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

by Jolie Day

  I giggled as we rocked together.

  He penetrated me again and again, reaching as deep as he possibly could. My giggle turned into a startled cry, but it was of pure pleasure. I watched as his hard length entered me again and again, his hips working faster than they had before. His thrusts grew swifter, and I opened my mouth to cry out again, but instead, my scream was silent. My core clenched around his thickness, and before I could tell him to hold off or slow down, my mind exploded with stars, and my body tightened in an earth-shattering orgasm. My toes curled, and I tumbled into oblivion, clinging to him as if my life depended on it.

  He kept going, kept pounding into me, pulling back so he could look me in the eye. Even when he filled me with his warmth, he kept staring at me as though I was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen…

  It all seemed like a dream.

  A wonderful, sensual dream that still haunted me. Even after all this time, I could still feel his touch. Even so, the memory of that night served as a reminder of something far more important than a one-night stand.

  I should have been more careful. I should have waited for my body to adjust to my new birth control. The nausea was back. I barely managed to lift the toilet seat before my breakfast made a spectacular reappearance.

  Too late now…

  With a deep sigh, I let the test fall to the floor. Even though there was only a small chance, I knew the baby wasn’t Jacob’s.

  I did the math, even double- and triple-checked.

  No. The baby was Marcus’s.

  I sighed.

  I knew what I had to do, but it wasn’t going to be easy. I couldn’t “not” tell Marcus he was going to be a daddy. I had to find a pair of big girl panties around here somewhere and just call him. This was not a conversation I was looking forward to. I mean, what was I supposed to say, “Hey, it’s me, Ella. You remember me? That girl you saved and then we had…” No, that sucked ass. I couldn’t say that. Shit. I just needed to be an adult and do this. I could do this.

  I stood from the bathroom floor, washed my mouth out, and went to my bedroom in search of my phone. While heaving my breakfast, I’d missed a call from Jacob. Damn it. How was I going to tell him I was pregnant with somebody else’s baby? I’d think about that afterward. Not now.

  I scrolled through my contacts and found Marcus’s number. When I dialed, an older woman answered, but she sounded like a secretary. Had he given me his office number? Dick. Even so, I asked to speak with him.

  “Mr. Willingham is not available at the moment. May I take a message?”

  “Yes. Please tell him Ella Rawson called, and he needs to call me back. 555-4367. It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Emma.”

  “No, my name is Ella, it’s 555-4367, again, 55—”

  “There is no need for you to repeat it. I’ll ensure he receives your message, Emma.”

  “It’s Ell—”

  And she hung up on me. What a bitch.

  Next day, I called again. And waited. And called again.

  I waited two weeks. The real problem was, he’d never returned my calls. Clearly, I’d just been another notch on his belt. When I didn’t hear back from him, I’d sworn to myself that I would never see Marcus Willingham again. Sure, he’d saved me, protected me—and that only made it worse. But I knew I had to move on, as hurtful as it was. It had to be that way, because honestly, there really was no future for us, not that I could see. Marcus Willingham had, as I soon found out, a reputation stoked by the press and city gossip (yes, I snooped and stalked him a bit on the Internet), as an ex MC gang member, a bad boy, and a player. He had never made an effort to deny the rumors and, in fact, our “encounter” only served to show me how true they were.

  In addition, the Willinghams were one of the most powerful families in the city. Between that and Marcus’s reputation, I decided I wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. I was sure he’d already forgotten my name. Just as I would try to forget his. This baby wouldn’t change my mind.

  …

  End of the sneak peek.

  Grab Billionaire Baby DADDY on Amazon.

  CRUSHING ON MY BILLIONAIRE BEST FRIEND EXCERPT

  This is Laney’s and Oliver’s story, the first book in the Kiss a Billionaire series:

  She’s my best friend.

  Of course, I’d never think about touching Laney.

  Not today.

  Not tomorrow.

  Not ever.

  Then she moves into my penthouse.

  I just moved in with my billionaire best friend (and secret crush),

  Oliver Humphries.

  He’s the all-star. The jock. The golden boy—

  and I’m no match.

