by Lee, Nadia
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Titles by Nadia Lee
About Nadia Lee
Copyright
Mister Fake Fiance
Nadia Lee
Other Titles by Nadia Lee
Standalone Titles
Faking It with the Frenemy
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Marrying My Billionaire Boss
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Stealing the Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Sins Trilogy
Book 1: Sins
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: Secrets
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: Mercy
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Billionaire’s Claim Duet
Book 1: Obsession
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: Redemption
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Sweet Darlings Inc. Series
Book 1: That Man Next Door
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: That Sexy Stranger
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: That Wild Player
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Billionaires’ Brides of Convenience Series
Book 1: A Hollywood Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: A Hollywood Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: An Improper Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: An Improper Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: An Improper Ever After
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 6: An Unlikely Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 7: An Unlikely Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 8: A Final Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Pryce Family Series
Book 1: The Billionaire’s Counterfeit Girlfriend
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: The Billionaire’s Inconvenient Obsession
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: The Billionaire’s Secret Wife
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Fiancée
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Desire
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 6: The Billionaire’s Holiday Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Seduced by the Billionaire Series
Book 1: The Billionaire’s Revenge
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: The Billionaire’s Pursuit
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: The Billionaire’s Baby
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3.5: The Millionaire’s Crush
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: The Billionaire’s Secret
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: The Billionaire’s Scandal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
If you want to receive notices about my latest books, please join my VIP List at www.nadialee.net/vip!
To all of us for surviving 2020.
Chapter One
David
My phone rings, the sound piercing my skull like a saber saw. A high-tech lightsaber saw. Groaning, I fumble around on the nightstand. Must stop this aural assault before it completes the job that yesterday’s cookies didn’t. Or I’ll die like a possum crossing a highway. Finally, my hand finds the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, Da— My goodness. Are you still asleep?” Mom’s voice is ultra-energetic.
“Yes. I’m on the West Coast.” I squint at my phone. Barely nine a.m. Ugh.
“So?”
“So that means I’m three hours behind you.”
“And? When did it become acceptable to be lounging around in bed at nine?”
When I was almost murdered by my assistant’s cookies and—having to neutralize the poison by hitting a couple of local bars with some coworkers—didn’t get home until well past two. Not that that’s something I can share with Mom. Even if I could, she wouldn’t understand. She’s a morning person—gets up by five every day of her life. A meteor could crash in her yard at two a.m. and she’d still get up by five.
“Actually, it would be acceptable to be in bed this late if you’re making me a grandbaby,” Mom says.
“Mom!”
“You have to be married first, though,” she adds, like that’s going to unruffle my feathers. “So I’m guessing that’s not why you’re still in bed.”
“It’s too late, Mom.” My stomach feels queasy. Maybe all the alcohol from last night didn’t quite neutralize Erin’s cookies. Just what the hell did she put in them? It’s a mystery how a woman who looks so much like an angel can bake things that taste like farts from Satan’s anus.
But the bigger mystery is why she’s so determined to kill me. I’m not a bad boss. And I took a chance on her when she had zero job skills and experience. I mean, sure, it wasn’t totally out of the goodness of my heart. I wasn’t thinking straight after I found out my ex-girlfriend cheated on me.
Regardless, Erin should be sending me to my favorite steakhouse every month…although I wouldn’t expect that on her salary.
I just don’t want her to try to murder me with her baking.
The doorbell rings. Weird. Only about three people have the access to bypass the gates, and I don’t know what would bring any of them here on a Saturday morning. Still, I seize the moment. “Somebody’s at the door,” I say. “I gotta go.”
“All right.” Mom’s tone is airy. And…smug. She doesn’t seem disappointed that she isn’t
getting a chance to tell me about her need for a bundle of joy to bounce on her knee.
My internal alarm says something’s wrong, but my brain’s too fuzzy from the after-effects of yesterday’s cookies and alcohol poisoning to pinpoint the problem. A sense of self-preservation says I should cut the call before something else reminds her of her lack of grandchildren.
“Bye, Mom. Love you!” I hang up quickly.
I roll out of the bed and realize I have to climb down the long, winding stairs. Why the hell did I think a two-story home was a great idea?
When your realtor showed you those slick brochures and convinced you that you needed a sunny California mansion.
