by K. Bromberg
Faking It
By K. Bromberg
Copyright 2018 K. Bromberg
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 978-1-942832-18-8
Editing: Rose Hilliard
Cover Design: Helen Williams
Cover Photography: Alexis Salgues
Cover Model: Jeremy Baudoin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Praise for the novels of K. Bromberg
Other books by K. Bromberg
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Love comes unexpectedly.
It’s rarely pretty.
It’s often messy.
It’ll test your temper, your ability to compromise, your selfishness . . .
And your selflessness.
But if she walks away,
If you’re willing to fight for her . . .
The heartbreak is worth the risk.
—Roarke
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“This book will have you CUFFED to your chair until the very last page of this high-flying tale.”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Audrey Carlan
A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times Bestselling author Helena Hunting
“A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
UnRaveled
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Worth the Risk
Control
Faking It
THERE HE IS.
You know the one. That jerk who pushes into the crowded elevator, thereby moving the mass of people so you end up shoved against the wall in the back. The one who talks too loudly on his phone so everyone knows he’s there when it’s kind of impossible not to know since he just became the twenty-fifth person on a twenty-four capacity elevator car.
“Good onya then,” his voice booms around the crowded space as we all shift when he throws an arm out to gesture. “But mate, she just wasn’t the right fit. Sure we . . . you know, but at some point, brains need to factor into the mix.” A baritone laugh. “You have no idea . . . but uh yeah . . . it’s all a crock. No one believes anyone meeting on a site like that wants anything more than sex . . . meaningful goes out the door the minute you swipe whichever way you have to swipe.”
I roll my eyes as the people around me shift in discomfort. I stare at the back of his head. At the glimpse of dark lashes and the dust of stubble when he turns his head for the slightest of seconds.
His Australian lilt makes me want to listen to him all day long while the content makes me want to tune him out.
I’m done with dicks. Well, not actual dicks—those definitely have their purpose—but jerk dicks. The guys who think they’re too cool for everything. Who think you owe them a date when they hold a door for you . . . well, never mind, that doesn’t happen anymore. Chivalry is dead.
This guy owns the space. Doesn’t care that anyone else is on the elevator and if he did, he just wants us all to know how awesome he is when he probably still lives at home with his mom.
It seems way too many men do these days.
Oh hey, my name is Harlow Nicks . . . a model just trying to make her place in this big, bad world.
So here’s where my story begins . . . I’ll let you read the rest for yourself.
“CRAP.” I GLANCE AT MY paperwork and the ink where I’d written the interview location is smeared. I narrow my eyes and try to discern the suite number: either three hundred and thirteen or three hundred and eighteen.
Thirteen. I’ll go with thirteen.
Or is it eighteen?
With a deep breath I put my hand on the knob of suite three hundred and thirteen just as it’s pulled open.
“Good. You’re here.”
I look up startled to find Arrogant Aussie Guy from the elevator, a look of impatience on his face and irritation etched in his voice. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him so I chalk it up to the elevator ride.
“Yes. Hi. I’m here for—”
“You’re late. Smudge needed to go out thirty minutes ago. Promptness is what I pay you for.”
“Wait. No. I’m not—”
And before I know it, a leash is thrust into my hands and I’m distracted by a very excited bulldog. He snorts and then lunges down the hallway before I have a firm grip on the leash.
Taken off guard on all accounts—the door that was just shut in my face, the dog now bounding down the hallway—it takes me a second to get my wits. Instinct has me chasing after the dog. I can’t jus
t let him run away.
“Smudge!” I say in a harsh whisper as I try to chase after him in high heels that don’t do well at top speeds. Smudge? What the hell kind of name is that?
But I chase. Not because I want to but because it’s the right thing to do regardless of whether his owner mistook me for the dog walker or not.
It takes forever to corner the cute little bastard. He’s all snorts and wiggles and has the most adorable but ugliest face I’ve ever seen.
That is until he makes a dash to escape me.
