Stuffing her keys in her purse, she took a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Ugh. Her blond hair was tousled, and the lipstick she’d put on so carefully this morning had been talked off as she’d hurried customers out the door so she could close up shop and get on the road. With no time to primp, she scooted out of the car, noticing a smudge of black near the hem of her dress. Her company van had gotten a flat, and she must have brushed against the tire. She’d been forced to drive Chloe, the refurbished ’66 VW Beetle her father had given her when she’d graduated from high school.
She swiped at the stain, and the residue spread. Frigging perfect.
She blew a lock of hair from in front of her eyes with a practiced upward tilt of her lower lip and a quick, hard breath and reached into the backseat for the box of Loverboys she’d brought for Mr. Carter. Her stomach lurched at the sight of blue frosting and gobs of thick custard clinging to the seat and floor.
“No, no, no.” She snatched the box from the floor, acutely aware of the seconds ticking by. The pastries tumbled out in jagged chunks and a shower of crumbs. Groaning, she plunked the box down on the backseat, closed her eyes, and inhaled a deep, calming breath. You’ve got this, Willow.
Her inner realist laughed at her.
Even though her inner realist had gotten her through too many challenges to count, right now she hated that bitch. Willow lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and smoothed her dress. To hell with inner calm. She needed a box of cupcakes and a stiff drink. Or maybe a man. A man covered in frosting and a stiff drink just might take the edge off. She hurried toward the resort to prove just how awesome she was.
She pushed the fancy glass doors open, silently practicing her greeting, and took her place in line at the registration desk, glad for a moment to breathe. The resort reeked of money, from the rich hardwood floors to the elaborate two-story arched windows along the back wall overlooking the water. Leather sofas and intricately carved armchairs created a nook opposite the reception desk. If only she could take a minute to sit in one of the plush seats and calm down. She fidgeted with the knot on the belt tied around the waist of her simple lavender dress. Maybe she should have taken her sister Bridgette’s advice and worn a fancier outfit. She was a world away from Sweetwater, where she wore heels only under duress.
Just another hurdle. I’ve got this.
“Willow.”
She whipped her head to the side at the sound of Zane Walker’s deep voice, shocked to see his piercing dark eyes gazing hungrily down at her. Zane was her older brother’s best friend turned A-list actor, and he had a sluttier reputation than a prostitute.
He was also the guy who’d taken her virginity. Okay, he hadn’t taken it.
She had given it to him.
Or rather, to save her the embarrassment of being an inexperienced virgin, he’d done her the favor of being her first before she’d gone away to college. She’d wanted her first time to be with someone she cared about. Her legs buckled with the memory of their one perfect night down by the creek, and her heart sank as she recalled how she’d broken her own carefully thought-out rules and had gone off to college with romanticized ideas in her head about them. What followed had been painful and embarrassing.
This was not good. Not good at all. She couldn’t afford to get any more flustered. Forcing her eyes away from the sexy scruff she definitely did not want to touch, she snapped, “What are you doing here?”
He wrapped his hand around her arm with a devilish grin on his perfectly plump lips and pulled her from the line. His dark hair had just-rolled-out-of-bed sexiness going on, and over a gray T-shirt he wore the leather jacket she’d given him for Christmas two years ago. She and Zane had a complicated relationship that didn’t include sex beyond their one night more than a decade ago—a complicated relationship that had been put on hold for several months after Willow’s heartbreaking realization during her first semester of college. But that didn’t stop him from propositioning her over text as often as he was bored. If she had a penny for every time a text rolled in at 3:00 a.m. that read something like, Filming at [wherever]; come see me, she’d be rich. She always sent her standard reply—Not a chance. Although he never let it go at that. He wanted to know what she was doing that could possibly be better than a night with him. She often wondered what he thought of her honest answers, which varied from watching her favorite movie—The Notebook—to thinking up new recipes.
