Filthy Fiance: A Fake Engagement Romance

by Cat Carmine

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Filthy Fiance: A Fake Engagement Romance

  Celia

  Jace

  Also by Cat Carmine

  About the Author

  Filthy Fiance

  A Fake Engagement Romance

  Cat Carmine

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  Copyright © 2017 by Cat Carmine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Filthy Fiance: A Fake Engagement Romance

  1. Celia

  2. Celia

  3. Celia

  4. Jace

  5. Celia

  6. Celia

  7. Jace

  8. Celia

  9. Jace

  10. Celia

  11. Celia

  12. Celia

  13. Jace

  14. Celia

  15. Celia

  16. Jace

  17. Celia

  18. Jace

  19. Celia

  20. Jace

  21. Celia

  22. Jace

  23. Celia

  24. Jace

  25. Celia

  26. Celia

  27. Jace

  28. Celia

  29. Celia

  30. Celia

  31. Celia

  32. Celia

  33. Epilogue

  Also by Cat Carmine

  About the Author

  Filthy Fiance: A Fake Engagement Romance

  I need a fiancee. She needs a f*ck.

  I only know Celia from the bar I work at, but I already know she isn’t the type to do one night stands. And she definitely isn’t the type to do one night stands with a tattooed bad boy bartender like me.

  But she must have really been craving something, because here I am in her bed, making her scream my name as her hips buck and her toes curl.

  And then my brother calls. Wants to know if I’m coming to his wedding.

  We don’t talk much, and I didn’t even know he was engaged, and I feel stupid so I tell him yeah, I’m coming, and I’m bringing my own fiancee.

  The fiancee I don’t have.

  Celia’s the only one who knows about my lie, so I make her a deal — one week of incredible mind-blowing s*x if she’ll come to the wedding and pretend to be my betrothed.

  It should be easy. Fake it for a week and then ‘break up’ once we’re back home. But Celia's gorgeous smile and sinful curves are making this anything but easy ... in fact, they're making it downright hard.

  And you know what they say: lies are like org*sms — sometimes it’s hard to stop at just one.

  Filthy Fiance is a super steamy standalone contemporary romance — no cheating, no cliffhangers, and a candy-sweet happily ever after. <3

  1

  Celia

  Thwack.

  The blueberry crumble muffin hits the wall of the break room, just behind Martin’s head.

  “You lying …” My words come out breathless as I fling a second muffin at him.

  Thuck.

  This one hits him on the shoulder, leaving a smear of sticky fruit and crumbs on his four thousand dollar pinstriped suit jacket.

  “Cheating…”

  He beats away the third muffin, flailing his arms like a little girl.

  “Son of a bitch,” I finish with a hiss. The last muffin hits him right in the throat and he yells in surprise.

  “Celia!” he barks. “This is very unbecoming.”

  “Unbecoming?” I yell. “Unbecoming was when you got caught with your pants down in the copy room. Oh, wait, no, that was just coming, right? My mistake.”

  People have gathered around outside the break room now, and I can feel their eyes boring into my back, but all I can do is glare at the man who broke my heart.

  Martin and I split up two weeks ago, but this is my first time seeing him since then. I thought I’d be able to handle seeing him at work again — I was determined to be mature, to take the high road even after he’d humiliated me.

  So much for that plan.

  Of course, all that was before I found out the associate lawyer he’d been fucking behind my back is being promoted to partner. A promotion I’ve been in the running for, one I had been told I was a shoo-in for.

  Apparently now that Martin and I are no longer engaged, I’m no longer partner material.

  To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to be a partner at Turner & Crosby. Being a lawyer isn’t exactly all I had dreamed it would be — or all my parents had dreamed for me, I suppose. But I want it to be my choice. I want to succeed or fail on my own terms, and not because my ex has tapped his new fuck buddy for the job that was supposed to be mine.

  I search helplessly around for something else to throw at Martin, but we’re all out of muffins. I pick up the empty cardboard box and heave that at him too, but it just sails to the floor pathetically between us.

  “Ms. Jeffries.” The booming voice comes from behind us and I instantly flinch. I turn around to see Frank Turner, one of the firm’s founding partners. He looks none too pleased — his silver eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is thin.

  “Ms. Jeffries, please come with me.”

  He turns on his heel and I have no choice but to follow along behind him like a puppy. Not before I shoot Martin one last withering glare though. He has the nerve to shake his head sadly at me, as if I’m the pathetic one. As if he’s not the lying, cheating scumbag in this scenario.

  I scamper down the hallway behind Mr. Turner, still cursing out Martin under my breath. When Frank gets to his office, he holds the door open for me.

  “After you, Ms. Jeffries.”