  I’m the nerdy, frizzy-haired, not-so-skinny friend.

  The moment I met him at fourteen, I was in L-O-V-E.

  I’m under no illusion I stand a chance.

  Living with him?

  Not a problem.

  In fact, it’s a brilliant idea. I’m good at hiding my feelings.

  Until I play “Truth or Dare” with him.

  Oh, good grief!

  Did I just tell him I want him to be my first?

  Excerpt:

  I’d come a long way since my frizzy-haired, baggy-clothed, four-eyed high school days. I’d also learned how to master the art of makeup and waxing my eyebrows. Yes, ladies, those brows—if they were anything like mine, they needed to be waxed in a bad way. Nobody liked caterpillar brows—it just took me longer than most to get my fashion sense in order.

  Not that it made any difference to Oliver.

  Truth be told, sometimes I still wore glasses. Sometimes contacts irritated my eyes (Go me!) And baggy shirts (I loved my comfy, oversized, funny T-shirt “Okayest Girlfriend Ever” gift from Lisa. She loved funny gifts, and nobody could top her gags). And frizzy hair (unless I dumped all the anti-frizz I could get into it). I mean, who cared? I was at home, and I had nobody to impress. I was comfortable in my own skin, and I didn’t give a shit what other people thought. Okay, except Oliver, and he’d seen me at my absolute worst. But, I didn’t allow anybody’s opinion of me to define my self-worth. I’d learned that the hard way when I was a kid, struggling with my weight and self-image. Then I decided, “screw it!” I refused to live my life by other people’s standards or what a scale said. Scales were the devil, anyway.

  One downside of working all the time was that it left me with no time to socialize, which meant I didn’t have many close friends. That’s why any recent noise from my phone was usually a notification from Oliver—one of the only people I ever bothered getting to know and keeping around in my life.

  With one exception: Lisa. She was a hairdresser I’d run into outside of my regular morning bodega stop, while she ducked out of the salon to grab some coffee in between clients. She’d complimented my outfit and my figure. It’d been one of the rare moments in my life when I could eye another woman up and down, and realize that she was fierce…and yet, she didn’t fit all the cookie-cutter beauty standards.

  She had dark skin, was tall, slender, but not what you’d call typically beautiful—she wasn’t one of the fake-breasted, nose-in-the-air NYC-model types you’d normally see.

  And right now, I wanted nothing more than to cry on her shoulder. Especially because I knew with her talent for styling, she could help me shop for new clothes that would actually fit me (my boobs in particular) and look good. And clothes were one of many things my life was suddenly void of.

  I yanked out my phone and scrolled to Lisa’s number. The split second before I could hit the “Dial” button, I shook my head and cursed the heavens. Shit. Of course, not even an hour ago, Lisa had told me she’d be jet-setting off on some fabulous mini-vacay with her boyfriend Chad and wouldn’t be home for a couple of weeks.

  I scrolled to my dad’s number, but the mere thought of how he would react to this news was too daunting to face. He’d always been overprotective and would go into a full-bl
own panic attack over something like this. My childhood home was a last resort, but if I could delay telling my dad about the fire until I had a chance to process it myself—we’d both be better off. There was my sweet grandma Thelma, but she lived too far away in Upstate New York. Dammit. My crazy aunt Lois—nope. I stopped that thought before it even gained traction. That would be worse than being homeless. I’d rather sleep under a freaking bridge. That woman was certifiably batshit, and she hated my mother for unknown reasons, and still did to this day, even though Mom had died years ago in a car accident. Hard. Nope.

  I pushed those thoughts aside and racked my brain for somebody else I could call.

  Okay, yes… There was another friend. Oliver. But dammit… Calling my lifelong, drop-dead gorgeous crush in a time of crisis wasn’t exactly ideal, but he was the only person left I could turn to. Especially at that hour. I started looking around, digging through the clutter on my desk, frantically trying to find my phone. The empty takeout box fell to the floor around me, and it wasn’t until I lifted an oncology reference book that I saw the damn thing right there in my hand—where it had been the whole time.

  Oh. My. God. I needed to get my shit together. For. Real.

