Faking It with the Billionaire Next Door: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Jolie Day

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I answered him, feeling mellowed at this reminder.

  “All right, who’s up for some darts?” Oliver asked.

  “Nah, not me.” I shook my head.

  Damon stood up to join him. I decided to slide back in my seat and enjoy my beer.

  The dancer with chestnut-brown hair walked to a booth across the bar, where she was still fully visible to us. I saw Rose in her. She flipped her long hair, just as Rose had done last night. I found myself remembering the flow of her body, the tan color of her skin, and the sexy panties. The red lipstick and toenails—I had no idea why I found that to be a turn-on, but I did. It was absolute proof that she was a sexy kitten, that she had an undeniably feral, untamed, naughty side. I was sure of it—as opposed to the usual stiff, corporate business outfits, and boring hairdos she normally wore.

  I guessed she wasn’t as stuck-up as she seemed. All this from the color of her toenails? Clearly, I was losing my mind.

  I wiped my face and tried to concentrate on something else.

  But as the dancer swayed her tight ass in the direction of the darts where Damon was and removed her sparkly bra, I saw Rose’s head on her shoulders. I couldn’t help but imagine that those were Rose’s silky-smooth tits bouncing around. As she bent over to touch her toes, I imagined myself positioned behind her, sliding my finger under that thong and between her ass cheeks.

  Fuuuuck. I needed to get her off my mind.

  7

  ROSE

  It was around 6 a.m. on Monday morning, and I was getting my things together for work. I’d chosen to wear skin-tight jeans today, with a soft rose-colored shirt tucked in, and a chunky belt. I felt subdued today, no doubt the Monday blues, so I wanted to appear casual to suit my mood. I added Steve Madden heels, a gift from Juliette. They were thin-strapped and brown, sexy, but not overly flashy. I grabbed my to-go coffee mug and hung my handbag over my arm, before heading out the door.

  I almost walked right into a woman.

  She was waiting for the elevator in full walk-of-shame mode. I recognized her as one of the women from the unfortunate day I’d met the two “decorators” with Miles. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but I believed she was the one Miles had introduced as Eugenia.

  I hadn’t seen Miles since Saturday when he’d called the fire department. He hadn’t come home that night, after the “gas leak” incident, not that I’d been checking. I assumed he was worried I’d kick his ass and had been avoiding me. It didn’t bother me, but I hated to admit that I felt a teensy sliver of disappointment about the lack of sparring. I was definitely still angry with him for getting us up and out of my apartment at 5 a.m., after he’d known full well that we’d be dying, suffering the wrath of grapes.

  Of course it had been retaliation.

  He wouldn’t have done it if we hadn’t kept him up so late.

  I couldn’t help wondering about the woman leaving his apartment this morning. I hadn’t heard loud music or anything coming from his place last night. Maybe he’d decided that this game we’d been playing was over?

  I wondered what had happened to the deal with his father. Had he asked somebody else to play the role of his fake fiancée? A deep, uncomfortable feeling bloomed in my belly at the thought. Had he asked this woman? Is that why she was here? Surely not… He’d said he didn’t want his “chicks” getting their hopes up.

  Either way, by the looks of things, he hadn’t changed that much of his lifestyle.

  I cleared my throat quietly and stood waiting next to her.

  She looked over at me and I couldn’t help but take another glance. Was she wearing a fake engagement ring? I couldn’t see her left hand. She looked awful, the poor thing, with her hair unbrushed and raccoon eyes. Had she been crying? Clearly, she was in a hurry to leave. I almost felt bad for her.

  She noticed me eyeing her because she turned to me. “Jealous much, bitch?” She cocked her head, clearly grumpy and ready for a fight.

  Huh? What a snarky comment! Na-ah.

  “Stop staring,” she hissed.

  What was her problem? Was she high? Why so rude? Nope. I was not having it.

  “Oh, God, no. I was only admiring your 2005-style outfit,” I said with calm sarcasm.

