Faking It by K. Bromberg

by Bromberg, K.

  His chuckle argues with me. “Yeah, they do.” I hate that his cocky smile is just as charming as the sound of his voice.

  “No, they don’t. No wonder you suck at love.”

  “Who said I suck at love?” he asks and I realize I just gave away that I was eavesdropping on his conversation.

  “Oh.” I throw my hands up in mock horror. “God forbid that huge ego of yours takes a hit.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  I snort. “Not hardly.”

  “Besides, love’s a stupid emotion fabricated to define relationships.”

  “Only when you date a prick like you it is.”

  Zane angles his head to the side as he folds his arms across his chest. “Is that so?” he asks as a lopsided grin of disbelieving amusement widens on his face.

  “Yes.” I nod for emphasis, more than irked that he’s finding humor in my anger.

  “Please, don’t stop. I’d love to hear your reasoning.”

  I know I should walk away from him and how he’s literally talking down to me since I’m now a good three inches shorter without my shoes on. I should turn my back and strut down the hall in my bare feet and into the elevator because sure as hell, he doesn’t really care what I think. Not one bit.

  But I can’t find it within myself to do it.

  There’s something about him—the smug look on his face, the way he spoke on the phone, how damn gorgeous he is even when I know I don’t like him—that’s making me stay and finish telling him what I think.

  “My reasoning? How about you think you’re way better than you actually are?” I huff and throw my hands on my hips, causing my purse to slip off my shoulder. So now of course instead of looking tough, I look like an idiot who’s standing my ground with its strap tight around my forearm and the purse part dangling near the floor.

  “Says the barefoot woman who keeps shoving her shoes at me.”

  “The heel broke because of your dog,” I grit out between teeth. “Or rather because you were too inconsiderate to actually take the time to stop and treat me like a human being.”

  “Your broken heel is my fault?” he says through a laugh. “Am I missing how your choice in shoes and my opinion of love go hand and hand?”

  “Yeah.” I snort in disgust. “Because it all comes back to you thinking so highly of yourself.”

  “Funny, that’s what my ex said to me.”

  “Hence, the reason she’s your ex.”

  “Hence?” he says with a mocking grin.

  “Yes, hence.” I take a step closer. “This isn’t the Outback. You’re not wrestling crocs, Dundee. So—”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You’re not. So stop acting like you have no couth or manners. Women deserve manners. They deserve respect. They deserve to—”

  His laugh cuts me off as a woman passes by us in the hallway. Their eyes meet and he flashes her a smile that hints at what it is he’d love to do with her. I hate that she almost runs into the wall because she’s so preoccupied flirting with him.

  “Seriously? You’re proving my point!” I say.

  “Yes. Your point. What was it again because my point was busy concentrating on something else?” He shakes his head as he gives her one last smile.

  I grit my teeth and glare at him. “That no woman likes a womanizer.”

  “I disagree.”

  “And furthermore—”

  “You’re so sexy when you use adverbs.”

  Normally I’d laugh at that. But right now I sense that I’m the butt of his joke—me and the temper I can’t control—and it takes everything I have to keep my voice even and calm.

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Surprised I know my adverbs?”

  “You need to get over yourself.”

  “But I like myself.” When he takes a step forward and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, it takes me by surprise. My next comeback dies on my lips as I blink at him several times trying to compute why he just did that. Why would he do such an intimate action to someone chewing him out? “And you like me too.” His voice is a deep rumble of sound that conveys the same thing as the look he just gave to the woman walking by.

  I step back with a shake of my head. Flustered when I shouldn’t be flustered. “No. I don’t. I don’t even think Smudge does. He’s cute and has manners while you’re just . . .” I look him up and down. “The real dog of the house.”

  His grin is lightning quick. “Are you finished yet?”

  “No,” I say, trying to think of a comeback and failing miserably.

  “Then by all means, continue—”

  “Zane?”

  I startle and see the voice’s owner sticking her head out of the door to his office. Her hair is slicked back and glasses frame her eyes.

  “Yeah?” he asks but never breaks my stare.

  “Robert’s on the phone,” she says.

  “’Kay. Be right there.” He waits for her to close the door and then he speaks. “Thank you for taking me to school, but it seems class needs to be dismissed.” He takes a step backwards, that smile of his in full effect. “Make sure you watch your step when you leave, I hear it’s really easy to break a heel . . . G’day.”

  “Oh my god, you’re such an ass!” I grit out and against all my rational instincts, I throw my shoes at him. One in quick succession after the other.

  What makes me even more pissed off is that he laughs as he catches them.

  And before I say a word, he winks with a grin I’d love to knock off that gorgeous face of his, and then turns on his heel and heads down the hall—with my shoes in hand.

  I blow out a sigh as I watch him, realizing that throwing the shoes was an impulse I should have resisted. Now I’m stuck having to walk out to my car barefoot in the Los Angeles heat and I sure as hell know that as much as those are my favorite shoes, I refuse to give Zane the satisfaction of asking for them back.

  Instead I stare at his office door for a few moments. Mad at myself for acting without thinking. Even more mad at him for making me act that way.

