Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  He opens the box, and I’m pretty sure my eyes bug out. Inside is what is probably the most expensive ring I’ve ever seen. There’s a huge diamond, surrounded by a swirling silver band with smaller diamonds set into it.

  It is absolutely not the kind of thing I’d want — or wear — in real life, but it is undeniably gorgeous.

  And, undeniably, something someone who belongs in Joshua’s world, on Joshua’s arm, would wear.

  I don’t think I remember to breathe until he slides the ring on my finger and slips the ring box back in his pocket.

  “Wait, leave that here,” I say. “I’ll need something to put it in when I’m not wearing it.”

  “What do you mean when you’re not wearing it?” he says. “We’re engaged. You’re wearing my ring until the launch party.”

  I open my mouth to argue that I will look ridiculous wearing that thing to the office, let alone to the grocery, but Joshua gets a mulish look on his face that I’m learning means it’s no use arguing.

  “You’re wearing the ring,” Joshua says, as imperious as if he were playing an emperor. Which he has. He won a Golden Globe for it. “It’s one of my ground rules.”

  I roll my eyes as I grab my keys and we leave the apartment, “You can’t add to the ground rules. They’ve already been finalized.”

  “You’ve got way more ground rules than me,” Joshua points out. “I should get one more rule to make us more even.”

  He’s got a point. These are my ground rules:

  No physical affection in private.

  In public, physical affection is limited to hand holding/ hand on waist/ that sort of thing. Kissing is allowed to sell our lie but only when absolutely necessary.

  Our fake engagement can’t interfere with the rest of my professional life.

  We don’t date anyone else while we’re “dating” each other.

  After the launch party, I decide how and why we “break up”.

  After the launch party, I decide how much of the truth to tell my boss, and Joshua backs me up.

  There will, at no time, be any actual wedding planning. (I’m not having the first time I try a wedding dress on be a big fat lie.)

  Joshua has one rule. Two, if I allow him to add one tonight:

  He gets to tell Poppy the truth.

  I wear his ring.

  He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

  “Ok, fine!” I say. “I’ll wear your stupid ring.”

  “I’m sure Tiffany’s is happy to have their merchandise described in such glowing terms,” Joshua says. He offers his arm, “Shall we?”

  I take it, and walk down my rickey apartment steps on the arm of a world-famous billionaire to go to a red carpet event. Because, apparently, that’s what Tuesdays are like when you’re fake-dating Joshua King.

  “Hanging in there?” Joshua asks, as he joins me in a corner at the after party and passes me a drink. He’s got a glass of whiskey for himself.

  We’re in a luxurious outdoor space that alternates between garden and patio, with the most artistic bistro tables I’ve ever seen scattered throughout so people can cluster and set their drinks down. My corner has a bistro table, a heat lamp, and an excellent view of the other guests.

  Clearly, I’m rocking this opening night thing.

  I take a sniff of the drink Joshua gives me. “What is this?”

  “You said you were sick of thinking about champagne, so I got you a Moscow Mule.”

  “Awww, you listened.”

  Joshua smiles down at me and puts an arm around my shoulders, “Always, darling. Always.”

  I gratefully lean into his warmth — it’s chilly at night when you’re in a strapless — and a camera flashes. Joshua’s arm tightens around me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. “I thought they were done paying attention to us tonight.”

  “Maybe they don’t quite believe it,” I say, and I can’t blame them. I’m not sure I believe it.

  Joshua looks indignant, “Why wouldn’t they believe it? I’m marry-able.”

  I laugh, which just makes him more indignant, “That’s not what I meant.” I pat his chest soothingly, the way a woman would when the man she loves is being a bit of a prickly porcupine. “I’m talking about me. I don’t belong here. Even with this on my hand.” I wiggle fingers against his chest, and the cameras flash again, no doubt catching the unholy sparkle of my whopper of a ring on my left hand.