True, but that’s when I was sober. Right now, I’m hung over and in desperate need of coffee. What kind of sadist installs staircases between the bedroom and kitchen, but no coffeemaker next to the bed?
I need to fix that design flaw. But first things first. Whoever’s at my door is showing no signs of leaving. They just hit the bell for the fifth time, and the ding-dong is ringing even more loudly. At least they have the decency not to lean on it.
I manage to make my way down the stairs without major injury. Still, I’m grouchy as I walk past the kitchen, where my state-of-the-art espresso machine sparkles like Indiana Jones’s treasure. It’s probably Dane. Nobody else would be asshole enough to bug me this early, and with no family in L.A., I made the mistake of giving him the code for the gates in case of an emergency.
Why the hell didn’t his wife stop him? Maybe his assholery has gotten so bad that even Sophia’s niceness is no longer enough to counterbalance it. Or maybe he’s become so terrible that she’s evicted him from their home. That’s the most likely scenario, in which case he should’ve checked into the Ritz or some other luxury hotel.
I yank the door open with more force than necessary. “What?”
“Um… Good morning?”
The tension that’s been pinching my face slowly eases as I take in the sight of Erin. She’s in a pale cream scoop-neck top and a gray pencil skirt. A pair of black Mary Janes brings the top of her head up to my chin. Her pale golden hair is pulled back into a chignon, and her wide blue eyes are staring at me, unblinking and a little shocked.
I’m not sure why she’s stunned. I’m the one who’s utterly confused here. It’s Saturday. There aren’t any pressing projects that require us to slave away over the weekend. But here’s my assistant, dressed for work.
When I continue to stare, she clears her throat. “Oh. Wow.” Her gaze darts around as rose colors her cheeks. “Huh. Um.”
Then I realize that while she’s dressed professionally, I’m in nothing but wrinkled cotton boxers. And I probably smell like day-old booze.
Shit. I run my hand across my chin, feel the stubble scrape my palm. Some impression I’m making. Are my eyes bloodshot, too?
“I, uh, wasn’t expecting you.” Should I have been…? She might’ve told me about an at-home meeting yesterday, but I missed it because I was too busy trying to survive the Cookies of Doom without letting her know.
For some bizarre reason, I don’t really want to tell her how I feel about her baking. She probably needs more practice and opportunities to develop her skills. My cousin Cora can’t bake for shit, and she had my mom try to teach her. Mom is a brownie genius, but she couldn’t help Cora.
I wonder if Erin could use some lessons, or if she’s like Cora—beyond redemption. I mean, her name is Erin Clare, for Pete’s sake. E. Clare. Like the dessert. You’d think that someone with a name like that would have at least some latent talent for baking.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, then realize I’m being rude. My grandmother would disown me. Not to mention, Erin must be here on something important, even if I can’t remember it. “I’m sorry, come on in. And let me go put on a shirt. I’ll be right back.”
She does, then she calls out to my retreating back, “Have you had coffee yet?”
“No,” I answer. Then I stop short as apprehension sets in. Is she going to make some? The espresso machine Mom bought for me is more like an AI machine with no manual. I turn around. “But please don’t bother.” Please.
Erin once brought me a latte from the company break room. It was fine…but somebody might’ve made it for her. I can’t survive anus-fart coffee after yesterday’s Lucifer cookies.
“I’m sorry?” she says with a small frown.
“You really don’t have to. I mean, it’s not your job.” It’s true. I’ve never hinted that coffee fetching is one of her duties.
She smiles. “Oh, I know. But I’d like to.”
There is no escape. I manage a dignified nod, praying that her coffee is better than her cookies. “Okay. Thanks.”
Survival instincts wailing in protest, I go to my room, swallow four aspirin and put on a white shirt with the company logo, then shove my legs through a pair of shorts. I start to return to the kitchen, but reconsider. I should at least make myself smell better, especially when Erin smells so divine, like she always does.
So I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face and make my way downstairs. Hopefully, Erin hasn’t found the coffee beans yet. It’s safer for everyone that I man the machine.
Too late. The kitchen smells like fresh java.
“Oh good. You’re just in time.” She smiles.
