A match made in Manhattan…
By-the-book Marianne McBride wants to prove she’s more than a computer geek in a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. But how did she end up hiding in a cake, waiting to sing “Happy Birthday” to Nick Wright, a sexy and arrogant serial-dater? Not exactly part of her plan. Especially when she finds herself kissing the birthday boy, and then running like hell…
Nick falls for no woman. No strings, no commitments, and no relationships. Not even with the sweetly curvaceous bombshell from his birthday. But then he’s hit by a bombshell of his own. He needs to find the perfect faux fiancée, or kiss his key to the executive washroom goodbye. Fortunately, his matchmaker sister has the perfect girl in mind.
Now Nick and Marianne have to pretend they’re in love for six weeks. No dating. No sex.
And definitely no acting on the wickedly-hot chemistry that could ruin everything…
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover the Smart Cupid series… Breaking the Bachelor
Find love in unexpected places with these satisfying Lovestruck reads… Neighbors with Benefits
Fiancée for Hire
Driving Her Crazy
The Hookup Hoax
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Maggie Kelley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Lovestruck is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Vanessa Mitchell
Cover design by Heather Howland
Cover art from Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-416-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition August 2015
To my one and only.
Chapter One
“Gee, how long can I be sexy?”
—Marilyn Monroe
Marianne McBride sat inside the darkened cake, her serious, efficient brain full of second and third and fourth thoughts. She pressed her palms into the sides of the moving confection and drew in a deep Ujjayi breath. She should be at home, peacefully drinking Chardonnay, watching The Seven Year Itch, not freewheeling into a birthday party.
“Are you ready, M.A.?” asked Jane Wright, bestie, boss, woman at the helm of the cake. The dark-haired Mila Kunis look-alike wore a curve-hugging LBD and an encouraging smile. “All that time studying Marilyn, doing Zumba, shaking your groove thing is about to pay off.”
Was she ready? Her heart was hammering so hard, she could hear it echoing against the interior walls of the flippin’ cake. What was she thinking? Exploring her inner siren! She wasn’t a siren. For heaven’s sake, she’d blushed at the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated when she’d stumbled across it on her ex-fiancé’s nightstand. Exactly. Her blush, his nightstand, and Sports Illustrated were only three of the reasons she’d agreed to strap on the ruby red heels. And not the most compelling reasons. She’d already spent too many sleepless nights analyzing her ex’s claim that she was prudish and unadventurous in bed. Certainly pouring her curves into a silver-spangled burlesque costume and climbing into a birthday cake qualified as adventurous.
Another breath. “I’m ready, Jane. I can do this.” Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Just a step, a confidence-building excursion. ”I want to do this.”
“And you’re sure, right?” Her friend’s voice held a hint of uncharacteristic hesitation, and the cake rolled to a stop. “Because you’re going to be amazing. Better than the actual cake girl.”
The double-booking of the actual girl was the reason Marianne was tucked inside the cake. This was not her usual Friday night. But not one to change course once she’d processed the analytics—and statistically speaking, this particular venture should accelerate the process of liberating her inner siren by 42 percent, plus or minus a few percentage points—she adjusted the feathery mask she wore in place of her horn-rims and drew in one last fortifying breath. “I’m sure.” Marianne closed the pop-out top.
And the cake began to roll.
As they moved from the back office toward the main bar, Jane nattered off a list of instructions and advice. “Take it slow—you don’t want to trip over the edge of the first tier. Remember to breathe, smile…” More words filtered in through the papier-mâché walls. “Music…spotlight…glasses on the vanity.” She tried to process them, but her practical brain had left the bar nineteen minutes and forty-two seconds ago.
Finally, the cake came to a stop, a bit like Marianne’s heart, before it started pounding against her sequin-covered chest. She heard Charlie Goodman, owner of the bar and Jane’s fiancé, step up to a microphone. “Tonight we’ve got a surprise for the man of the hour.”
Oh God, she was starting to sweat. There was a loud click, and she felt the heat of a spotlight hit the cake. She drew in a breath as burlesque-style music burst from the sound system, its throbbing beat her cue to exit in a hail of tiny paper squares.
Inner siren, don’t fail me now.
She burst out of the cake in one swift, just-close-your-eyes-and-do-it motion and the crowd in the dimly lit bar erupted in appreciative applause. Confetti flew everywhere, through the air, down the layers of the cake, into her cleavage. The rhythmic thump of the music seeped under her skin, boosting her confidence. Tomorrow, she’d happily welcome back plain, efficient Marianne. But tonight? Her inner seductress was tossing caution to the wind like confetti. This was her subway grate moment.
Her Marilyn moment.
As she shimmied over the rim and down to the second layer, her eyes scanned the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of the birthday bad boy, but without her glasses, she couldn’t see past the last layer of the cake. Then a slow, measured movement at the blurred perimeter of the spotlight caught her attention.
Nick Wright.
He stood apart from the lively crowd, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark, sleek pants, and for a second, she literally stopped breathing. Behind the mask, her eyes drifted a shade lower. He was just…wow, the whole tall, dark, and handsome package, with a set of incredibly broad shoulders that made a girl feel like she could let down her walls and rely on him to hold her up.
