The Fake Mate(114)

“I . . . Wow. Yes. Of course. This is . . . Wow.”

“You have a meeting with Mrs. Vassiliev at the end of the week,” he informs me. “She’s a character, but I think you can handle her.”

I nod aimlessly. “Yes. I . . . Thank you, Manny.”

“Don’t mention it.” He waves me off. “Feel free to loop Nate and Vera in. I’m sure they’ll be foaming at the mouth to be a part of it regardless.”

I grin. He isn’t wrong about that. This is one of the biggest cases we’ve had since I started. I can already hear Nate squealing. “I will.”

“Don’t stay up at your desk all night,” he chides. “You have to sleep sometime.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

He gives me a dismissive gesture as he turns his attention back to his paperwork, and I leave his office with a wide smile on my face and a fluttering in my stomach. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for the last year or more, and now with it so close—I can feel a bubbling excitement humming under my skin.

A buzzing in the pocket of my slacks distracts me as I walk back to my desk, and all the elated feelings simmer out into annoyance as I take note of the message.

ASSHOLE: I’ll be home all night if you change your mind about . . . coming.



I grimace. That was terrible, even for him. Which makes the little flicker of warmth in my gut all the more infuriating. Sleeping with Ezra Hart had been a bad idea the first time it happened, something I blame on temporary insanity and thinking with my vagina—and the next seven times definitely didn’t help things.

If only he wasn’t so good at it. Bastard.

I tap out a quick response, shoving down the urges that bubble up in spite of his stupid fucking text.

ME: Sorry. Better things to do.



I feel smug for about three seconds before my phone pings again.

ASSHOLE: I highly doubt there’s better than me, but keep telling yourself that.



I scowl, shoving my phone in my pocket.

Fucking Ezra Hart.





About the Author


Lana Ferguson is a sex-positive nerd whose works never shy from spice or sass. A faded Fabio cover found its way into her hands at fifteen, and she’s never been the same since. When she isn’t writing, you can find her randomly singing show tunes, arguing over which Batman is superior, and subjecting her friends to the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings. Lana lives mostly in her own head but can sometimes be found chasing her corgi through the coppice of the great American outdoors.