It takes everything I have to not fall flat on my face when my heel gets caught in a rug. I hear the snap. Any woman who wears heels knows that sound and cringes before they even look down.
It’s broken.
My heel is broken.
And I have an interview.
I lift my heel and try to put it in back in place—the tack of the remaining glue and a few of the staples holding it in place by a thread—but know without even attempting to put weight on it, that it’s going to fall off if I try.
Of course this happens to me.
I shouldn’t even be surprised.
Deciding that I can stand on my tip toes and fake the heel being fine once I get to my interview, I take it off. With gritted teeth and the leash in my hand, I cringe when I check my watch, but getting the damn dog to move is impossible. Another few minutes pass before I finally get I-refuse-to-budge-Smudge to move. With enough coaxing, I limp back to the office.
The front room of the office space is empty when I open the door. Everything is sleek lines and dark wood. There’s an office to my right where it’s obvious someone usually sits but is vacant at the moment, and then there’s a dog bed in the corner between some sitting room chairs to my left. Obviously at home, Smudge waddles over to the dog bed and makes himself at home.
“Hello?” I start to say the same time laughter rings out behind a partially closed door in front of me.
“It was good. She was excellent. Hell, I might even go back for seconds,” Arrogant Aussie says with a laugh that matches the nickname I’ve given him.
“Never go back for seconds. They get sloppy and then complicated,” a deep unaccented male voice says—almost sounding as if it’s on a conference call speaker.
“You’re a dick.”
“You taught me well.”
“Listen,” Arrogant Aussie says, “no matter how we play it, mate, I need to act like I’ve been through the gamut.”
“You mean you have to pretend like you found love through this shit?” the other voice asks followed by a chuckle.
“Jack. I love you, you’re my best mate, but you’re going to fuck this up for me if you don’t pretend to at least be able to keep your johnson in your pants.”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Jack says as I shift on my feet, suddenly uncomfortable at overhearing this conversation. “I mean, you’re serving up hot chicks on a platter and you’re not expecting me to sample?”
“They’re on a server, a database, not a platter. And it’s a matchmaking site, not an escort service. Let’s make sure we don’t refer to it that way when we get Robert on the call.”
“You’re such a buzzkill, Zane.” Arrogant Aussie now has a name. “Are you telling me you haven’t been enjoying the perks?”
“But perks are better enjoyed on the side and out of sight, aye. Besides… love? C’mon, now. It’s me we’re talking about.” Sounds like a real winner and just like I pegged him to be when I saw him in the elevator. “Look Jack, I need Robert’s investment. The money’s not so much the issue—capital I’ve got—but it’s his connections that I need to help launch this properly. With his background and history in launching other major dating sites, he’s the man I need to help me. Besides, he’s told me he’s in love with the platform and has grand plans on how to make the platform noticed from the get go. Failure is not an option.”
“Then don’t fuck this up.” Jack’s laugh is sarcastic and the sigh I hear from Zane says it’s not welcome.
“That’s the plan.” A chair creeks. A cabinet shuts. I feel like a voyeur. Should I leave without telling him his dog is here? Should I wait?
“Look, in all seriousness, Robert is madly in love with love. He lost his wife of sixty years to cancer last year. They had that fairytale type of shit. High school sweethearts. Perfect marriage.”
“So he doesn’t get us?” Jack asks as they both laugh.
“No . . . love is shit.”
“Says the man who’s in love with himself.”
Nailed that one on the head.
“Asshole.”
“Prick,” he says like this is a normal exchange.
“Do me a favor Jacko,” Zane says, his tone becoming serious.
“Anything.”
“I need this to work. More than you know. You helped with the introduction. Since then I’ve been busy jumping through hoops to prove to Robert that this is the right company to put his weight behind. I even promised him to narrow down the spokesperson auditions to five so he could help with the final decision at the party on Friday.”
“Such a hard job. Do you get to vet the women in all aspects of their performance?” Jack asks.