  My hand was shaking as I lifted the phone back to my ear and held my breath through the ringtone. If Oliver didn’t pick up, I was screwed.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Why the hell isn’t he picking up?

  Ring. Ring.

  Pick up. Pick up.

  Rin—

  “Yeah?” He finally huffed, sounding out of breath. “This is…pretty bad timing…”

  Oh, thank you, Jesus.

  I closed my eyes and said a brief silent prayer of gratitude before yelling everything out in a burst of speed even I didn’t know I was capable of. He was my only lifeline, and I felt the urgent need to get everything out all at once.

  “Oliver? Don’t hang up! You’re not going to believe this…but something crazy happened. My apartment. There’s this cute little white fluffy dog, Princess Bubbles, on my floor, and apparently, she knocked over this big candle and sent it crashing into these rayon curtains…Oh, do you have rayon curtains by the way? Because they’re apparently super flammable. Like combustible-level flammable. And—”

  “Laney?” Oliver cut me off. He seemed like he’d been so focused on placing who I was that he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. There was a tension in his voice that made it sound like he was straining. Was he working out or something?

  “Yes. It’s Laney.” I didn’t hide the impatience in my tone. “Didn’t you look at the caller ID? Anyway, listen carefully because this is really important.”

  “Princess Bubbles? Ohh…okay?” There was a strange grunting noise in between his words.

  I groaned and rolled my eyes, pressing my palm flat to the part of my head that hurt the most. Everything in my skull was pounding in one way or another. Leave it to a man to barely listen to you even when you specifically say, “listen carefully.”

  “My apartment. It’s gone. There was a fire, and…well, everything I own is gone, aside from what I’m wearing right now and whatever random odds and ends are in my purse. Which might be a lot, actually.” I shook my head, trying to focus on what was most important. “Anyway, can I come over? I need a place to crash. Just for tonight.”

  “Oh, my God,” he panted away from the phone. He must have been just as shocked as I was.

  “I know! It’s crazy, right? I’m just so glad I wasn’t home when it happened.”

  “What? Laney? Sorry… Can I call you back?”

  “Huh? Haven’t you been listening to me at all? Oliver! Okay, again. Can. I. Please. Stay. At. Your. Place. Tonight. Please?” I repeated slowly, making a point to emphasize each word more carefully this time. Whatever part of space his head was floating in at that moment was obviously a place where the workout gods only had ears for weights and “give me more.” Men and their tools—or weightlifting in this scenario.

  He let out an even louder grunt, and for the first time, I realized I didn’t think I wanted to know what he was doing. “My place? Oh, yeah. Oh, fuck…yeah. You know you’re always welcome…any…time, Laney.”

  “Oh. Uh…okay. Great. I didn’t expect you to be so…enthusiastic about it? Thank you, Oliver. You’re a lifesaver. I’m leaving the lab now, so I’ll be there in about twenty minutes or so. See you soon.”

  “Yup. See you later, La—”

  The call dropped before he even finished saying my name.

  Okay, so…Oliver was obviously drunk, and not working out. Whatever. Not the ideal thing to be around right now. But that was okay. Beggars can’t be choosers. And on second thought…maybe it was exactly what I needed to be around right now. Maybe I need to be drunk.

  I certainly wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work tonight. A nice glass of red wine was just what I needed. I bolted up from the chair, sending it rolling backward into the desk behind me. Quickly, I slipped out of my white lab coat before rushing over to the hooks near the exit, where my enormous bag and jacket were hanging. For once, I was glad I carried such a big purse, often throwing in apples, books, bottles of water, tissues, Chapstick, and who knew what else. It always seemed like such a bad habit before, but now that bag carried the entirety of what was left of my belongings.