“Let go. I have a meeting, and I’m already late. Why are you here? Are you filming?” She wrenched her arm free, looking around for his ever-present entourage of beautiful women and photographers. All the women in Sweetwater had their panties in a bunch over his newest movie, which was being filmed there next week. Soon, their quiet little town would turn into a bustling Zane Hotter-Than-Hell Walker slutfest.
“Chill out, Willow,” he said, way too calmly.
“Chill out?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m seriously late for a huge meeting. I can’t play your games, Zane.”
She stormed back to her place in line, and he dragged her away again.
“Zane! What is wrong with you? Stop it.”
“Wills, listen to me.” He lowered his chin, narrowed his eyes, and flashed another wicked smile. His signature look.
Hell if it didn’t make her insides melt every damn time. Zane was messing with her again. It was his thing. He screwed with women without an ounce of regret, and according to the tabloids, he did it often.
She exhaled loudly, shaking her head, and laughed, because on top of the flirtatious texts, they’d maintained a quirky friendship. “You are quite possibly the biggest pain in the ass I have ever met, and if I lose this job, I swear you’re going to pay me for it.” She looked over her shoulder at the line, which was moving quickly.
“I already am,” he said in a low voice.
“Zane, I’m serious. I’ve got—” She glanced at the line again and then processed what he’d said. “Wait. What?”
“Can we talk outside? You’re a little high-strung today.”
“A little high-strung?” She hurried to keep up as he dragged her out the front doors and down the steps. “Zane. Stop!”
He tugged her to the grass beside the resort. For a brief second, the unusually cool summer breeze, the smell of the water, and the gorgeous man standing before her, looking at her like he wasn’t messing with her at all but had come there to see her, left her flustered. This was why she usually tried to keep her distance. The man bathed in testosterone and reeked of sex appeal, making it hard to stay annoyed at him, and the last thing she needed was to get caught up again in some sort of one-sided love affair.
“Wills, there is no job.”
She stepped closer. “What did you just say? I swear, Zane, if this is one of your games, I will maim you for life.”
He moved his hands in front of the enticing package between his legs. She knew just how talented that part of his body was. Ugh. She could not go there.
“Promise you won’t kick me?”
“That depends.” She crossed her arms and glared at him.
He held up his hands in surrender, and a veil of tenderness started in his eyes and slid all the way down to the innocent smile forming on his lips. It was too easy to become transfixed by his ability to morph into anything he wanted her to see in the blink of an eye.
“This is where I proposed to you,” he said sincerely. “More specifically, right over there in that gazebo by the water.”
“I don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve gotten into, but I’m out of here. I don’t have time for this.” She turned to leave.
“I need you, Wills. This time for real.”
ZANE WAS GOING straight to hell for even thinking about putting Willow in this position. But he needed her. And she was storming away, her long blond waves bouncing against her back with every irritated step. Her rounded hips swayed with determination and confidence no actress could come close to. She even made that simple belted dress look sexy as sin, as if
it were a designer piece made just for her. She’d probably gotten it on sale at Misty’s, the local dress shop in their hometown. Willow was the real deal. A smart, funny, no-bullshit, no-frills woman with real curves to prove it. She lived in cutoffs and jeans and ate cupcakes and éclairs like models downed weight-loss pills. And she was the only woman on earth Zane trusted—or wanted—enough to ask for help.
Goddamn it. Why had he thought this was going to be easy? Willow was never easy. Even all those years ago, when he’d gone back to Sweetwater for a visit and she’d asked him to help her lose her virginity, she’d been controlling. He’d been sure she was fucking with him or that it was some kind of test. Her older brother, Ben Dalton, was his best friend. He’d spent more time at their house than he had at his own, and he’d had a major crush on Willow for years. She had practically begged him to help her, saying she’d thought it all out and she didn’t want to go to college as an inexperienced virgin. She had a list of rules and had planned every detail. Where, when, how—all the way up to when he was supposed to let her walk home alone so she could process what they’d done, and then they’d move on like nothing had happened. It was a good plan. A reasonable plan, considering what was at stake. And God knew he’d tried to abide by her rules. But she’d felt too good, been too sweet and trusting, not to get completely swept up in her.
