The Pretending Plot
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
The Pretending Plot
Author’s Note
His Prologue
Her Prologue
1. Reeve
2. Sutton
3. Reeve
4. Sutton
5. Reeve
6. Sutton
7. Sutton
8. Reeve
9. Sutton
10. Reeve
11. Sutton
12. Reeve
13. Sutton
14. Reeve
15. Sutton
16. Sutton
17. Reeve
18. Sutton
19. Reeve
20. Sutton
21. Reeve
22. Sutton
23. Reeve
24. Reeve
25. Sutton
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Helen Williams.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
* * *
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift (coming soon)
* * *
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
* * *
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
* * *
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
* * *
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
Special Delivery
* * *
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
* * *
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
* * *
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
* * *
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
* * *
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
* * *
The Caught Up in Love Series:
The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
* * *
Stars In Their Eyes Duet
My Charming Rival
My Sexy Rival
* * *
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
* * *
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
* * *
The Joy Delivered Duet
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
* * *
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
* * *
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
* * *
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
About
A delicious and all-new reimagining of Lauren Blakely's original fake fiancé romance!
* * *
I don't mean to just blurt it out. "Why, yes, I'm engaged!"
* * *
But once I say it to a potential client, there's only one logical thing to do—cast the role of my fake fiancé.
* * *
Easy enough. As a casting director, my job is to find the most talented players for every part, so I choose dreamy, edgy, sexy, sarcastic Reeve.
* * *
And I sign him up for one week in the role of mine.
* * *
It's not as if I'll fall for him in five nights even if we get a little cozy one night at the theater. It's not as if I'll want more even after a scorching afternoon in the stacks of the New York Public Library.
* * *
I can't let myself fall because on Friday at midnight the curtain drops on our fake romance . . .
* * *
The Pretending Plot is a reimagining of Pretending He's Mine, rewritten in first person, and expanded from a novella to novel length!
The Pretending Plot
By Lauren Blakely
Want to be the first to learn of sales, new releases, preorders and special freebies? Sign up for my VIP mailing list here!
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
* * *
The Pretending Plot is a reimagining of the 2013 story Pretending He's Mine (no longer available for sale). The Pretending Plot has been rewritten in first person and expanded from a novella to novel length! I hope you enjoy this new tale for these characters!
* * *
xoxo
Lauren
His Prologue
Reeve
* * *
Present Day
* * *
The handcuffs snapped closed. I tugged, but all I got were red marks on my wrist. I could honestly say, I never thought I’d be in this position.
I’m not saying I never fantasized about being handcuffed by a beautiful woman while wearing only boxer briefs and cowboy boots. It was just that I wasn’t a cowboy boots kind of guy.
“Tell me when it hurts,” cooed a throaty voice.
“Doesn’t hurt,” I said.
A pair of hands slid around me, tugging on each end of the handcuffs. Another pair of hands skimmed up my back and I sucked in a breath. Sutton’s hands. I recognized the feel of them instantly. Damn, she felt spectacular. Even though I wanted to be the one cuffing, the one calling the shots.
But then, striking this deal with Sutton Brenner had never been about calling the shots. It started and ended with her, with her glorious legs, her ice-blue eyes, her curtains of brown, silky hair, and a body I craved. And her hands. The ones tracing long, lingering lines up my back.
True, there were more than the three of us in the room, but I kept my head down and my eyes off of anyone else.
Sutton took her hands off me, and I focused on the moment.
“How about a cowboy hat before I take you for a ride?” asked the woman who’d handcuffed me.
I heard the crack of a whip against a palm, and then a wide-brimmed hat came down on my head, pushing my hair into my eyes. I couldn’t see much, but I was sure Sutton was still here. I knew she thought her job was done. But we were just getting started.
Showtime.
Her Prologue
Sutton
* * *
I’d seen a lot of young men with their shirts off. A fair number without their trousers too. I had an eye for the finest specimens, was an unapologetic aficionado of toned, muscled, and mouth-watering male flesh. I was not in the habit of sampling, however. I was like a sommelier, with an exhaustive understanding of vintage and an unfailing instinct for delicious pairings.
Which was to say, I knew how to pick ’em.
Reeve wasn’t the typical rippling 200 pounds of muscle you’d see in a fireman’s calendar, oiled and buffed to a high-gloss shine. He was anything but the standard-order bachelorette-party beefcake with a bow tie and a big smile. There was something a bit more refined about him. He was a Renaissance masterwork—not only those cheekbones, but his body, as well. He was longer, lankier, with the tightly toned frame of a cyclist, but filled out in all the right places. Trim waist, cut abs, arms with just the right amount of definition. And that hair, so soft and inviting.