  Her mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  I gestured to her hair and face. “What, no shower this morning? Pity.” Honestly, I hadn’t planned on being so nasty, but this cow had me riled up.

  The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. So did the woman.

  During the ride down she was silent, but only long enough to think of her comeback. “You know what?” she began.

  “Hmmm?” I answered, pretending to be unfazed by her.

  “You’re just jealous.”

  I couldn’t believe she’d said the same thing Miles had said the other day. “Jealous? Of what?”

  “You’re just a little, lonely, prudish, buzzkill neighbor.”

  Had Miles said something to her about me? Or was that her assumption because I’d dismissed his invitation the other day? She didn’t even know me.

  “Are you two engaged?” I asked.

  She gave me an outraged expression and laughed, surprised at my sudden question.

  I was surprised at my sudden question.

  “A man like Miles Humphries doesn’t get engaged,” she said in an indignant tone. “It would never cross his mind. Why, you have an eye on him? He likes real women, honey, women who know what to do with his beautiful, giant cock.” She smiled wickedly. “You wouldn’t have a clue.”

  With that, the doors opened, and she strode out.

  I didn’t think she knew how shitty she looked this morning, because her confidence was way overplayed. Or, maybe she was that confident all the time. Good for her. I’d let her have her win, thinking that I didn’t care about her opinion. I ignored the relief I felt that she wasn’t his new fake fiancée.

  However, a few of her words did bother me.

  His beautiful, giant cock? I’d only seen an outline the other night, but she’d just confirmed my suspicions.

  As I walked along the street, my mind began playing a reel of images, of different possible ways his dick could look. Enjoying my imagination a bit too much, I stopped my thoughts dead in their tracks and let out a long, deep breath. I didn’t want Miles. Or his cock. He was an asshole of a man.

  But to be told that you wouldn’t know how to handle such a man was rather insulting.

  I thought I was a pretty bad bitch—at least at work, I definitely was. But now I was questioning whether I’d know what to do with a man like him in bed. I liked to believe I would, but I’d never actually been with a guy like him—an arrogant, super-hot, super-experienced, and swaggering guy like him. Not to mention his allegedly “giant” cock. Yes, I’d seen its outline, and yes, I’d heard Miles’ “decorator’s” words, but the proof was in the pudding. And I hadn’t seen the pudding.

  Also, who’d want a dick as large as an arm? Certainly not me. And certainly not other ladies. I mean, it wouldn’t be fun, right? No, thank you. Basically, there was a “good” giant and a “bad” giant. Just like there was “bad” spanking and “good” spanking. “Bad” trembling and “good” trembling. Miles’ dick could very easily be the bad kind.

  The day didn’t improve much. I sat at my desk in my office and swiveled my chair around, staring out at the view. My meeting with the senior copywriter and our art director had resulted in an exchange of several ideas for the organic makeup palette line. After I presented them with what I’d come up with—possible ways to add value by connecting it with good environmental causes—we continued to brainstorm together. What we had wasn’t bad—far from it, in fact—but I was looking for something new, something fresh. Something that would be more Zeitgeist.

  A few hours later, I got a surprise visit from my lawyer. Although he was an experienced lawyer—no doubt about that—something about Mr. Sanford had always rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was because I�
��d gotten used to connecting him with bad news, such as the death of my father, or the fact that my dad “joked” he had mafia connections. This time was no different. He had been trying to get in touch with me for more than just a couple of days, but I’d been ignoring his efforts to email or call me.

  I’d thought—no, hoped it would have taken him longer to try the personal approach.

  Of course, I knew I should have opened his emails or at least answered his calls, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew they’d be about my father—my gut told me so. The pain of his loss had been too much, and I was not in the mood to find out any more I might not be happy about.

  So, Mr. Sanford suddenly showing up at my office was his latest attempt to contact me.

  He didn’t appear happy.

