"Good, so you’re on board as PR and Marketing Manager, and you"—he turns his gaze on Rick—"are Captain." Knight’s face breaks into a smile. "About fucking time." He claps Rick on the shoulder. "I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted and come up with a plan." With a last nod that encompasses both of us, he heads off.
"Shit." I curl my fingers around the strap of my bag.
"Fuck." Rick rakes his fingers through his hair.
"This is all your fault." I stab a finger at him. "Why couldn’t you have said no to the role?"
To find out what happens next read Gio and Rick’s story HERE.
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Read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife
Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinclair’s story
Summer
"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."
"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.
"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.
"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"
"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"
"Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"
"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"
"Proposed to?" I huff.
His face lights up. "You get it now?"
Yeah. No. A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.
I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.
"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"
"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."
"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."
A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.
One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.
A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
"No. She’s had enough."
"What the—？" I pivot on the bar stool.
Indigo eyes bore into me.
Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with. I gulp.
"Like what you see?"
I flush, peer up into his face.
Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.
Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.
I scowl. "Gimme that."
He shakes his head.
"That’s my drink."
"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."
I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.
What the actual hell?
I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!
The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.
"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.
"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"
"Hmph."
I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.
Look away, look away. I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?
He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way.
A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.
His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.
No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.
"Arrogant wanker."
"I’ll take that under advisement."
"You’re a jerk, you know that?"
He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.
He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.
The hell! I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.
"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.
Heat curls low in my belly.
Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.
He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.
While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.
"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"
"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?
He wears a cheap-ass watch?
That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.