She lifted her eyes to find his gaze settled on her. Looking at her the way he looked at her in her dreams. Eyes locked on Nick, she ignored the faint trembling at the edges of her body and focused on her instructions. Settle onto the second tier, sing happy birthday, and blow a kiss into the audience. When you’re finished, Charlie will roll you out of there. Except now her arms were shaking. Not to mention her legs.
The room grew quiet, all attention focused on her as she moved to the next tier. She stumbled, briefly, a small mistake that she caught quickly e
nough to be sure no one had noticed. Perched safely on the second tier, she drew in a breath and started to sing in her best Marilyn. Happy birthday to you…
Even to her own ears her voice sounded breathless.
Nick stepped inside the circle of the spotlight. She blinked several times behind the mask. Maybe he couldn’t hear her. As if pulled by some unknown gravitational force, her body unfolded from the second tier. Her hips adopted an unfamiliar bombshell kind of sway as she moved toward him, the spiked heels clicking against the tile floor. Happy birthday to you.
He was only a few inches away now, and in better focus. A vaguely stunned look marked his face, which didn’t say much for her cake jumping skills, but still, he was standing there. Happy birthday, dear Nicholas. She swayed closer.
His hand fastened to her hip, tugging her closer still. Happy birthday to you.
She could see him perfectly now, his midnight blue eyes, gazing down at her. Leaning forward on her ruby tiptoes, she pressed her lips against his in a kiss so sweet, Marianne thought her heart would melt like buttercream frosting. And she never indulged in buttercream frosting. Lost in the feel of him, her lips parted, unexpectedly deepening the kiss. She reached for his shoulder to steady herself, fisting the fabric of his shirt.
Hours ago, kissing Nick Wright had been a statistical impossibility, but now, here she was, holding him close, reveling in the bittersweet taste of his kiss. Her kiss.
Easing away, she gazed up into his handsome face, her tingling lips curving into a small smile. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, turning on her stilettos to beeline past the cake.
Behind her, Marianne heard an outburst of cheers. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed her suspicion that a small crowd had formed around Nick. She dashed into the storeroom. Jane’s voice called after her, but she ignored it, embarrassed that she’d kissed her friend’s brother. Her boss’s brother. Kissing wasn’t part of the deal. Leaving the second tier wasn’t part of the deal. Maybe tomorrow she’d be able to face her bestie/boss, but tonight she was fleeing the scene, racing home to her moderate glass of wine—make that the bottle—and classic movie.
Tripping into the storeroom she kicked off the heels, grabbed her Keds, and shoved her feet into the slip-on sneakers. She snatched up her everyday clothes, which she’d left in a neatly folded stack on a shelf, but there was no time to change. She needed to hurry out of here to catch the last cab before the midnight rates kicked in. An oddly pragmatic thought, she acknowledged, considering her getaway plans. Still, in the event that the birthday boy wanted to canoodle with the exotic cake girl, she needed to be gone. Exploring her adventurous side was fine, but Marianne had bumped up against her limits. Kiss or no kiss, she wasn’t the confetti and cabaret type.
Where were her glasses? Think, Marianne, think. Jane’s voice calling her name sent her into a second mini panic. She couldn’t breathe. The darned spangly dress was so tight. Pulling at the top, she forced in a rush of air and retraced her steps. Where had she been when she’d tied on the mask? The mirror. The bathroom. She’d left her glasses on the vanity.
Her clothes tucked under one arm, Marianne rushed into the bathroom. She palmed the granite surface for her horn-rims and cursed the genes that combined to give her 20/200 vision. Dagnabbit, now was not the time to be functionally blind. When her fingers hit pay dirt in the form of a hard plastic lens, she practically cried in relief. She shoved the specs against the bridge of her nose, and everything snapped into focus. Everything. Her gaze locked onto her sparkly reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes bright, cheeks flushed pink, her cleavage spilling over the top of the silver dress. This was not her.
Kissing Nick had been a fantasy, a dream, but tomorrow she’d be the same old Marianne she’d been yesterday. The career-focused, nerdy girl with her nose aimed at a computer screen.
And he’d still be the bad boy with the quick wink and the devastating grin who had charmed the panties off half the single women in the greater metro area. A serial dater. A man whose relationship rules included no back-to-back dates and no Sundays during football season. Arrogant. Rude. Presumptuous. And so ridiculously sexy, she’d traded her cardi and capris for a dress straight out of a Kardashian’s closet. What had she been thinking? For heaven’s sake, she saw him every week at Smart Cupid and he still called her “New Girl”. She’d shaken things up all right, but now, she needed to shake her tail away from the scene of the crime.
Bolting from the bathroom, she grabbed Jane’s trench coat from the back of a random barstool and hurried to the exit as footsteps fell against the tiled hallway. At the back door, safe and unseen, she turned and caught a glimpse of Nick lifting the turquoise mask from the floor. His eyes scanned the empty room for a woman who was already long gone. A wave of sadness washed over her as she stood immobilized, her back pressed against the Art Deco building’s brick wall, her unadventurous heart locked firmly back in its cage.