  I step cautiously into his office. Well, I tell myself, if nothing else, at least there’s no way Frank Turner is ever going to forget my name now.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I ride the elevator down to the ground floor of our luxurious office tower, cursing as it dings past every floor. My hands are still shaking and my heart is racing, replaying the conversation I just had with Frank.

  Unacceptable workplace behavior, he’d said. Appearance of mental instability.

  Apparently break room meltdowns and muffin-throwing are unacceptable workplace behavior now. Who knew?

  Frank had suggested I take two weeks off to deal with my personal matters (aka get my shit together), only it was clear from his tone that it wasn’t really a suggestion at all. They were putting me on leave, even if he didn’t have the balls to come right out and say it.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The elevator doors open with one final ping and I step into the soaring glass lobby, the one that normally gives me such a giddy thrill. Now it’s dark and humid. Rain is pouring down outside, and the space feels damp and dreary.

  I stand there in the lobby, clutching my purse and staring at the rain pelting down on the sidewalk outside. Because of course it would have to be pouring rain right now. Why wouldn’t it be, really? It’s the perfect end to the perfect day.

  Yet even with the rain and the muffins and the leave of absence, this still only ranks as the second worst day I’ve had this month. Top billing goes to the day Martin and I broke up, the day I walked in on him in the copy room, bare ass thrusting against…

  God. I can’t even think about it right now.

  Of course, after it had happened, no one at the firm had told Martin his behavior was unacceptable. No one had told him
he needed to take a couple of weeks to get his shit together. You could get your rocks off in the office, apparently, but you couldn’t throw an innocent baked good or two.

  Then again, Martin was the one with the corner office, the big clients — the kind who flew in on private jets just for an hour-long meeting, which he always billed them through the nose for. Apparently that bought you a lot of privilege at the office.

  That’s why, for the last two weeks, ever since it had happened, I’d been forcing myself to keep it together. After all, I’m a good girl with an Ivy-league education and an up-and-coming career in corporate law. Losing my shit isn’t exactly part of my life plan right now.

  I stare out at the rain, painting the sidewalks in dark grey, wondering why I picked today of all days to lose it. Not the day I caught Martin cheating. Not the day I took off my engagement ring. Not the day I had to call the wedding planner and tell her the wedding wasn’t happening anymore.

  No, I lost my shit over a job I didn’t even know if I wanted.

  And look where my little outburst got me — I’ll never get the partner job now. I’ll be lucky if I get to keep the job I currently have. Worst of all, throwing those muffins hadn’t even made me feel any better.

  Well, okay, maybe it made me feel a little bit better.

  But it didn’t make up for the trouble it had got me in.

  I huff out another sigh, staring at the rain. The only things that could possibly help salvage this disaster of a day are a drink, a fuck, and a really gooey grilled cheese sandwich. Considering my current relationship status (non-existent), I doubt I’m going to get that middle option, but luckily I know exactly where I can satisfy my other two cravings.

  I push open the lobby door and step out into the downpour. The sidewalks are surprisingly empty for four o’clock in Manhattan, probably because everyone else is smart enough to stay indoors in this near typhoon. I hurry through the rain as fast as I can in my heels, which unfortunately isn’t very fast.

  Fortunately I’m not going far.

  Veneer is just three blocks from my office, but no one I work with would ever set foot in a dive bar like that, which is exactly why I like it. That and the tasty piece of man meat that works behind the bar most evenings. I’ve been coming here at least once a month since I started working at Turner & Crosby, and it’s the perfect place to drown my sorrows tonight.

  Especially if Jace is working.

  I push open the door and burst into the bar like a thundercloud, trailing puddles and gloom in my wake. It’s actually packed inside — probably people hiding out from the storm — so I drop my soaking wet ass on a bar stool and try to ring out my black hair. There’s no bartender back there at the moment so I grab a handful of napkins and start trying to wipe up the worst of the water while I wait. I must look like a drowned rat.

  Another win for today.

  I look around the bar, checking out the diverse clientele. The bar isn’t big, but it isn’t a hole in the wall either, and the battered old tables are filled with a wide mix of people — bankers, college kids, hipsters, and more than a few single women, probably hoping for exactly the same thing as I am: a view of the sexiest bartender in Manhattan.

  Finally the door from the kitchen swings open. A collective sigh rises from the lips of every woman in the room.

  And just like that, my day gets immeasurably better.

  2

  Celia

  Jace The Bartender sidles up behind the bar and smiles at me in greeting.

  “Hey, Celia.”

  I struggle for an appropriate response, somehow managing to forget all about the word hello, but Jace is already raising his eyebrows.

  “You’re wet.”

  His voice is like liquid honey and it seeps through my veins like a drug. All I can do is nod. Despite the cold rain still soaking me, a rush of warmth flows through me, coming to a sharp point between my legs and making me clench my pussy. It’s as if his words aren’t an observation so much as a command, and suddenly I find I’m wet in more ways than one.

