The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée by Annika Martin. It's a Sexy new Romantic Comedy and it's Available Now, so what are you waiting for go get your copy today! Keep reading for a excerpt!
Title: The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée
Author: Annika Martin
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Release Date: April 28, 2020
She’s sunshiny and he’s such a grump!
Worst. Fake engagement. Ever.
I'm no Prince Charming, and the last thing I need is a Cinderella.
My instructions were simple: scour the city for a fake fiancée who's not my type at all. Have her on my jet Monday morning, dressed appropriately for a yacht vacation.
I need a woman believable enough to convince a certain client that I've changed my playboy ways...yet nothing like the supermodels and socialites I usually have on my arm.
Somebody too annoying to tempt me--no emotional entanglements, thank you very much. This is business only. If she's unfazed by my looks and wealth, all the better.
Should be easy. Right? Apparently not, because my people go and hire Tabitha. My hairdresser. What were they thinking? Yes, I said annoying, but I didn't mean Tabitha, the most frustrating woman in the world.
Tabitha is sunshiny. She has a pet hamster. She loves Hello Kitty, and she gets under my skin like nobody else.
As if that's not bad enough, the minute we step on deck, she thinks that certain people on the yacht are up to something shady--based completely on her soap opera knowledge.
She won't listen when I tell her she's being ridiculous. But as the days go by, I find that we're actually having fun. And our fake kisses are heating up. And suddenly her wild theories aren't sounding so strange after all...
Tabitha-
Rex’s angry baritone voice rumbles through the polished wood door that separates his majestic office from the lowly world of normal people.
I wince inwardly. You can only make out random words, but it’s clear that he’s both stunned and enraged at the incompetence of the mere mortals who surround him.
Amanda’s eyes widen. Maybe today’s a bad day to bring me in there? she squeaks. I try for a breezy smile. It’ll be fine, I say. Everybody annoys and upsets Rex. Once you get to know him, you’ll see it’s just how he is.
More yelling. Amanda looks like she wants to melt into the wall. She tightens her grip on the handle of my rolling salon case, sparkly pink with polished silver hinges and hardware.
I’ve been letting her wheel it into my clients’ offices as a visual aid to help prepare them for my absence, a way of passing my mobile stylist torch. Just for a few weeks, anyway.
Hopefully just a few weeks. More angry rumbles. I smile like it’s so amusing. Oh, Rex! I whisper. She searches my face. Am I joking?
I was hoping she could have an okay interaction with him before being exposed to his terrifying, god-throwing-thunderbolts management style. Too late now.
I pull her farther to the side just in time for a trio of men in suits to burst out and head down the lavishly carpeted hallway, down past the rows of offices—little glass boxes where Rex keeps his assistants.
Most of the offices are darkened now, being that it’s eight on a Friday night. We watch them head down the hall toward the empty area where more of Rex’s assistants toil each day.
They keep going, picking up speed as they enter the area where the assistants to Rex’s assistants toil. There’s probably a dungeon somewhere beyond that where those assistants’ assistants’ assistants work, and below that, a torture chamber would not be a shocker.
More grumbling from inside. He’s not a bad person, I whisper. It’s just his style. Rex O’Rourke is an achingly gorgeous man with a large frame and sooty eyelashes, but he’s definitely scary—in a sort of gothic way, I like to think.
He’s some kind of financial power broker, the head of Rex O’Rourke Capital. Erp, she says, unconvinced. My smile does not waver. No way will I let her wiggle out of this.
I employ two stylists, and Amanda’s my best. I need my best for Rex because there are very specific ways to shape his short beard and cut his hair, and I don’t like to think of somebody getting it wrong.
You have to appreciate the handsome shape of his face; you also have to account for his habit of shoving his hands through his hair when he’s irritated, which is always, and which results in a dramatically swept-back style.
I kind of love when he does the irritated hands-through-his-hair thing. And his beautiful lips go frowny, and his hard energy fills the room, and people literally scurry for the hills like ocelots sensing a coming tidal wave.
And I’ll be busily setting up my mobile salon, and I know I shouldn’t find that amusing, and I definitely shouldn’t imagine pressing my hands against the velvet-smooth scruff on Rex’s cheeks and kissing his big frown.
Nevertheless. I guess I’ve always had a bit of a crush on him. More than a crush. Rex loves to act like I’m the most annoying person in the universe, but the heart wants what it wants.
In spite of Rex’s seeming annoyance with me, I do feel we have a certain connection—that we’re simpatico—not that he’d ever acknowledge it any more than a roaring, angry lion would acknowledge that a little breeze feels nice.
No, Rex exists in a rarified realm of celebrities and billionaires, a sparkling stratosphere where you never have to wait in post office lines or claw price tags off of things and your quest for world domination might actually work.
I’ve been cutting his hair every Friday night at ten minutes after eight, which is when aftermarket trading closes, whatever that is. He can’t be bothered prior to that.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that world domination is the only thing he cares about. More yelling. Another suit, a woman this time, bursts out of the office. A man follows her, then another, moving quickly.