“Please, Wills,” he called after her.
Willow stopped abruptly. Her head tipped forward, her shoulders dropping a smidge as she turned, her hair curtaining one eye. “Zane, just tell me what you’ve done.”
He went to her and reached for her hand, feeling shittier than he’d thought he would. “There is no baking gig. I set all this up to get you here.” Anger flared in her eyes. He continued explaining as fast as he could. “Wills, there’s this focus group for my new film, and they’re worried my reputation will hurt the movie. That fans won’t buy me as a romantic hero.”
She scoffed. “Smart fans.”
“Come on. I need your help.”
“What am I supposed to do? Write a letter to the public telling them Zane Walker isn’t a self-centered playboy? Sorry, not your girl.”
She took a step away, and he hauled her against him. Her hands landed on his chest, which felt amazing, and even with darts shooting from her jade-green eyes with deathly precision, she was still the most beautiful, alluring woman he’d ever known.
“No,” she seethed. “Whatever it is. No.”
“Come on. Just hear me out.”
Her lips formed a tight line.
“I need a . . .” He could hardly believe what he was about to say. “A fake fiancée.”
“A fake fiancée? What does that mean?”
“We’ll pretend to be engaged so everyone thinks I’m a stand-up guy.”
A disgusted look washed over her face. “No.”
“You owe me, Wills.” Oh shit. Why did I say that?
Her jaw dropped open. “Hell no, you did not just say that.” She thrust a finger into his chest. “First off, it wasn’t a hardship for you to”—she lowered her voice and poked him in the chest again—“sleep with me. Second, you’ve turned into an arrogant, self-centered player. And third!” She poked him harder. “I have a life.”
She stormed toward the parking lot with Zane on her heels.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I know you have a life. It was anything but a hardship. But you’re the only one who can do this.”
“No.” She dug her keys from her purse. “You know how much money I’ve already lost in inventory and sales for this supposed event?” She spun around, nearly knocking him over. “Who did you get to play the part of Patrick Carter? How many people know I was supposed to be your . . . God. I can’t even say it. You’re such a jerk.”
“Patch.” Patch Carver was Zane’s personal assistant. Willow had met him a few years ago when they’d passed through Sweetwater after filming. “He’s the only one who knows what the plan is.”
“Patch? I’m going to slaughter that tattooed ass—”
“It’s my fault,” he interrupted. “I told him I’d fire him if he didn’t do it. He fought me for a week before finally agreeing.”
“Well, he just moved right out of being a solid, reliable glazed doughnut and into being bread pudding.” She spoke in a mocking voice. “Cut me up and cover me with goo. I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Weak. Pathetic . . .”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” she grumbled, and stopped beside her car.
“You brought Chloe?” He knew she didn’t like to put extra miles on Chloe. When her father had given her the car, she’d said she loved it too much to take it to college, where anything could happen to it.
“Yes, I brought Chloe. My van had a flat, and I thought I had a big meeting that would finally put Sweetie Pie Bakery on the map.”
Her eyes rolled over his face, and guilt sliced into him. He put his hand on the car door so she couldn’t open it. “Wait. I can help you get Sweetie Pie on the map, and you can help me win over the public.”
“Uh-huh. How? Cater our fake wedding?” She shook her head. “Go get some Hollywood actress to play your part. Can’t you just ask your costar? Remi Divine? Costars hook up all the time, from what I hear. I’ve got to go.”
He tugged her against him again, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing she might knee him in the junk. But he was desperate, and he loved the way she felt. “I don’t want to ask Remi Divine. I want you. I’ll make sure you cater the set.”
Her brows knitted, as if she was considering it.