  “You could belong here,” Joshua says. “If you wanted to.”

  “Maybe,” I say doubtfully. I step away from the warmth of his arms and sip my drink. Reluctantly, he lets me go, looking troubled.

  Which isn’t fair. He’s been nothing but supportive and attentive all night. A+ fake fiancé, would recommend. It seems to be important to him that I have a good time, and I don’t want him thinking like he failed.

  “Hey,” I lean in and smile up at him. “Don’t look so glum. I’m having a magical night.”

  Joshua perks up, “You are?”

  “Of course!” I say, gesturing with my drink. “I’m dressed like a princess, I watched a movie sitting next to the woman who wrote it. I met my own personal hero, She Who Went Up To Accept Her Oscar While Holding Her High-Heels In Her Hand. And I met the hot guy from that one really sexy BBC drama about industrialization.” I fan myself. “You should watch it.”

  “Try to control yourself. You’re an engaged woman,” Joshua says. But he’s smiling. Like watching me be happy makes him happy.

  I touch his arm, “Seriously, Joshua. This is a night I’ll remember forever. I’ll tell my grandkids about this.” I laugh. “Plus, I now have the perfect story to whip out on first dates. That time I was fake-engaged to a movie star and casually met my favorite actress in line for the ladies room.”

  Something in Joshua’s face changes, becoming inscrutable.

  “I’ll be part of your backstory,” he says. He sounds oddly monotone, like he’s trying to push down a feeling he doesn’t want to be having.

  “That’s a weird way to put it? But sure, I guess,” I finish my drink, and look around the room for a place to put my glass. It feels too gauche to just leave it on the bistro table. “Have you considered having a hobby that isn’t related to the movies? You’re getting a little obsessed with narrative structure, even for Hollywood.”

  A camera flashes, and a waiter appears out of nowhere to spirit my glass away. When I turn back to Joshua he’s got a fierce, intense look on his face.

  And it’s all focused on me.

  My head doesn’t have an explanation for that look, but my body is pretty sure it knows what’s going on.

  Joshua King is about to kiss me.

  Joshua slides a hand delicately down my arm, and I shiver, as his hand finds mine and our fingers thread together.

  “Cold?” he murmurs, cocking an eyebrow at my shiver.

  He knows what he’s doing, the bastard.

  Still, I try to keep my head, “What do you think you’re doing?” But my voice comes out breathy. And when he gives a light, experimental tug of my hand, I slip toward him like a boomerang returning home.

  “I think,” Joshua says, “that we’re not in private.”

  There are all kinds of promises in his tone, and my mind flashes to our ground rules.

  “Go on,” I say, casually, to the sexiest man alive.

  “If this was the first time I took my wife out in public–”

  “–future wife.”

  “–I think I’d want the world to know she was mine.” Joshua tugs me in even closer, and this time it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

  We’re not touching anywhere other than my hand, but I can feel his heat everywhere.

  Did I actually think it was cold tonight?

  “More importantly,” Joshua continues, oblivious to the chaos going on in my head, “I’d want her to want to be mine. To want to stay mine. I’d need to make her want that. Desperately.”

  “I don’t know,” I s
ay, knowing I’m playing with fire. “There are a lot of gorgeous men here. It makes you look almost ordinary.”

  But my hands give the lie to what I’m saying, as I let go of his hand to slide my own under his jacket and up his back. God, the strength of him. The heat of him. If Joshua was mine, I wouldn’t have waited until the after party to put my hands on him. And I certainly wouldn’t have smiled politely all those times that tall, curvy blonde from NBC tried to flirt with him over the top of my head.

  Joshua’s not the only one who can play at being possessive.

  I’d want her to want to be mine. To want to stay mine. I’d need to make her want that. Desperately.

  I can’t shake those words out of my head. I know this is pretend. I should change the topic and move on.

  Instead, I look up at him, coy, and say, “What would you do, Joshua, to make a woman want you like that?”

