And Ross does what he does best—play to his audience. His jokes are funny without being too revealing, his words are sweet and sentimental, and his advice is seemingly on point for someone who’s only been married a short time himself.

  As I take my place at the microphone, a hot flash of nerves spikes, washing away my previous desire in an instant. But I speak from the heart, wishing my sister a lifetime of happiness and threatening her new husband with death and dismemberment if he so much as says one mean word to her. He smiles like I’m kidding, and I slash a line across my throat with my thumb to show that I’m dead serious. Not that Kaede McWarren needs the warning. He’s been in love with Courtney forever at this point.

  I’m happy they finally found their way to each other—with a little help and a push from yours truly. I love love and want everyone to find their special someone. And one day, I’ll have time for that too, once I pay off the loans and get a few more special events checked off my calendar. I scan the room looking for Mr. Right Now because I don’t have time for anything more. Definitely not for Mr. Right.

  I find Lorenzo’s eyes, dark and piercing as he looks at me, and I feel exposed, as if he’s seeing into my soul. He’s leaning against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted as though he’s working at something in his mind though his gaze never wavers.

  Quicker than a blink, he spins on his heel and walks out the double doors. Does he mean for me to follow him? I can’t exactly leave right now, in the middle of Courtney’s reception. Or maybe he wants me to follow him out to the more private hallway? Or a bathroom? My gray-haired imaginary story flashes through my mind, bringing a smile to my face.

  I could be down with a little risky business as long as we don’t get caught.

  I make my way across the room, pausing for a split second when Aunt Gertrude grabs for my arm and offers kind words about my speech. But as I thank her, her true intentions become clear. “Hopefully, you’ll be next, dear. Such a pity your younger sister beat you to the punchline.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I say noncommittally. It doesn’t bother me that Courtney is married now and I’m not. We’ve never been competitive like that, and I’m truly happy for her. But Aunt Gertrude is slowing me down from something more important than her instigating ways. “Excuse me.”

  I pop into the hallway just in time to see another door closing, the click sounding like a secret. I take a quick moment to straighten my dress, smooth any stragglers of thick hair back into my perfectly coiffed up
do, and take a deep breath. Through those doors is a much-needed moment of release that will hopefully involve at least one orgasm. Hell, let’s make it three. I’m feeling hungry tonight. No sense in being stingy because this memory is going to be what gets me through the next few weeks of head-down hard work.

  With a smile of expectation on my face, I turn the handle of the door and step through. “Lorenzo?” I ask softly, only to be greeted by the cool chill of night air.

  I guess I got turned around leaving the ballroom and didn’t realize this door led outside. I wrap my arms around my body, conserving heat as I look for my knight in tattooed armor and consider how I can best have car sex in this dress without ruining it.

  That’s when I hear a motorcycle revving. A bright headlight catches my attention, but the silhouette is unmistakable. Of course he rides a motorcycle. Any self-respecting bad boy wouldn’t be caught dead in some sensible sedan that gets great gas mileage.

  I think Lorenzo is going to stop, sweep me off my feet, and ride off into the night with me, my dress blowing in the wind dramatically. But he rides right past me without so much as a glance.

  My jaw drops as his red taillight disappears into the night. I basically just grinded with him on the dance floor, thought we were going for an all-nighter with zero strings—most guys’ dream proposition—only to be left high and dry, standing alone on the concrete steps.

  Well, not dry since I’m most definitely wet beneath my panties.

  Traitorous pussy, he left us! We don’t want him!