I’m not one for holding grudges.
But when Vincent Forde, billionaire perfume tycoon, crashes his shiny overpriced car into mine?
Yeah, I’m holding that grudge.
His flashy car, tailored suit, and brooding glare—everything about him screams entitled bosshole.
And then he acts like it’s my fault!
Seriously, who does this arrogant, sculpted devil think he is?
He covers the damages—but with a request that has me fuming—and I figure that’s the last I’ll ever see of Mr. Rich and Ridiculous.
Except, of course, it’s not.
Guess who struts into my stepbrother’s engagement party like he owns the place?
Yeah, it’s Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-To-Drive-Properly, lounging by the bar like he’s posing for GQ.
I think I hate him.
Only now, there’s something he wants from me.
There’s a rare perfume ingredient he desperately needs.
And Lord of the Scowl is willing to pay me ridiculous money to help get it.
Oh and he also wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend.
As if there’s anything remotely boyfriend-material about him.
This is a recipe for chaos. A perfect (mis)match.
We’re like a car crash in slow motion. Sure, he revs up emotions I’d rather keep in neutral, but I’m not getting pulled in by that confident grin or those striking cheekbones.
Except the more we pretend, the harder it is to remember it’s all fake.
And I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only one wishing it was real.
