Insta-Hubby (A Billionaire Fake Relationship Romance)

by Lauren Milson

  They’re already perfect.

  While I’m flipping through my appointment book, I hear the chimes over the door again.

  I look up to see Liam, as devastatingly handsome as the day he nearly passed right by me on the sidewalk.

  On the day that wasn’t supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

  Well, turns out that it was. So far.

  “Internet sensation Liam Harmon decided to shut down his blog today,” he says, reading from the top fold of a copy of the New York Post, “to focus on more important things. When asked what spurred his decision, the thirty-two-year-old heir to the Harmon Media empire said simply that he didn’t want attention from so many people anymore. He said he found a girl he wants to focus all his attention on. His father, Nathaniel Harmon, who started Harmon Media Group in the late 1970s, also announced today that his oldest son Liam will be taking over as President of the company, effective next month. Shortly after the announcement, stock prices hit an all-time high.”

  He looks up at me from the paper and flashes me a smile that makes my damn heart soar.

  And I look down at my own copy of the paper, already out on the counter next to my appointment book.

  “In a move that shocked Wall Street investors, Liam elected to use the stock dividends from his sudden windfall as fiscal-year-end bonuses for the entire staff, company-wide.”

  “Damn,” Maggie says under her breath, looking down at her perfectly-manicured fingernails.

  “I didn’t want to read that last part out loud,” Liam says, leaning against the counter next to Maggie. “I didn’t want to come off like I was bragging.”

  “Bragging?” I say, tipping my chin down at him and raising an eyebrow. “Remember when I first met you and you said you sometimes get confused for a cartoon prince? Or how you orchestrated a crowd of women literally running after you through the streets of Manhattan?”

  “Was I bragging when I did that,” he says, putting his elbow on the counter, “or was I just taking an opportunity to put myself in the best light?”

  “Whichever one it is, I guess you won’t be doing much of that stuff anymore, huh?” Maggie says. “All your sites shut down yet?”

  “Well, you know you can never really delete anything from the internet. But yeah, I’m not going to be putting out any new content.”

  “That’s a shame,” I say, “because I actually just started following you. I was looking at your pictures last night.”

  “With me lying in bed next to you? Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

  “Weirder than posting your butt for the whole world to see?” I laugh.

  “Fair point. But you’re right, it is a shame that I’m not going to be online anymore. You’re gonna have to do enough posting for the both of us.”

  That’s another thing Maggie and I started doing. We now have a joint social media account for the shop, where we post photos of real women wearing the dresses we sell.

  “I think I’m gonna have to,” I say, “we are super busy, and I don’t want it to ever end. I’m having a blast.”

  “Oh,” Liam says, putting his newspaper down on top of mine, “before I officially shut it down, I want you to check something I posted on my blog while I was in the car over here. Just real quick.”

  “Liam, it’s not that I don’t want to see your abs, but Maggie and I have to get ready for our first appointment,” I say, taking my phone out, “but okay. Just real quick.”

  I open up Liam’s blog and scroll past thing’s he’s shared: pictures of Corgi puppies, vegetarian recipes, flower arrangements in every color of the rainbow, photos of little girls in ballet costumes, women with weathered faces and deep wrinkles and big smiles, world leaders, diplomats, glossy cakes adorned with sugar flowers, intricately-designed mandalas carved into the side of old Spanish guitars, the skating rink at Chelsea Piers, a photo of me and Maggie in matching pale blue wedding dresses, the mascot from my high school, fireworks, roller coasters, beaches I will never visit, a picture of Liam’s brother and his brother’s wife smiling and Lady-and-the-Tramping a piece of spaghetti, a cup of hot cappuccino with the froth manipulated into an image of a motorcycle helmet, a whole world of experiences and people and things that make me think bigger and dream wider and smile brighter, until I get to the last picture, and my heart stops.

  I feel myself breathe in deeply, and exhale slowly, and I feel the corners of my eyes prick with the beginnings of hot tears.

  It’s a ring.

  And the caption is simple:

  Marry Me.

  I look up from my phone.

  Liam is holding up a ring. The ring from the photo.

  He comes around the counter, and he gets down on one knee.

  His smile, his eyes, his heart.

  I want all of it. All of him.

  “I have a very important question to ask you,” he says, taking my hand.

  And I look up past him, past the big clear window onto the street, where a crowd of people - young people, old people, people who look like students and punks and snobby old ladies with pearls and dog walkers, street vendors, people of every color and ethnicity and social status and group - and they’re all holding up big, fat, fake rings.

  “Liam,” I choke out, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “The people out there are just for show,” he says, “I’m the real thing, baby. I want you. Forever. And I have the real rock right here to prove it. Marry me.”

  “Yes,” I say, letting the tears fall freely down my cheeks “Yes, a million billion times yes.”

  He slides the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly.

  It feels perfect.

  He is perfect. We are perfect.

  “I hope this is the best day of your life, Anna. And then, tomorrow, I hope that’s the best day of your life. I want to work every single damn day to make your day better and brighter than the one before.”