  And then I sigh knowing I righted no wrongs today—by telling him off or by throwing my shoes—but damn did it feel good to let him know what I thought.

  I KNOW, I KNOW. YOU’RE thinking I’m a prick.

  Meh. Maybe I come off like a manwhore every so often. Maybe I mess up what I’m supposed to say because I’m thinking with the wrong appendage at times. And maybe I’m just like every other man out there but you’re seeing it firsthand because you’re in my head.

  We all talk like this. Correction. We all think like this. It’s man code. Everything we do is part of some invisible—or in this instance, real—contest. A serious case of needing to one-up each other just to prove who has the biggest dick. And in case you wondered, I win. Always. But then again does size really matter? (Spoiler alert: yes, it does.)

  Anyway, think what you want about me but I’m not a bad guy. I like women. I like women a lot. And I like a lot of women. Is that a crime?

  And there’s one in particular I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the past few days and fuck if I know what to do about her.

  She’s the one right there. Across the street in the front yard of that tan single story house with the Explorer in the driveway. The one with chocolate-colored hair piled on top of her head, legs for fucking days, and a rack that I’d love to hang my . . . er, coat on.

  C’mon, don’t roll your eyes. That was clever. Crass, but clever. I told you, man-code.

  Hell yes she’s easy on the eyes . . . but it’s her hellfire attitude I can’t get out of my head.

  I’ve never had a woman speak to me like that before. Women act compliant around me. They want to please me and gain my favor. She sure as shit didn’t.

  If she’s got a temper like that, I can only imagine how passionate she is in other areas.

  Yes, I see you rolling your eyes. But you’ll get over it once I turn on my charm. Let’s hope she will too. />
  Here’s where my story starts . . . wish me luck in figuring her out because . . . let’s face it. I’m a guy, we need all the help we can get.

  I LOOK DOWN AT THE gas and electric bill in my hands with the big red ‘late’ marked across the top.

  “Who are you Harlow Nicks?” I mutter, pissed that I’m here. That I’m sitting across the street watching her play with a dog like I’m some stalker.

  But fuck if I can’t stop thinking about this woman.

  She’s a model. Or rather, has modeled. A quick Google search and the flood of images that surfaced told me that much. Lingerie just might be my weakness and damn, if she doesn’t look good modeling it.

  Is that why I’m here? To get a second look at what I missed behind her mask of fury the first time? Because it sure as shit isn’t to return the late bill she accidentally left in my office, folded with her printed email with information about an interview in an office just down the hall from mine.

  “What are you doing, Phillips?” I grumble as I exit my SUV and walk across the street.

  But I know damn well what I’m doing or else I wouldn’t be carrying this stupid box with me.

  Her back is to me when I approach and her laughter floats up as she falls to the ground wrestling with a multicolored mutt. Laughter. Now that’s something I haven’t heard from her yet.

  “So, you do like dogs?” I say.

  She freezes instantly at the sound of my voice at the same time the dog takes notice of me. Its lopsided ears perk up and brindle colored tail starts thumping as I look down at Harlow, flat on her back and looking up at me.

  Bending over, I pet her dog out of reflex, but my eyes stay fixed on the hazel ones looking up at me.

  “God. Go away.”

  Good to see hostility is her norm. At least I know what to expect. “So you don’t like dogs?” I ask. “That explains a lot.”

  “Of course I like dogs. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t.” She scrambles up to a seated position and stares at me. I love that not once does she bring a hand to her hair to see if it’s a mess or straighten her shirt that’s fallen off her shoulder like most women I know would. “Come on, Lula,” she says to her dog as she starts to walk away. When I don’t budge, she stops and gives a dramatic huff. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”

  “You left this at my office the other day.” I hold out her papers to her. Standing slowly, she stares at them for a beat as if she doesn’t trust me before grabbing and folding them without looking at what they are.

  “These were old. My check got lost in the mail,” she mumbles as her cheeks burn red and she averts her eyes from mine.

  She’s embarrassed. The late notice. Shit . . . I just used it as a means to find her. I didn’t mean for her to feel humiliated.

  “Happened to me last year,” I lie. Feeling like an ass, I stare at her until she looks back to me so I can give her a soft smile. She shifts her feet and then those eyelashes flutter up so she can meet my eyes.

  Christ is she gorgeous. How did I miss that the other day? Hazel eyes. Perfect complexion. A dusting of freckles on her nose that is somehow sexy on her. And lips . . . damn those lips.

  For that split second, I see the softer side of Harlow. The tough girl overshadowed by her own vulnerability. And just as quickly as it came, she tucks it away again and the fire and brimstone are back full force.

  “Thanks, you can leave now.” A lift of her eyebrows. A challenge issued in her smirk.

  “Are you always this pleasant when someone goes out of their way to return your stuff?”

  Her sigh is heavy but it does such wonderful things to her tits beneath her tank top that I have to remind myself not to look. “I’ll repeat myself. . . go away.”

  “Why?” My hand is still busy scratching Lula between the ears. At least one of the females I’m dealing with right now likes me.

