Kiss and Fake Up Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Forbidden Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement
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He's her best friend's brother, her worst enemy, and, now, her fake boyfriend...Fresh out of rehab, Damon Webb is putting his life back together. Place to stay, check. Apologizing to his sister, check. Pretending he's in love with his sister's best friend. Wait, what?Fiery lyricist Cassie Steele wants to make beautiful music with Damon. Actual music. She needs a songwriting partner. And since her label wants a real couple, writing real love songs, she needs Damon to play her boyfriend too.Which is fine. The frenemies can kiss and make up. They both need the project, and the cash. It's not like a few smooches are going to melt the ice around her heart.Only their kisses don't feel fake. And she doesn't hate staring into his blue eyes. She likes it. She likes him.No. This is pretend. She's drawing a line in the sand. Their creative collaboration is the only thing that's real. So why are they making beautiful music without their hands on their instruments...From the Kiss and Fake Up is a standalone enemies to lovers, fake relationship, best friend's brother romance packed with sparkling banter, deep emotions, and enough heat to melt your Kindle.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One

Cassie

"There isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just say it." Frederick looks me in the eyes, all sweetness and sincerity. He folds his hands on the table and speaks with a calm, even voice. "I found another lyricist for the project."

The words land with a thud.

Not only am I replaceable.

I've already been replaced.

That's why he asked me to meet at our old favorite restaurant. Not because we need to sign the final paperwork for our last song. Not because I loved the autographed photos on the clean white walls and the cozy square tables. Not even because it's near his place, our old place.

No, we're here because my ex-boyfriend knows I won't make a scene at an industry hot spot. Because, now, he can dump me as a creative partner without having to hear me scream or cry or even whisper how could you?

His dark eyes stay soft and compassionate. His face stays beautiful. It's not fair he's so handsome. A young John Legend. With the same medium brown skin, the same emotive eyes, the same kind expression.

He looks like a sweet, sensitive guy.

Whereas, with my sharp nose and my winged eyeliner, I look like an angry instigator.

Anyone who glances in our direction will see the same thing: the nice dude and the difficult dame who can't take a hint.

"It's not you, Cass." My former collaborator smiles with sincerity. "You're great."

Yes. I'm great. That's why he slept with someone else. That's why he's dumping me as a colleague. Because he so appreciates me, as a partner, a person, a songwriter.

Because I'm so fucking great.

I stare at my kale salad. The one I always order here. With orange slices and walnuts and avocado, and every other California health food cliché. We used to make fun of that together. He used to tease with love. I used to laugh as I savored the dish.

Now, it tastes like betrayal. It tastes like someone I used to be.

Okay, it still tastes like kale and citrus and rich balsamic vinegar, but the flavors mingle in too familiar a way.

I stab another leaf with my fork and shove it in my mouth so I don't have to respond. So I don't say fuck you, asshole, at least be honest.

I wouldn't like it if he said I don't enjoy working with you any longer; I don't enjoy you as a person any longer. But I would respect it.

Frederick takes a long sip of his iced tea. The one he always orders here, with the same thin lemon wedge and dark-brown hue. "It's not personal." He says it with even less conviction this time. "I just want to go in a different direction. You understand, don't you?"

It's not you, Cass. I just needed to fuck someone else. I just need to work with someone else. But not because I think any less of you.

Right.

I take a deep breath and let out a slow exhale. The restaurant is packed with the usual mix of indifferent locals and industry regulars. Two executives trade deal memos at a table in the back. An agent woos an artist on the patio. The same sunglass-wearing, leather-jacket-obsessed artist who declined to work with me a year ago.

Back when Frederick and I were lovers and partners.

No. He was already fucking her. He was already done with me. I just didn't know yet.

Still, when Mr. Sunglasses said our style didn't fit, I didn't take it personally. Not everyone works well together. Frederick and I no longer work well together. That's accurate.

I need to act as if Frederick is any other musician, as if this is no big deal.

Even in the highly volatile music industry, behind-the-scenes talent conduct themselves with grace. I can't blow a gasket. I can't tell Frederick to fuck off. I certainly can't stand up on the table and play You Oughta Know on my phone, even though it would give everyone the correct impression of what happened.

Just look at Alanis Morrisette. She writes one multi-platinum album with a few angry songs, and thirty years later, we still see her as the queen of the angry breakup song.

Once a woman is angry, that's all she is. None of her other thoughts or feelings matter.

And, yes, Jagged Little Pill is an amazing work of art, but the only thing anyone remembers is her rage. Well, her rage and her inaccurate use of irony. Because women who make mistakes don't get second chances. They're wrong for all eternity.

I take a deep breath and focus on my surroundings. The blue booths against the wall. The locals sipping iced tea and eating club sandwiches. The happy couple next to us, in matching distressed jeans and black t-shirts, whispering to each other.

Oh. They're whispering about us. Everyone can tell my ex-boyfriend is dumping me. Again. And these two lovebirds are sure they won't end up here.


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