  “I love you, Liam,” I say as he embraces me.

  “I love you too.”

  And then I hear Maggie clapping, and the people outside clapping, and it’s anything but for show.

  It’s real.

  THE END

  This was by far my favorite book to write…so far! And I have so much more planned. More cuteness, more steaminess. But if you haven’t caught up with all of my HEAs yet, I’ve included two bonus novellas to hold you over until my next release. Flip to the next page for more!

  Skin

  A Billionaire Romance

  I rescued her from a basement on the Lower East Side. Purchased her freedom.

  Claimed her as mine.

  My Avery.

  I saw her through the metal bars and knew she didn’t belong there. She was too perfect. Too beautiful. Too pure.

  I took her from that place she was trapped in. Told her she was mine. That they wouldn't hurt her again.

  She is too good for me. Too good for a man with my particular tastes.

  Too pure.

  But even with her new freedom, she doesn't run away from me. She gets into my limo like I tell her to. Agrees to be my guest at the club I own.

  Club Skin.

  And she tells me her secret as I'm about to show her how good I can make her feel.

  She has never done this before.

  And the people I rescued her from won't stop until she is theirs again.

  But Avery is mine now.

  And now that she's free, no one will take that away from her.

  No one will take her away from me.

  Over-the-top. Possessive alpha. No cheating. HEA.

  Avery

  I’m always more comfortable with women than I am with men.

  I quickly rap twice with a single knuckle and push the door open slowly. That’s how we’re supposed to announce ourselves. A quick knock at the door, and then we’re allowed to enter. It’s formal. Words aren’t supposed to be exchanged right away. We ask if we can come in by knocking, and then we enter unless we’re told n
ot to.

  I know the person waiting behind the door for me is a man. Women are better to deal with. They don’t have testosterone-fueled bodies that tell them there’s only one thing they need. Introduce the element of touch and men think they’re entitled to take what they want. They think the women who work here are willing to give them anything they want, for a price.

  Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.

  I’ve seen and heard shadows and whispers, and I know things happen after hours, that some of the girls here engage in activities after the doors are locked for the night and the parlor closes down. But that’s not why I’m here. That’s not how I make my money.

  I enter the dim, candle-lit room. The man is already undressed, lying face-down, with the sheet we provide already covering the bottom half of his body. I exhale gratefully. He’s already appropriately set up. This man is professional, and he knows what he’s doing. This will be an easy client, an easy appointment.

  “I’m Avery,” I say softly. “I will be your therapist today. Anything I should be aware of?” I ask. “Any injuries, any pain?”

  “No.”

  His response is clipped. He wants to get in and out. Not one for small-talk.

  I breathe in deeply, steadying myself to the slow rhythm of his breathing as I get into a smooth, even groove. His muscles ripple and move under my fingers as I apply alternatingly hard and soft movements to the muscles in his upper shoulders.

  “That feels nice,” he remarks. His voice is smooth and low like toffee caramel. I swallow thickly. He smells of dark spices and pine. His words make my brain tingle, sending a spark from my scalp down through my spine. My breath hitches deep inside my throat as I exhale.

  “Good,” I breathe. I try to make my voice sound cheerful. I remind myself to remain professional.

  “You have some knots in your shoulders,” I say. “Do you get massages often?”

  “No,” he says, a slight wince to his voice. I move my hands up his body again and glide them down the arm closest to me and capture his wrist softly with my fingers, maneuvering it so it’s laying against his lower back.

  His fingers twitch when his hand lands there. The muscles in his ass flex beneath the thin sheet as his body shifts so subtly on the table. I begin taking my hands away, allowing his arm to nestle against the dip in his lower back.

  My heart clenches suddenly when his fingers twitch against mine again, and I move myself away quickly. My stomach flips with relief when I glide my hands naturally up his back again, pretending nothing’s wrong, and his arm remains where I put it.

  I don’t have to pretend nothing’s wrong. Nothing is wrong. I’m just paranoid.

  I smile softly and shake my head, leaning into the massage with more force. I knead his shoulder and flex his arm back, allowing the shoulder blade to protrude. It’s quiet in the room and the walls flicker with my shadow.

  I wonder why he’s alone the night before Christmas Eve.

  Maybe he isn’t alone, not exactly. Maybe he simply doesn’t celebrate Christmas. That wouldn’t be unusual at all. Maybe he’s just taking a few moments for his own health and well-being as a nice gift to himself.

  Or maybe he really is alone, and my suspicions are true. He’s beautiful, though maybe I shouldn’t be thinking that about a client, even though I haven’t seen his face. His body is perfect; it has the appearance of having been sculpted out of pure marble from hard, rushing water flowing over it in just the right way for millennia. Ancient but young all at the same time. Like a Platonic ideal of what a man’s body should be.

  And his skin is warm and soft over the hard, corded muscle I work with my hands.

  I don’t believe this man could be alone tonight, unless he’s choosing to be alone. I don’t know which is sadder to me.