  “Why? How about because your arrogant assumption that I was your dog walker made me late for my job interview? And that tardiness lost me the interview altogether on a job I really needed. How about that for being enough of a reason?”

  “You should thank me for that.”

  “What?” I’m prepared for it when her hands fly to her hips and imaginary smoke billows out her ears. “Like I said, you think way too much of yourself.”

  Is it a bad thing that I find her sexy when she’s angry? Because buttons are something I definitely love to push. Certain ones in particular.

  “Like I said, you should thank me. I saved you from definite harassment.”

  “Saved me?” She angles her head and glares. “So, what? I could get it from you instead?”

  “Careful,” I warn, standing up when Lula decides she’s tired and plops on the grass in the space between us. “I don’t harass. I flirt. I’m forward. But I don’t touch when it’s not consensual, and I never use intimidation to get what I want. Now that prick you were going to interview with? Jerry . . . let’s just say he’s not as considerate. I’ve seen him in action more times than I care to count and have called him on it.”

  “Great to know,” she says but I can tell by her expression that she doesn’t believe me.

  “So the way I see it, you owe me one.”

  “I don’t owe you shit.” Her hands fist.

  “Whoa! Down girl!” I hold my free hand up in mock surrender, the other one still holding the box. “I was just teasing.”

  She looks back to the house for a beat and then back at me. “Why are you here?”

  I hold her eyes and try to figure out why she intrigues me so much when normally, any woman who gives me this much grief would lead me to move onto the next one.

  But what am I moving on from when I don’t want anything from her? Hell, I never even intended to drive here and talk to her.

  And yet here I am.

  “Here.” I thrust the box out to her like some fumbling teenager not sure what to do when their mother tells them to get a girl flowers.

  Harlow looks down at the box and then back up to me. “What’s that?”

  “Your shoes.” I bite back my smile when she eyes me cautiously.

  “My shoes?”

  “I had them fixed. It was the least I could do since Smudge was part of the reason they broke.” She shifts on her hip as if she’s wondering if she wants to accept them or not, but after a beat takes the box and holds it under her arm. “It wouldn’t kill you to say thank you.”

  “And that’s where this conversation will end.” She shakes her head and starts to walk away.

  “Wait! What is it that you do?”

  She pauses and angles her head to the side as she debates whether she wants to respond or not. I half expect the flirty twirl of the finger in the hair and bat of her lashes as she tells me she’s a model, a move so many other women perfect.

  Then again, Harlow Nicks is nothing like any other woman I’ve met before so unpredictability suits her just fine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For a job? You were going to an interview . . .”

  “Bookkeeping. Waitressing. Birthday clown.” She shrugs and blushes again. “Whatever it takes to pay the bills.”

  No telling me she’s waiting for her big break. No, “my last campaign was for Victoria’s Secret and you can find me in their ads.” No, “I’m in between jobs and can you help me since you’re such a successful man?”

  Nope. Not a mention, even in a town full of people trying to throw their names around and make a spot for themselves.

  She averts those multicolored eyes of hers and shakes her head. “You know what? Thanks for bringing these back. I should get inside.”

  “I have connections.” Brilliant, Zane. Fucking brilliant. That’s how you get her to not run away from you? By giving her a sleazy line? “Maybe I could help you find something.”

  “I couldn’t care less about your connections.” She hangs her head and when she lifts it, I watch her reign in the pride I feel like a dick for bruising. �
�I’m sorry. That was rude. Like I said, thank you.” She holds up the papers and offers a reticent smile.

  “Look . . .” I take a step toward her, more than aware that I don’t want her to go just yet and questioning why I’m even bringing this up. “I have an event I’m holding at the end of the week. You should come. I could introduce you to some people. There might be some job opportunities there.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not that kind of girl.” The roll of her eyes has me realizing how she took my comment.

  My laugh makes Lula lift her head. “That’s not exactly what I meant, Harlow. I run a matchmaking website, not an escort service.”

  “Good to know. So basically that means you cherry pick the women you want to date after you scope out all their information. I assure you now I can sleep better at night knowing this.”

  “You’re exhausting.” And she is, but in the most fascinating of ways.

  “You’re one to talk.” She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her eyebrows.

  I hold my hands up. “All I was trying to say is connections matter in this town. You and I both know that. My event . . . there is going to be a lot of people there. Industry people,” I say more than aware I just let it slip that I looked her up and know she works in the industry.

  “Good. Great. Can you go now?”

  But there’s a crack of a smile on her face. A chink in her defensive armor that tells me I’m getting somewhere.

  “You have to take opportunities when they present themselves.” She doesn’t say anything but the slight smile remains. “Zane Phillips. Nice to meet you.” I stick my hand out. She looks down at it and nods but doesn’t shake it.

  Fuck, she’s stubborn.

  And goddamn gorgeous.

  “And you’re Harlow Nicks.”

  “Considering you had my electric bill, I guess that means you know how to read.”

  “I do.” I nod. “And I also have your email address from your interview paperwork.”

  “Should I worry that you’re stalking me?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “I’ll email you the information about the party—”