I bit my lip, cataloguing each time I’d run my fingers through that hair. There was that night . . . Oh, and that day—that had been a very good day. Because, sure, he was chained to a bedpost now, but fair was fair when it came to objectification. I’d taken my turn, and I grinned privately, adding to my catalogue all the times he’d had his way with me.
But this moment was about him. About him and the spotlight and the bargain we’d struck five months ago.
1
Reeve
Five Months Ago
* * *
Callback.
The word whispered promises, spun out fantasies of hope and possibility. After an audition, there was no word an actor wanted to hear more than that.
But hell if it wasn’t a big tease. It was the rabbit at the greyhound track, the classy AF woman in a bar full of dude-bros, the tantalizing carrot tied at the end of the just-longer-than-your-reach stick.
I’d gotten the word on my voice mail, in my email. There were showers and droughts, and lately it was the Mojave Desert. I hadn’t gotten one callback since I finished the run of an off-Broadway production of Les Mis. The producers had modernized the show so I had gotten to sing like a rock star, and I felt like one too, earning comparisons by critics to the lead singer of Arcade Fire in one review, and Muse in another. The show closed a few weeks ago, and I found myself where young actors in New York often find themselves. Looking for a job. It was a constant state as a thespian. You had to live your life on the edge of want every single day. If there was anything else I remotely wanted to do with my life—be a cop like my dad, or a high school English teacher, like my mom, I’d have signed up for the police academy or a teaching degree a few years ago. But acting was my passion, the thing I couldn’t live without, and so, at age twenty-four, I’d amassed some decent credits, and a few nice gigs, but not a ton of dough. Despite the reviews for Les Mis, I’d only made a few thousand bucks from the show.
That was the problem with theater. It barely satisfied the beast of New York City rent.
Sure, there were commercials, and I had snagged a couple spots, pimping whitening toothpaste in one, and flashing my bright, perfect smile. Hey, I don’t mean to brag. Thank the years of braces as a kid. But I needed a bigger payday. If I could nab a meaty role in a film or land a part in a breakout TV show, I’d be done strapping on a messenger bag and zipping through traffic like I had a death wish. Bike messengers were still in demand by law offices and financial firms, but the clients could be douchebags, and I got tired of the dirty looks from pinstriped-suited men in elevators. As if they’d never seen a guy with bike grease on his cheeks before.
Today was one of those days. A snooty lady in an office building had made me take the stairs fifteen flights rather than the elevator, then I’d been nearly clipped by a cab making an illegal turn on Third Avenue, and to top it off I’d almost gotten sideswiped by a bus when the driver didn’t bother to look whether the lane was clear. Was it so much to ask for drivers to pay attention?
Now, I was racing against the clock to deliver documents for a deal closing.
“Hold the door,” I called out as the brass elevator doors of a swank Park Avenue office building started to shut. The whole place was gold-plated and marble-floored and reeked of insanely high hourly billing rates, the likes of which I could barely even imagine.
I ran over to the lift, messenger bag smacking the back of my T-shirt, and raced inside. The gray-haired man who’d held the door gave me a quick once-over and then snorted a “harrumph” and shook his head.
“Need a tissue? Some cough drops, maybe?” I asked, because I knew the blue blood was dissing me in my streetwear, my bike helmet still on and fingerless gloves on my hands, and the attitude ticked me off.
“Shouldn’t you be taking the service elevator, young man?”
“Oh, right. I should,” I muttered under my breath while staring at the elevator buttons. “Because I might infect the people in here with my low-paying, grubby, barely-covers-the-rent job.”
Evidently, the man had good hearing. “I could call building security on you.”
Crap. The guy probably owned the building. I should have known better. I should have shut my mouth. I should have said, “Yes sir, I will take that elevator next time.” But honestly, the whole bike-messenger-in-the-service-elevator was supposed to be a thing of the past.
“Sorry,” I said.
We stepped out on the same floor and walked into a glass-paneled office suite.
“Hello, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” the receptionist said, and I cringed as I handed her the package. “For Mr. Fitzpatrick,” I said in a low voice.
I turned tail, ready to get the hell out of the office, when Mr. Fitzpatrick called out to the receptionist. “Sally, dear. Would you please look into a new messenger service for our documents?”
Fuck. My boss was going to skewer me. Why did I have to make a snide comment? I didn’t usually let pointed remarks get the better of me. But it wasn’t even the Richie-Rich dude in the suit I was pissed at. I was still pissed at myself over blowing a callback a few weeks ago.
It ha
d been a plum role. A supporting part in a new Joss Whedon flick. I’d nailed the first audition, then I’d prepped and practiced my lines over and over before the callback. That was the problem. I’d wrung all the feelings from the words after one too many solo rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror. By the time I opened my mouth for the camera, I was on autopilot. I knew from the way the producer had said “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” that I’d flubbed it, and I only had myself to blame.
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