“Happy birthday, Nick,” she whispered. And with her body still trembling, Marianne dashed to the curb to hail her midnight cab.
Chapter Two
“Manliness isn’t always easy.”
—mantelligence.com
As Nick Wright strode across the marble lobby of his firm’s upscale Manhattan offices, the same damned question that had been on his mind all weekend long circled back around again. Who was that girl in the cake? Followed by a second question, why the hell did he care so much?
Sure, the girl Friday night had been a surprise. Strike that. Not a surprise. Nick had known he’d be taking one on the chin as soon as his future brother-in-law, Charlie Goodman, started hard-selling a birthday bash at Temptation.
After all, this was hardly his first rodeo. But the girl Friday night wasn’t your average girl in a sequined dress and take-me-now heels. There was something else, something sweet and vulnerable about her—innocent, even. One look, and Nick had wanted to take off his carpincho jacket and wrap it around her silver-strap-covered shoulders. And when she’d stumbled, he felt…protective.
Not his usual reaction to a woman and not one he’d experience again if he could help it. Nick enjoyed being the guy taking off the jacket…slipping off the silky shirt…easing away the lacy panties. A new woman every other week worked just fine.
He was up-front and honest with every woman he took home. Commitment—out. All-night, pleading-for-more-sexy-times-between-the-sheets fun—in. Usually, he went all the way in…slow and deep and all the way in.
A smile pulled at the corner of Nick’s mouth. A night or two playing “slow and deep” with his mask-wearing cake girl would be enough to dispel that nagging, wrap-her-in-a-protective-jacket-and-take-her-home feeling. He was sure of it. And damned if he didn’t like a challenge, especially when it came packaged with curves. But since his wide-eyed mystery woman had made a run for it, Nick didn’t expect to see her again. Given his long-standing commitment issues and occasionally less-than-stellar judgment—probably a good thing. He cruised down the professionally decorated hallway.
Outside his office, Nick’s longtime admin looked up from the stack of paperwork threatening to overtake her desk. She was wearing her patented expression of disapproval, a harbinger for the rest of his day. He was pretty sure that if Peg hadn’t logged in forty years with the firm, she’d have pronounced Nick too much trouble and taken an early retirement. Luckily, she had a soft spot for him. “Morning, Peg, you and your grandson enjoy the Yankees game this weekend?”
His assistant offered a smile. Her grandson was the key to her heart. “Loved it. Thank you for the tickets. Not every seven-year-old gets box seats and a chance to run the bases after the game.” Nick nodded, pleased to hear the kid had enjoyed the game. Peg leaned closer, gestured toward his office and said, “Boss Man’s been in there all morning waiting for you.”
Nick rubbed the strung-out muscles at the back of his neck. Ever since the ex-wife of the firm’s biggest client decided she wanted Nick to be her post-divorce Transition Man, he’d bee
n in deep shit at the firm. She wasn’t the first female client to try and catch Nick’s eye, and he’d probably earned the shitstorm aiming for him like a category five hurricane. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
At least he’d enjoyed the ride. Several rides actually. Just none with this particular woman. Even Nick knew better than to play with that brand of feminine fire, but the client was calling for his head, and some of the partners at Morgan Wealth Management & Trust wanted to give it to him.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Peg.” He pushed into his office. Behind the desk, Daniel Morgan sat facing the wall of windows that framed the city skyline. Nick suspected he wasn’t here for the view.
“Nick, we’ve got a problem.” Without turning, his boss cut straight to the chase. Direct, smart, and not a man to suffer fools, Dan was an old-school attorney who took both people and his business seriously. A collection of traits Nick admired. He swiveled around and looked him square in the eye. “Here’s the deal, kid. Bill Jeffers wants your dick on a pike.”
Nick winced and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Sounds uncomfortable.”
His boss didn’t seem amused. “Listen, we both know you’ve steered clear of the man’s wife. Wisely, I might add.” Nick started to confirm, but his boss waved away the need for a response. “I like you, kid. I told Jeffers that. I told him I know for a fact you wouldn’t go near his wife, but the man doesn’t know you like I do. He said he doesn’t trust an unmarried man. The situation is a tough one. Jeffers brings in big money. If you want a shot at the upcoming partnership, you need to clean up your act.” Rising from the chair, he stepped out from behind the desk. “Fast enough to satisfy Bill Jeffers.”
Nick wasn’t big on ultimatums, but if securing a partnership with the city’s most prestigious wealth management firm meant getting his shit together—he needed to do it. Being considered for a partner bid was an honor, albeit one he’d earned. He’d worked his ass off, but the credit crunch had not been kind to a number of private equity firms. Morgan had held strong, wisely muscling-up investment returns for their clients, but passing Nick over for a safer, less controversial choice would be easy. He was lucky to have Dan on his side. “I know how important reputation is in our business, and I appreciate the support. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fix the situation and prove myself to the firm.”
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