  His body shifts again beneath my touch as he begins to rotate his head toward me, leaning up on his elbows

  “Oh,” I say. “Is everything alright? Do you need me to stop for a moment?”

  “Miss,” he says simply. His face is as gorgeous as his body is, with a strong jaw and green eyes that pierce into me through the dimness of the room. I can see a hint of his chest, hairless, and when he lifts himself up on his elbows, his hands and forearms become stronger than they seemed before, leading up to those shoulders. He could lift me with one finger and throw me over his shoulder and do whatever he wants to me.

  Something strange stirs inside my belly. It’s almost something like perversion. Desire, maybe? Something foreign. I can taste it inside my throat.

  “Yes?” I feel my tongue form the word. It’s alien, though. I feel it fill the room. It’s as though someone is in the room with us, animating me somehow.

  “I’m a paying customer, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.” The voice that comes out of me is now confused, indignant. “You’re a paying customer. I want to make sure everything is alright, sir.”

  “I like that,” he growls.

  Shit.

  “If everything is okay with the service, I’d like to ask you to lie down again so I may continue with the massage. The massage you are paying for, like you said,” I remind him.

  “No sir this time?”

  I freeze. He shifts onto his arm that’s farther away from me. His hand comes forward on the table, about mid-thigh height on me. His face comes forward toward me as he puts his hand on my thighs, between them, his eyes never leaving mine.

  Sickness hits my stomach like a boulder’s been dropped down my throat.

  I step back.

  His hand stays where it is.

  I move away from him, faster, as I bolt toward the door. I see my shadow rush across the wall and I hear him laugh behind me.

  I look down the long hallway, toward the reception area, and look past it out the window. It’s begun snowing, and the windows of the parlor are beginning to fog up, the cold air outside meeting the warm air inside, colliding at the thick pane of plexiglass covered with ornate metal grating.

  It’s beautiful, but it’s there to be pretty. It’s there for protection.

  The door creaks open next to me, and I’m still frozen on the inside. I feel my body turn to see the man from my table. He grins down at me with a lurid smile plastered on his face.

  “I need to speak to your manager, miss,” he says mockingly. He shrugs his jacket on and turns on his heel, heading down the narrow, dark corridor lined with purple velvet above the waist and tufted leather below. He looks like he belongs here, and I’m just passing through, trying to get a crumb that some rich dickhead in a suit will throw to me on a whim or because he feels like being charitable.

  He breaks left toward my boss’s office, despite the protestations of the girl currently hosting the front desk.

  Shit.

  My boss comes out of his office. It’s dark inside. I don’t know what work he was doing in there, or how work would be possible in a darkened room like that.

  When I see his face, the situation is thrown into harsh relief. His grimace tells me I’ve made a mistake, an error in judgement.

  And I know I’m about to lose this job.

  Gabe

  The freezing rain beats down on the limo in hard sheets. The ice pellets sound like they could slice through glass, threatening to split the car in two.

  My driver turns down one of the shittiest-looking alleyways off the shittiest stretch of Canal Street, where the neon lights are on all night and the trash bags are piled up higher than the phone booths. Shit, there’s still phone booths down here. It’s dirty, and it stinks, and there might be rats here.

  But it’s dark, too. There’s no neon lights in this alley. One of my business partners sent me here. His idea of a Christmas gift. He says I have to relax. I don’t even have a business card to confirm the address. He texted my driver the address and told me they don’t have a card because the name of the place and the phone number are always changing. They don’t have a website and you can’t look up reviews. This seems like the kind of low-cl
ass shit he’s always telling me about, but he insisted this place isn’t like that. He laughed when I said he’s used to low-class shit. He said again I’d like it.

  There’s no bright flashing lights on this street. Only one storefront, down a few steps, covered with the first dusting of the season’s snow, which has quickly turned to freezing rain. Glass, covered with a metal grating, no doorman or bouncer out front.

  I get out of the car and hesitate as I’m about to go in. The windows to the place are full, floor-to-ceiling, the entire facade just glass and then that shitty metal covering it up. To me, that means this place must have a lot of cash on hand. They’re careful about locking up at the end of the day. They want to keep people out.

  There’s something happening just beyond the windows. There’s a young woman inside, and the first thing I see is that she’s hiding something. It’s the only thing I can see, now that I’ve glimpsed her. I can see it in her eyes.

  It’s not fear, though, just a secret that I can’t unravel. Not yet.

  There are two men next to her, and they’re discussing something. They’re discussing her, and she’s just standing there.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  The men don’t notice me as I come through the door, despite the clicking of my shoes on the knotted wood floor.

  “Did you say no?” the larger man asks her.

  The girl says nothing. She looks at nothing.

  “This is not acceptable,” the younger man says. He’s about to pitch a fit like a frat boy with a whiskey dick who can’t get it up for the doll with painted lips who has fallen into his bed.

  Walking into a room like this, I’m used to every eye snapping to me. Women looking at my ring finger to see if I have that tell-tale band around it. Men sizing me up, puffing out their chests like the alphas they want to be, fated to be the best, as though they have no control over themselves.