  “I’d kiss you like this.”

  And he does.

  His lips are firm, possessive, his hand confident as he holds my face exactly where he wants it. It’s not a first kiss. There’s no tentative how are you? is this ok? What do you like? It’s the kiss of a man who’s kissed his partner hundreds of times and knows exactly how she likes it.

  I moan a little, and Joshua kisses me harder, before abruptly breaking away.

  “Right,” he says, his voice a little ragged. “I think we sold the bit.”

  Joshua turns away, and reaches for the whiskey he set on the table earlier. Like he’s washing the taste of me from his mouth.

  Joshua pulls up in front of my apartment, and we sit in silence. He’s sober — he stopped after that whiskey — but I’m a little tipsy. Not sloppy or anything – just enough that as the silence builds between us, I think of actually telling him how I feel.

  And wouldn’t that be dangerous. Especially because I’m not even sure how I feel.

  “About the kiss–” Joshua starts, but I cut him off with a hand on his arm.

  “You definitely sold the bit. That’s why they give you the big bucks.”

  He still looks a little tormented, so I lean over and kiss him on the cheek, “You’re a good man, Joshua King. So don’t worry. I’ll keep all your secrets.”

  I get out of his fancy black car before he can do something else gentlemanly like offer to walk me the twenty feet to my door.

  He doesn’t drive away until I’m safely in the apartment.

  I drop my clutch, kick off my shoes, and flop down gratefully on the couch.

  My world is spinning, and it’s not because of the alcohol.

  That kiss was… wow.

  I cover my face and groan. This is just my luck. I spend years going out with perfectly nice, unobjectionable men. But the man who finally wakes me up and tilts my world sideways is a movie star who is only interested in me as a P.R. shield.

  It is possible I am in over my head.

  I get out my phone to dial my best friend Jax. I need emotional reinforcements. Someone to talk me off the ledge and tell me not to get reckless and swoony over a kiss.

  I hesitate. Jax will 100% encourage me to get reckless and swoony over a kiss. That’s pretty much her brand.

  Besides, what would I tell her? Joshua King took me to a premiere, and yes I am wearing his ring, but you see, it was our first kiss and it kind of knocked me for a loop… Oh, why am I convinced he doesn’t like me?... Well, it’s a long story and I can’t tell you any of it. In fact, I’ve already said too much.

  No, Jax isn’t the right person to talk to.

  I scroll through my phone, wondering who can give me the support I need.

  My phone is filled with friends and family, but no one is quite right to text about this.

  I scroll past the “J”s, and my brain perks up even as my heart sinks.

  The person I want to text about this is Joshua.

  I toss the temptation of my phone away and stand. I unzip my dress and let it fall to the floor, then pad over to my kitchen to get some water to wash down all that opening night alcohol.

  I catch my reflection in the dark mirror of the back window, and I hesitate. All I’m wearing is my lingerie, and Joshua’s ring.

  I turn and twist, examining the dark fall of my hair, the curve of my waist, the soft rise of my breasts. I trail my hand across my collar bones, down my side. It’s been a long time since a guy has seen me this close to naked.

  Not that anyone’s going to see me like this anytime soon. DEFINITELY not Joshua.

  Rule #1: No physical affection in private.

  Still, I raise my arms and twist my hair into a pile on top of my head, trying to imagine what a hypothetical partner would think.

  I mean, I think I’m beautiful.

  But I don’t know if a man would find some flaw I’m not seeing, the same way I always seem to find flaws in them. In their scents, or their jokes, or their jobs, or just the way they move. That constant refrain of Not him. Not him. Not this one.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m being too picky. But for all the fucked-up-ness of this fake relationship with Joshua it’s teaching me one thing.

  I’m not being too picky. Because if a kiss can feel like that, I don’t want to settle.

  Now, all I have to do is find a man who kisses like Joshua, but who is not a client, and who is actually into me.