Something must’ve happened because usually it’s quieter at this time of night. I like to think of it as our time, stupid as that may sound. My gaze drops to Amanda’s white-knuckled grip. If her hands are shaking, she’ll screw up Rex’s haircut for sure.
I wince inwardly. You can only make out random words, but it’s clear that he’s both stunned and enraged at the incompetence of the mere mortals who surround him.
Amanda’s eyes widen. Maybe today’s a bad day to bring me in there? she squeaks. I try for a breezy smile. It’ll be fine, I say. Everybody annoys and upsets Rex. Once you get to know him, you’ll see it’s just how he is.
More yelling. Amanda looks like she wants to melt into the wall. She tightens her grip on the handle of my rolling salon case, sparkly pink with polished silver hinges and hardware.
I’ve been letting her wheel it into my clients’ offices as a visual aid to help prepare them for my absence, a way of passing my mobile stylist torch. Just for a few weeks, anyway.
Hopefully just a few weeks. More angry rumbles. I smile like it’s so amusing. Oh, Rex! I whisper. She searches my face. Am I joking?
I was hoping she could have an okay interaction with him before being exposed to his terrifying, god-throwing-thunderbolts management style. Too late now.
I pull her farther to the side just in time for a trio of men in suits to burst out and head down the lavishly carpeted hallway, down past the rows of offices—little glass boxes where Rex keeps his assistants.
Most of the offices are darkened now, being that it’s eight on a Friday night. We watch them head down the hall toward the empty area where more of Rex’s assistants toil each day.
They keep going, picking up speed as they enter the area where the assistants to Rex’s assistants toil. There’s probably a dungeon somewhere beyond that where those assistants’ assistants’ assistants work, and below that, a torture chamber would not be a shocker.
More grumbling from inside. He’s not a bad person, I whisper. It’s just his style. Rex O’Rourke is an achingly gorgeous man with a large frame and sooty eyelashes, but he’s definitely scary—in a sort of gothic way, I like to think.
He’s some kind of financial power broker, the head of Rex O’Rourke Capital. Erp, she says, unconvinced. My smile does not waver. No way will I let her wiggle out of this.
I employ two stylists, and Amanda’s my best. I need my best for Rex because there are very specific ways to shape his short beard and cut his hair, and I don’t like to think of somebody getting it wrong.
You have to appreciate the handsome shape of his face; you also have to account for his habit of shoving his hands through his hair when he’s irritated, which is always, and which results in a dramatically swept-back style.
I kind of love when he does the irritated hands-through-his-hair thing. And his beautiful lips go frowny, and his hard energy fills the room, and people literally scurry for the hills like ocelots sensing a coming tidal wave.
And I’ll be busily setting up my mobile salon, and I know I shouldn’t find that amusing, and I definitely shouldn’t imagine pressing my hands against the velvet-smooth scruff on Rex’s cheeks and kissing his big frown.
Nevertheless. I guess I’ve always had a bit of a crush on him. More than a crush. Rex loves to act like I’m the most annoying person in the universe, but the heart wants what it wants.
In spite of Rex’s seeming annoyance with me, I do feel we have a certain connection—that we’re simpatico—not that he’d ever acknowledge it any more than a roaring, angry lion would acknowledge that a little breeze feels nice.
No, Rex exists in a rarified realm of celebrities and billionaires, a sparkling stratosphere where you never have to wait in post office lines or claw price tags off of things and your quest for world domination might actually work.
I’ve been cutting his hair every Friday night at ten minutes after eight, which is when aftermarket trading closes, whatever that is. He can’t be bothered prior to that.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s that world domination is the only thing he cares about. More yelling. Another suit, a woman this time, bursts out of the office. A man follows her, then another, moving quickly.
Something must’ve happened because usually it’s quieter at this time of night. I like to think of it as our time, stupid as that may sound. My gaze drops to Amanda’s white-knuckled grip. If her hands are shaking, she’ll screw up Rex’s haircut for sure.
©Annika Martin 2020
"The comedy in this book OH. MY. GOD is just fabulous. I was literally laughing while reading this book." ~Bed and Books
"I was reading this and laughing so hard I had tears running down my face." ~Tanja Kezmic
"I was completely, utterly, wholly, extremely, absolutely ENGROSSED." ~Dreamland Book Blog
"This book has to be one of the best books I have read in a very long time." ~Come Read With Me
"This was such a joy to read, and a perfect blend of humor and angst. ~Sammy Just Let Me Read Blog
"The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée has to go down as one of my all time favourite Romantic comedies!" ~Jennifer Tyronney
I’m a New York Times bestselling author working and living in Minneapolis.
I love fun, steamy books, taking pictures of my cats, running, saving the planet, taking long baths, and eating See’s chocolate suckers. I also enjoy hanging out in coffee shops with my awesome writer husband.
I worked for many years as an advertising copywriter; I have also held a surprisingly large number of waitressing jobs, and I even worked in a plastics factory.
My garden is total bee-friendly madness. I also write as RITA-Award-winning Carolyn Crane.
In Partnership With
No comments:
Post a Comment