Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Did you hear the one about the wedding planner who took the bride’s place? No? Maybe that’s because it’s never happened before.
Until now.
I’ll do a lot of things to keep my business afloat and a roof over my grandmother’s head. So when the bride from my latest gig says she needs a decoy to fool the press and offers me a hefty bonus, I jump at the chance.
It’s not like she asked me to fake marry the groom, just his best man. Charming, sophisticated, Mr. Sin-in-a-Suit, Fin DeWitt. A man who once kissed away the worst day of my life.
He’s so far out of my league it’s not even funny. And how I wake up next to him—thoroughly honeymooned—I’ll never understand.
Then I spot the wedding certificate, signed in our own names…
The closer we get, the more the lines blur. So much for fake when we discover some knots are impossible to untie
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.
—Zora Neale Hurston
Prologue
Mila
Four Months Before
“Don’t hold out for the hotties over six feet tall. Avoid those tall kings blessed in the underwear department. Shorter men lack attitude, show gratitude, and they’ve learned what their tongue is for.” Ronny’s dating advice floats into my head.
My next-door neighbor has the strangest life philosophies.
Oh, Ronny, you’ve got it all wrong, I think as the stranger’s lips slide down my neck, drawing a tiny moan from me. With a shorter man, I would’ve missed the delicious stretch of my body as I reach for his shoulders. How his large hands make me feel so dainty as they fold around my hips. You can keep your average-size kings with their average-size peens because if I’m going to rebound, I want this man right here.
But this is . . . not me. Not usual-programming Mila.
This version of Mila is living an existence that’s spinning out of control. It’s why I was hiding out in the coat closet with just a bottle of champagne for company until a little while ago. A paper bag might’ve been better for my spiraling anxiety, but the vintage bottle of Bollinger was the next best thing.
But they do say bad decisions make for good stories, so maybe I shouldn’t be too angry with myself for hurling the bottle at the door. As my hideout was discovered and the door crept open, I muttered some excuse and crouched to pick up the bottle. I didn’t feel like apologizing—I wanted to curse and yell in the handsome stranger’s face. Tall men. Short men. Round men. Muscled men. Cheating men. All of them.
But as our fingers reached for the champagne bottle at the same time, our eyes connected. The curiosity and kindness shining in his made me pause. And I wasn’t alarmed when he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. More like intrigued. We exchanged a few words in the dim light, and he made me laugh. I’m not entirely sure how that led to us making out like a couple of horny teenagers during a game of spin the bottle.
Only, I’ve never been kissed like this before, as a teenager or not. Hot breath and hotter lips, my eyes fluttering closed under the weight of a pleasured groan. Need thrumming under my skin and heat swirling and pooling between my hips.
No, I’ve never felt like this. Not even with . . .
“It’s not you, Mila. You’ve done nothing wrong.” I frown at the sudden echo of Adam’s voice. Penis!
The stranger stills, his lips slowly retracting from my throat.
“You or me, beautiful?” His finger hooks under my chin, angling my gaze to his.
That voice, so deep and sort of dreamy. And that accent . . .
This isn’t your average-size king. He’s more like a California king, though I think he said he was from New England. But he’s movie-star perfect. Tall, broad shouldered, and sort of tawny. Like a lion. Come to think of it, that’s a much better description for him. I’m pretty sure a California king is a mattress size.
“I’m sorry.” I give my head a tiny shake, realizing he’s watching me. Intently. Like he’s absorbing everything. “What did you just say?”
“You said penis. Are we talking about yours or mine?” In the low light, the corner of his mouth curls, flashing an honest-to-goodness dimple. “I’m not a fan of surprises. Especially that kind.”
“Oh.” I roll my lips inward, trying not to giggle. I might be tipsy. Or maybe I fell and hit my head and all this is just some kind of sexy imagining. “That wouldn’t be me,” I reply. “I don’t have a penis, I mean.”
I used to be engaged to one. But not anymore.
“I’m glad.” He draws closer before he stills, his eyes lingering on my lips. “Just so you know, I’m at the other end of the scale.”
“You have a penis?”
“Right now, I have a lot of penis.”
“As in multiples or . . .”
His laughter sounds like the punch line to a dirty joke.
“Th-that’s actually a thing,” I begin, all awkward and stuttery. “I saw it on TV. Not actually saw it. I wasn’t surfing porn or anything. It was an interview.”
He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, and I feel the smile in it. “You don’t say.”
“It was on m-morning TV.” My hand slips from his shoulder, drawn by the silky lapel of a midnight-colored dinner jacket that fits his broad frame like it was made for him.
“God, your mouth is so pretty.”
“Thank you.” I suck in a tight gasp as his thumb strokes my bottom lip.
“Can I kiss you again?”
But he’s not really asking for permission as his lips chart my jawline and his touch brushes down my throat. Pop goes the top button of my sensible work shirt.