Zane’s chuckle reverberates off the walls and makes me roll my eyes. Gotta love the male bravado. “No vetting. And no touching either. Keep it zipped and don’t fuck this up for me. Robert’s already hinted that he doesn’t think I’m committed enough to run the company properly. I have to prove to him that I am.”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”
I’ve heard enough. And even worse, I’ve been standing here so caught up in listening to this discussion between assholes that I lost track of time.
And then it hits me. How much time have I been standing here? How much time have I wasted listening to egos inflate? When I look at my watch, I freak.
My interview.
There goes all my thoughts of chewing Zane out for assuming that any female walking by is there to do his biding . . . and all I can think about is my empty bank account and the job interview waiting for me in suite three hundred eighteen.
Crap on a cracker!
I drop the leash on the desk with a thud and rush out of the office trying to straighten my clothes as best as possible and remove any visible dog slobber or fur.
I’m out of breath when I shove my heel on, barge through the office door of suite three hundred and thirteen on uneven balance, and move to the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi, I’m Harlow Nicks. I’m here for an interview at eleven for the personal admin position. It was with a . . .” I dig in my purse for the email I printed out with the name of the person I have the interview with. Fully aware I look like a scatterbrain who I wouldn’t hire if I were in her shoes, I drop my hands and deliver my most sincere smile. “My apologies. I seem to have dropped it when I was in the elevator. My appointment was at eleven with—”
“It’s eleven-oh-five right now.” She raises her eyebrows in a way that tells me she’s also turning her nose up at me. “We have a strict policy that if you can’t arrive for an interview on time, then you most definitely don’t deserve the position. Timeliness matters.”
I stare at her with frustrated tears threatening and tell myself to slow down. “I understand,” I say as calmly as possible and then stop myself when I begin to shift my weight to the broken heel. “I was helping someone in the hallway find their dog. It took some time. My tardiness had nothing to do with me not being here on time.” I hate that I sound like I’m pleading, but I am.
“No exceptions.”
“But I really need this job,” I throw pride out the window and beg.
“Then you should have thought about that before you made yourself late.”
Tears swim in my eyes as I stare at her and her cold heart before she nonchalantly goes back to typing on her computer as if I’m not standing silently screaming at her that my bills are piling up and my luck has been shit lately.
I remain there a f
ew seconds longer, as if she’s going to change her mind when I know she isn’t, and I head out the door. Defeated because this is how my life has been going lately and pissed because I was just trying to do a good deed and help with the dog, I pull my shoes off. Standing in the hallway of the sixth floor, I press my fingers to my eyes to fight back the tears of frustration.
Immediately, my mind goes to the stack of bills sitting on my desk. To my bank account and its dwindling balance that had been padded nicely from my last modeling job that I thought would last me until the next one . . . but the next one hasn’t come. To my agent, who promised that the Victoria’s Secret catalog shoot would pave a pathway for me when all it’s done so far is to leave me standing in the weeds.
I really needed this job.
I fight back the burn of tears. The frustrated feeling of helplessness. The knowledge that I might have to give up this dream of mine.
“THERE YOU ARE!”
Talk about being snapped out of my self-pity party by none other than the Arrogant Aussie who was the cause of it.
“You,” I grit out with all the vitriol I have and shove my shoes at him as I point.
“Me?” he asks as he strides down the hallway in my direction, the green of his eyes on fire with temper. “What kind of dog walker are you? Smudge just pissed all over the office. Did you even take him out? Or did you get too busy posting Snapchats of yourself that you forgot about the one thing you had to do? It doesn’t matter. You’re fired.”
“Fired?” I screech at him, not caring about the business being conducted in the nice little office suites around us. “Fired? How does it feel to win Arrogant Asshole of the year?”
“Arrogant? How am I arrogant when you’re the one who screwed up?”
“I didn’t screw up! I’m not your dog walker. I’m not anything to you at all. Your real dog walker probably quit like I would if I had to work for a jerk like you. Is it normal for you to just assume that every woman is here to be at your beck and call?” I step into him and all but growl. “News flash, Zane, no one likes guys like you.”