  I snort, and let my hair fall back down around me. I find a sweatshirt to slide over my bra, and gulp a glass of water.

  First, I have to survive this turducken of a launch party within a launch party.

  I’ll worry about dating later.

  10

  Sienna

  “Sienna!” Carlotta barks, and I jump at my desk. My head is pounding from last night, and everything on my body is sore. Who knew standing in heels for five hours while sucking in your stomach and faking happiness was so physically demanding.

  “In my office,” Carlotta says, and there’s steel in her voice. “Now.”

  I get up and follow her into her office.

  Unlike the fishbowl conference room, Carlotta’s office has real walls, so when I shut the door it’s just her and me and a panoramic view of the L.A. skyline.

  She tosses me a tablet, and I fumble to catch it. It’s a gossip site, with a photo of Joshua and I kissing, paired with photos of us talking at the party, and a close-up of the ring on my left hand.

  He really is a good actor. In every picture, Joshua looks like an utterly smitten man who can’t believe his luck.

  My heart twists a little.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I say, passing the tablet back. Unfortunately, I use my left hand, and she sees the ring.

  “Not what it looks like? Not what it looks like? Because it looks like a mid-tier executive used my company like a dating service instead of doing the job she was hired to do,” Carlotta storms over to the window and stares at the city, her back to me.

  “I was willing to cut you some slack, when they first started publishing those rumors,” Carlotta says without turning around. “You’re a professional with a good track record, and God knows the tabloids will publish anything. But to actually get engaged? After what, a month? Did you ever really want this job, or was it just a way to snag a rich husband?”

  “No! It’s not…” I search for a way to explain that won’t betray Joshua’s secrets. “There are certain… partnerships in Joshua’s life that require discretion. I’m helping him with that.”

  Carlotta doesn’t turn around.

  So I decide to play my ace, “In exchange for which, he’ll be giving us a permanent contract after the launch party.”

  That gets her attention, and she finally looks at me, “How did you…”

  I shrug, “You said do anything to get the account.”

  She stares at me, and I hold my breath. Like everyone else in Hollywood, she wants to land Joshua King. But she’s also got a strict code of conduct for her employees. It’s how she attracts people like Joshua King. And I’ve just broken every one of
her rules.

  Not how she thinks I have but still.

  Finally, Carlotta speak,. “I’m leaving you on Mr. King’s account. Against my better judgement, I might add. You have until the launch party to get him to sign a permanent contract with us. If he doesn’t, or if you do literally anything else to harm the reputation of this firm, you are fired.”

  Carlotta jabs a finger at me, “Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I escape.

  This job just keeps getting better and better.

  11

  Joshua

  I’m kissing Sienna again, but this time I’m in her bed. Or my bed. It keeps changing, which is my first clue that this is a dream.

  I should… I should definitely wake up. Or change the dream. Or…

  Sienna kisses me again, and now we’re back on the red carpet, and cameras are flashing around us. I need to protect her. I need to protect her, but I don’t know how.

  Oh, is that your motivation? Protection? I don’t really think that’s coming through here. It’s the director from my very first movie, emerging from the crowd of paparazzi, his hand resting on his chin thoughtfully. What if we play it like you’re a selfish, ruthless bastard out to screw her over? Ooooo, I like that. Kiss her like you’re out to ruin her life. Rolling!

  No. NO. I shove everyone and everything away, and suddenly Sienna and I are back in my bed.

  She’s naked, that silky dark hair of hers pooling against her skin. Across my sheets. I reach out to run a hand down her shoulder, and that’s good, but it’s not enough. I need more.

  What do you need, Joshua? she asks, propping herself up on one elbow, and smiling down at me. It’s that mischievous, flirty tone she almost never uses.

  She’s touching me now, her hands running over me. And then she’s on top of me, kissing me. I’m lost in her, but she’s pulling away, her lips following her hands, going down, down, down.