I say nothing, but watch her putter around in my huge kitchen. It’s weird to see her in an informal setting. She’s pretty in the morning sun. And when she moves to grab a mug, her body stretches, lengthening her lean, shapely legs. They’re her best asset. I’m sure she knows, which is why she showed up in a pencil skirt with a small slit on the side for her initial job interview. It worked, too, especially because I was in a bad place mentally and emotionally. I told myself that everyone needs to start somewhere, even though the reality was that I liked her legs too much not to hire her.
Still, I’ve always behaved professionally around her. The company doesn’t forbid interoffice dating, but nobody needs to have their boss ogling them or acting like a hormonal idiot.
“Here.” Erin hands me a mug with a wide smile.
My answering smile is hopefully not too full of nerves. “Thanks.” I take a tentative sip and let out a relieved sigh because the coffee tastes okay.
Honestly, though, anything short of septic would be acceptable. “So. What are you doing here?”
“Your mother called. She said she sent you a package, and it’s important that you receive it.”
Huh. Mom didn’t say anything about that. On the other hand, it isn’t the first time she’s tasked an assistant of mine with something. But my last assistant was my cousin, so whatever Mom asked Jan to do could be construed as a family favor of sorts. Erin, on the other hand, isn’t related, so Mom shouldn’t heap stuff on her behind my back.
For an optimistic second, I wonder if Mom’s sent me a care package. Her brownies could make sworn enemies fall in love and bring peace to the world. I’ve been missing them since I moved to Los Angeles a year ago. But she doesn’t need Erin here for that. So what’s this about?
“I’m sorry. She really shouldn’t have,” I say. “Next time, just tell her you’re busy.”
“I don’t mind. I am your assistant, after all.” Erin says it without a hint of resentment that her weekend got interrupted. “I enjoy being useful.”
She is either an amazing actress or really is telling the truth. “Well…thanks.”
The bell rings. The loud jingling noise says somebody is at the house gates.
“Oh, great!” She perks up. “Must be the package your mother was talking about. She told me to let them in immediately because it’s heavy.”
Erin hits the button on the security console in the living room to unlock the gates before I can. She seems a bit too eager. Probably thrilled to pieces she can go home soon.
Two men in pale blue uniforms carefully bring in a very large brown package. It’s big enough to fill up a wall, and sort of flat, like a TV.
/>
This doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way Mom sent me a TV. She knows I have four already, and there’s certainly no reason to call Erin about it.
I take another sip of my coffee, hoping the caffeine will make my brain work better. Maybe then I can figure out what my mother is up to.
“Great. Please bring it this way.” Erin gestures at them as she starts moving. “Up the stairs.”
The men follow her with the package, carrying it like a priceless piece of art. I swallow more coffee, tagging along to the landing, watching with curiosity and a little apprehension. I’m not a perv, but I have to admit that that pencil skirt looks damn good going up the stair—
“Into the master bedroom,” Erin says as they turn a corner.
What? Annoyed, I start up the stairs. Erin will probably get lost anyway. There are seven bedrooms on the upper level. Even though she’s been to the mansion a few times to help with some urgent projects, she’s never been upstairs before.
But by the time I get to the top, my bedroom door is open and long shadows are spilling into the hallway. Mom must’ve given her the layout of the place. My mother is nothing if not thorough, a normally admirable quality I find very irritating at the moment.
“Right there is where it should go,” Erin says.
Right there where? What the hell are they doing to my bedroom? Actually, what is Mom doing, since they’re here at her bidding?
By the time I reach my room, the crew’s drilling into the wall facing my bed. Annoyance shoots through me. Instead of mounting a TV there, I left it empty. All the literature says to avoid working or watching TV in bed to get better sleep, and I’m a big believer in getting a good seven hours every night.
Now I’m going to have to look up a hardware store and patch up the damned holes the crew made on my good, previously pristine wall.
“I don’t want a TV there,” I say to Erin.
“Don’t worry. It’s not a TV.” Her smile is positively sunny, and yet my stomach is sinking. I have a terrible feeling about this. “Cheer up, David.” Her gaze falls to my mug. “You want some more coffee? I can make you another.” She’s already halfway to the door.
“No, wait.” I grab her arm to stop her. Her bare skin feels warm and soft against my hand. I drop it like it burns. The contact doesn’t mean anything, but I don’t like the way my palm tingles. Must be the lingering effect of my hangover. I’ve never dealt with Erin without my full faculties. Or in this kind of setting—my bedroom, of all places.