  “Unfortunately, Rose, your father’s assets—what’s been transferred to the estate—are being seized by the IRS,” he announced in his thick Italian accent. In case you’re wondering why a thickly Italian-accented lawyer had a non-Italian last name… I’ll get to that.

  “Um, what does that mean? What are they taking? And why?” I asked, too shocked to think straight.

  “Please, let’s meet in my office where I have access to all the documents that will explain everything. Stop by as soon as you can. I’ve been trying to reach you. Your father’s debts run into the millions, I am afraid.”

  My mouth dropped open. Literally.

  Mr. Sanford’s office was spacious and snug, but that didn’t prevent me from holding my middle for comfort. It was still a struggle to deal with the emotions of losing my father. Mr. Bernardo Sanford, confident and worldly in his expensive dark suit, was a man in his sixties, and originally from Italy. Dad had once confided in me that he’d seen papers that identified Bernardo as Pepe Santino from Sicily. Apparently, the name change was explained by his birth location and his wish to ward off preconceptions or, as I believed, to cover up the fact that he might have had—or even still had—connections to the underworld. I might be completely wrong here, but my spidey-sense told me that it may be quite likely that Pepe had been born to the Cosa Nostra lifestyle and had decided to change his name after he had been “made,” or accepted into the service of a bigger “family.” But maybe that was just my mafia-movie-loving side going wild. Speaking of which, Mr. Sanford sure had the dark and dangerous aura going for him: expressive eyebrows and piercing Marlon Brando stare included. I loved The Godfather. Old classic. Whoever he really was, he had been my dad’s lawyer for over two decades.

  Since I had ignored his efforts to contact me, all he could do was present me with the unavoidable facts.

  “Now, here—in the US…,” he said that last part as if he was unconsciously comparing New York to the ‘old country,’ and unfavorably, “…your trust and any assets your father gave you would automatically transfer to you upon his death. Nothing, property or otherwise, can be in a dead man’s name, you see. However, I’m afraid that your father, in his efforts to protect you—”

  “What are they taking, Mr. Sanford?” I asked, interrupting him.

  “Well, the apartment your father bought for you, to start,” he said. “They are insisting on evicting you and seizing the apartment, and various pieces of valuable furniture as well. That will settle all of his debt, and at least you won’t have to worry about repercussions. They believe he avoided paying taxes on many of his business deals.”

  “Oh, God…oh, no,” I whispered as my mind swam.

  But that means I’ll be…homeless?

  I’ll have to move out.

  Okay, don’t panic. Don’t panic.

  I’ll need to use my trust fund money to buy a place, so I don’t have to rely on my salary for rent. Wait, hang on. My dad wouldn’t have done this… Would he?

  “Rose. I’m very sorry to tell you, they will be seizing your trust, as well, given that it hasn’t been moved from the estate and into your name. Your papa arranged that you would receive monthly payments from the trust and have access to the full amount once you turned thirty, so the IRS has the right to seize it. As the executor of the estate, my hands are tied. I’m incredibly sorry.”

  Mr. Sanford was—unexpectedly—being extremely sensitive and understanding in this situation, but I couldn’t appreciate that right now.

  My life was about to change and take a 180-degree turn.

  I was still in shock as I left the building after the meeting. Walking across the street, I took a seat on a bench in Central Park. In semi-privacy, I let myself cry. Tears streamed down my face as my body shook with sobs. My life had suddenly become a disaster. I didn’t know what I was going to do. My dad hadn’t been who I thought he was. Apparently, he’d made a few questionable decisions—knowingly or unknowingly, I’d never know. And suddenly, I needed to find a new place to live and basically had to start over again—without a safety net.

  I needed comfort, I needed advice, and I needed the only person I had left in this world—Juliette.

  “Hey, Rosey!” she answered the phone happily.

  “Jules…” I sobbed. “Everything’s falling apart.”

  “What’s going on? What happened?” She became frantic.

  “You know how my dad had a trust set up for me, and that he paid my mortgage every year?” I didn’t waste time and gave her the details of the meeting I’d just had with my attorney.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it’s all gone,” I cried.