“Think about it, Willow. You’ll be my fiancée. You and your bakery’s name will be all over the tabloids. You’ll gain more exposure than you can handle.”
“As your fake fiancée,” she said skeptically.
“Yes.” He tightened his hold on her. “Please.”
She huffed, but her gaze softened. “Zane, nobody who knows me will believe this.”
He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close as his other hand slid beneath her hair, and he kneaded the back of her shoulder the way he knew she loved. “I’ve got this, Wills. I’d never leave you hanging, feeling unprepared, like you didn’t know what your next move should be.” He felt the tension drain from her body, and just as quickly, as if she’d noticed her guard slipping, she stepped back, putting distance between them again.
“I can’t just leave my bakery closed this weekend. I don’t make millions on movies, Zane. I need my income.”
“Patch already wired the money you thought you were earning for the event into your account.”
She shook her head.
He stepped close again. “Don’t look at me like I’ve crossed some imaginary line. We’re very good at crossing lines, remember?” That earned him the sweet, feathery laugh he loved so much, and he knew he almost had her. “Cross this line with me, Willow.”
“I’m supposed to just give up my life for you to save your rep? For how long?”
“Until the week after we’re done shooting in Sweetwater. Then we can stage a breakup, and I’ll drag my broken heart back to California to finish filming. The tabloids will cover it, and you can go back to your life. Only better, because everyone will know who you are.”
“This is crazy. What about my family?”
“We’ve been secretly meeting for months. We didn’t want to tell them because we weren’t sure it would last.”
“You’ve actually put thought into this. Or Patch did.”
“Give me some credit. I’ve got our whole backstory figured out. All we need is this weekend together.” He brushed his scruff along her cheek and whispered, “Please? For old times’ sake?”
“God, I hate you right now.” She huffed out another, slightly less frustrated breath. “I have to be back tomorrow night to get ready for Louie’s birthday party on Sunday.” Louie was her sister Bridgette’s almost five-year-old son.
“Done. We’ll go back tomorrow.”
“Of course. We’re engaged, remember?”
“I don’t know, Zane. You’re asking a lot of me.” She crossed her arms again.
“I know I am. But, Wills, who do you text when you need advice from someone other than family? Who do you text when you have a bad breakup or want to bitch about needing a foot rub after a particularly long week?”
Their lives were threaded with texts giving each other as much support as they did torment. Over the years she’d turned to him for advice about everything, from risking her savings to open her bakery to things that annoyed the shit out of him, like which slinky dress she should wear on dates. He always chose the one that covered the most skin. Their relationship had been strained for months after they’d slept together, but he’d never been able to stay away from Willow. She was his voice of reason, his sounding board, his friend, despite the annoyance shooting from her eyes at the moment.
“I have no ring,” she snapped. “You’re a rich actor. I would need a ring to pull this off.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a Tiffany’s jewelry box, and flipped the top open. Willow’s jaw dropped again, and then her luscious lips curved into a smile.
“A princess cut?” she said breathlessly. “Aw, Zane. You do have a heart. You remembered I loved them?”
Princess cut? “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
Her mouth formed a pin-straight line again. “Patch got this, didn’t he?”
He shrugged. “I was filming.”
“Jesus, Zane.” She pushed away.
“Give me a break, Willow. I’m here, aren’t I? I didn’t send Patch. It’s a rented ring, anyway. It’s not like I sent him out to get you a real engagement ring.”
She eyed the diamond.
“It’s a real diamond. You know what I mean.” Willow had a generous soul, and as he watched her mulling over his situation, he saw her resolve softening. He remembered how conflicted he’d been about giving in to her request all those years ago, and he remembered why he’d done it. He closed the distance between them, making a concerted effort not to act, not to be the cocky guy his fans knew him to be, but to find the person he’d been all those years ago. If he could show her that Zane, the Zane she’d trusted, then she’d remember, too.
The Real Thing (Sugar Lake Book 1) Page 3