  I flashed my badge across all the security keycard access panels that opened the ridiculous number of doors between me and the main lobby. Before I stepped foot outside, though, I made a mad dash to the ladies’ room to check my hair and makeup. I’d been working all day, so what had been a cute up-do was now a mess. I took it down and shook out my long, brown hair, finger-combing it and my curls as best I could. It didn’t look half bad (kind of like that sexy, wind-blown look). I dug through my bag and found my cherry-stained lip gloss. Perfect! Swiping it across my lips, and then blotting with a tissue, I smiled in the mirror. I was missing something. Yes! I needed a fresh application of kohl and mascara to make my green eyes pop. Posing in the mirror and analyzing my reflection one final time, I pushed up the girls for good measure (because Oliver!) and straitened my slacks.

  I was ready.

  Soon enough (after I’d properly primped), I found myself out on the street corner in front of the Linzar headquarters, which were mostly empty that time of night. I was glad I didn’t have to make small talk with anybody on my way out. Dropping the bomb of “my apartment just burned with everything I own inside” wasn’t exactly the most pleasant evening conversation.

  Once I was safely settled into the warm (slightly smelly), comfort of the backseat of a taxi, I gave Oliver’s address to the driver and set myself to the task of dumping my bag’s contents out onto the backseat, taking inventory of what I owned.

  Lip gloss, mascara, and eyeliner—check. Keys to an apartment that was now burnt to a crisp. Phone. Glasses. Work badges—used daily. Gym badge—used never. Takeout menus and receipts galore. An apple, and a bag of my favorite cookies—with only three left inside. There was a banana that was a little too brown and starting to slip out of its peel—gross. A book and a magazine—both bought at random at the corner drugstore, neither of which had been read. Approximately fifty bobby pins, but only three hair ties. A funny face mask with a toothy laughing mouth that had been a gift from Lisa. Tissues, hand sanitizer, aspirin, tampons, a bottle of water, and two small notebooks filled to the brim with random work notes and to-do lists.

  So, basically, I now owned a pile of things that could easily be bought at any pharmacy or convenience store. In other words, nothing that really mattered to me, aside from Lisa’s face mask. I turned the bag inside out to make sure nothing else was hiding in there, which sent one thick strip of glossy paper and a few wrapped pieces of chocolate, gum, and mints falling onto the seat.

  I picked up the mints, while pulling the wrappers off (because, bad turkey on rye breath—Yuck!), one by one, before tossing a couple into my mouth, flipping the strip over to reveal five black-and-white photos of Olive
r and me from the time we’d gone to Coney Island as teenagers. I ran my thumb over our smiling faces, remembering what a great day it had been. It was the first time we’d ever hung out outside of school, and I’d been ridiculously happy. I loved that photo. I actually looked good in it (I hated taking pictures). My boobs were on point. And my legs! Watching the “How to angle photos to take the perfect shot” video on IG had paid off.

  Oliver had caught me outside school one day bawling my eyes out. He’d stopped and asked if I was okay, assuming I was just having trouble with bullies again. He’d gotten way more than he bargained for when I’d tearfully explained that it was the anniversary of my mom’s death. Some years were harder than others, and that one had been particularly rough since I was throttling full force into my teen years.

  “I know just the thing to cheer you up.” He had grinned, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. It was the closest he’d ever been to me. I’d cried against his chest for a little bit (but honestly, I’d been quickly distracted by how his skin felt against mine and how wonderful he’d smelled). And can you believe it? The next day he’d whisked me off to Coney Island.

  Sure, it might have had something to do with the fact that all of his cool friends were off to the Hamptons (and his parents couldn’t take them until the next week). But I didn’t care. His kindness at that time meant everything to me. No one had ever known how much losing my mother had affected me. But Oliver, he’d made the sun shine when all I could see were dark clouds and rain. He was my lone star in a dreary black night. Maybe it sounded corny, but he’d been there for me when I’d had no one else.

  The small stuffed bear he’d won for me at one of the carnival games, whose fur was a horrid shade of neon green for some reason, still sat on my dresser at home, hidden carefully behind several framed photos.

  Or at least it used to. Oh. Oh, damn.

  I could do without my yearbooks. I could do without other things that reminded me of some of the worst years of my life. Honestly, I even felt a little relieved that my old diaries, riddled with Oliver’s name or my own paired with his last name, were no longer drifting around in the world. Pfft. Who am I kidding? Elaine Humphries sounds so totally perfect.