  “Gone? How gone?”

  “It turns out he owed the IRS a shit-ton of money! And now, they’re taking all his possessions in return! They’re seizing my trust fund, and the apartment.”

  “When?”

  “They’re going to seize the apartment in only a few days.” I shouldn’t have ignored Mr. Sanford’s calls. But then again, even if I hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done. “I have about two weeks to get out. I can’t afford to stay there with my salary.”

  “Oh, my God, Rosey, love, I can’t believe this! It’s yours! Not to be harsh, but he’s gone. What right do they have taking what your dad left to you?”

  “The trust and the apartment were in his name, and after he died, it was transferred to my attorney, Mr. Sanford, as the executor of the estate. Dad arranged for my apartment’s mortgage to be paid from the trust each year, as well as an allowance into my account. But since we haven’t transferred anything to my name yet, they’re free to seize it all.”

  “For fuck’s sake, girl!”

  “I know.” I dropped my head in my hands for a moment, still holding the cell to my ear. How can this be happening?

  “Okay, well, then come stay with me until you have it figured out,” she said, and I wanted to hug and kiss her and take her help, but I couldn’t.

  Juliette lived with her parents, and naturally, I didn’t want to be a burden. On top of that, staying with her would only prolong the inevitable. Eventually, I had to get on my own feet. My own place. My own furniture. At least I had a job. I explained this to my best friend, and she sympathized, telling me she’d be around with a bottle of wine.

  “Can we do it tomorrow? I don’t know—tonight, I just want to wallow in self-pity.” I sighed.

  “Of course, love. Just message me if you need to talk, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks, Jules.” Setting the phone down, I felt a little better.

  As I started walking home, my mind was reeling with the enormity of my next steps. Going back to work was out of the question. It was good to feel the cool air against my skin, and I used the walk as a kind of mindfulness experience.

  Instead of thinking about my issues, I focused on the breeze, the noise of the traffic, and the constant clicking sound of my heels on the pavement. Every now and then, I glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds were moving in, faster than I would have liked, and the threatening storm gave me enough reason to head home. No. At what used to be home. That thought caused tears to spill down my cheeks again, and I wiped at them just as I reached my buil
ding. The walk had helped a fraction, but I was still sad. My old life. Soon gone.

  Just when I snuck into the building, I heard loud thunder. At least I didn’t get wet.

  The elevator took forever. Why don’t they fix it already? Once it finally arrived, I stepped inside, turning my head when I heard the lobby door open.

  It was Miles.

  Oh, God. Not now.

  Reaching forward, I repeatedly pressed the “17” button. Come on! Come on! Hurry, you stupid elevator.

  It was too late. He was heading straight for me.

  8

  MILES

  The first heat waves and thunderstorms were kicking New York’s pale ass, but luckily, I made it home from work just before the first drops hit me. Talk about luck. As I pushed the apartment doors open, I saw her.

  Well, hello.

  It was the first time I’d seen Rose since I’d called the fire department on her, and I hoped she wasn’t still too pissed at me.

  She was trying to get the elevator door to close.

  Oh, no, honey, you’re not avoiding me now.

  Lurching forward, I stuck my hand between the doors just in time. I heard her sigh. Getting ready for our usual petty commentary, I smirked at her as the doors swooshed open again, but I was surprised to find her shifting her face away from me.

  I stepped in next to her and let the doors close.

  Watching her from the side, and with the help of the surrounding mirrored walls, I could see that she’d been crying. What the hell? This was completely unexplored territory for me. I’d never seen her cry, and I wanted to know what was going on.

  “Hey, Rose,” I tried carefully.

  She shook her head and said, “Not today, Miles, please.” Rose wiped at her cheeks and sniffed. Her voice was quiet and as small as a mouse.

  Shit. I felt horrible, and I didn’t even know why. Could this have been my fault? Over the fire department thing?