  “It’s raining,” I say dumbly, squirming in my seat.

  Wow, what scintillating conversation. Why is it that I seem to turn into a complete moron when I’m around this man? I mean, sure he has the body of a Greek God, with pecs that practically bust out of his t-shirts and tattooed biceps that could just scoop you up and throw you down on the bar in front of everyone and just …

  I shake my head lightly. Get it together, Celia. You don’t need any more embarrassments today.

  “Let me get you a towel.”

  He turns before I can protest, disappearing back into the kitchen he’d just come out of. I look down at the pile of soggy napkins and try to ball them up as best as I can. Despite the fact that I’ve been here on dozens of occasions, I seem to manage to make an ass of myself in front of Jace every time, turning from educated corporate lawyer to blushing school girl. It’s ridiculous, really.

  Jace comes back out and hands me a clean kitchen towel, which I take gratefully. I scrub my face and neck and then dab at my cleavage.

  I glance up and see Jace watching as I lightly pull open the neck of the white collared shirt I’m wearing. I realize that it’s probably almost entirely see-through at this point, and I thank God for the boring charcoal blazer I’m wearing over top of it. I dab at my skin one more time and then try to pull the jacket closed as much as I can, feeling my nipples pebbling under the damp fabric and glad he can’t see the very obvious effect he has on me.

  Jace is still watching me as I hand the towel back across to him. His blue eyes are bright, his lids heavy, and I realize he looks … intrigued? My cheeks flame in embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to put on quite such a show.

  Jace takes the towel from me and drops it in a bin behind the bar.

  “Your usual?”

  “Yes, please. And a grilled cheese.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Bad day?”

  I nod and actually find myself smiling. “Am I that obvious?”

  He grins. “Well, you kind of have a tell.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “Carbs and cheese.”

  I laugh at that, a full loud barking laugh, way louder than I mean to. “So what you’re saying is I am that obvious.”

  “Well … let’s just say last time you were having a bad day we ran out of macaroni and cheese.”

  “Guilty.” I can’t help but laugh, even though the memory is still raw. Catching Martin like that … ending our engagement … throwing him out of the apartment. I’d come here the next day after work and drowned my sorrows in mac and cheese and cab franc. Dinner of champions and cheated-on girlfriends everywhere.

  Jace grabs a bottle and starts pouring me a glass of red. My mouth is practically salivating already — although I’m not sure if it’s at the sight of the wine or the couple inches of muscled back I glimpsed as his t-shirt rode up when he reached to grab the bottle off the high shelf behind him. There’s a flush crawling across my skin and I have to resist the urge to fan myself.

  When he’s filled my glass — with way more than the usual six ounces — he slides it across the bar toward me.

  “Cheers.” I pick it up and down half of it one gulp. Who cares that it costs twenty-five bucks a glass?

  Jace watches me with raised eyebrows, and when I set the glass back down on the bar, he wordlessly fills it back up.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks. “I am a bartender, you know. Better than a shrink.”

  “Ha. No, that’s okay.” No way am I letting the sexiest man in Manhattan know what a mess my life is. He probably already thinks I’m a flake, thanks to the way I get all tongue-tied around him.

  He shrugs. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He flashes me a thousand-watt grin, showing off perfect white teeth framed between pillowy soft lips. The kind of mouth you would never stop kissing, if he was yours.

  I shake my head lightly as he walks away, probably to put my gr
illed cheese order in with the kitchen. For one brief second, I’m almost tempted to tell him my whole sob story, if only so that he’ll stay and talk to me a little longer, so that I can continue my ongoing game of ‘imagine what Jace The Bartender looks like naked,’ a game I’m basically an expert in by now.

  At this point, I think I’ve imagined every detail of that man’s body — the way his chest would be broad and smooth, with tight brown nipples. The way his abs would ripple under a woman’s fingertips, the way they would lead down to a tapered vee, the way his strong thighs and his sculpted ass would flex as he thrust his cock in and out of some poor destroyed pussy.

  Because his cock … oh, the cock I imagined was massive. Ten inches, at least, and thick as a beer can. Throbbing and veiny and punishing.

  I’m sure there’s no way the reality can live up to everything I’ve imagined — but it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s not like I’m ever going to experience it. It’s just a little harmless daydreaming.

  I suppose it should have been a warning sign that even when I was engaged to Martin, I was fantasizing about Jace The Bartender. Not that I would have done anything about it — God, no. Martin might be a cheater, but I wasn’t. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about Jace. Because where Martin was Ivy-league pressed khakis and horn-rimmed glasses — handsome in his own prissy sort of way — Jace was pure bad ass sex appeal. Tattoos, muscles, a stubbled jaw, the kind of guy that you can just tell would fuck like a rock star. And sometimes a girl just wants to get lost in a fantasy like that.