Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Desperate times call for desperate measures. And there’s nothing more desperate than turning up to my ex’s wedding alone.
My cheating ex.
My current boss.
The reason I hired a professional to be my plus-one.
When I spot Mr. Temptation-in-a-Tux at the hotel, I assume I’ve found my man. Charming, attentive, and protective, he’s the perfect boyfriend experience. The way he looks at me has even me fooled.
After the most passionate night of my life, I slip away before he wakes. But there’s a price to pay for all that pleasure…
Months later, our eyes lock across a boardroom table. The shock is real. Because Matt is no escort—he’s a powerful billionaire investor. And he’s determined not to let me get away this time.
But there are things about me he doesn’t know. Secrets I can’t share.
I’m no damsel in distress, and Matt’s no white knight.
Could he be my kind of hero?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!
—Jane Austen
Chapter 1
Matt
“I blame romance novels.”
“They’re not mine.” I pause at the crosswalk and glance at the dusky sky as though seeking divine intervention. “I told you, my sister left them when she stayed over.” It’s not exactly a lie. Fat lot of use they’ve been, anyway.
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Fin continues, clearly on a roll. “And that is not a compliment.”
From him, it’s a bigger compliment than he realizes.
“Who in the hell goes to an ex’s wedding and expects to have a good time?”
Me, obviously, I think as the light changes, and I step out among the tourists and native New Yorkers. My gaze connects with that of a striking blond coming the other way before her eyes drop admiringly over my tux. But I’m not in the mood. Not for women, and not for this conversation.
“I didn’t realize she invited me to insult me,” I insist. “I thought we’d parted on good terms.”
“Was it an insult, though?”
“Well, I’ve been called a ride once or twice in my time,” I say, leaning into my Irish accent. “But hearing I’m the boyfriend equivalent of training wheels isn’t quite the same. Worse, she might be right.”
“Huh?”
“Fin, the last three women I’ve dated have gone on to marry the fella after me.”
“So you’re like . . . a foster boyfriend. The one before they find their forever homes.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, beyond frustrated. How the hell he has a wife, I’ll never understand. “Look,” I grate out. “The day is done. Over with. All I want to do now is turn off my brain and have a drink.”
“I like that plan. Saturday night, a hotel bar. May the odds be in your favor.”
“I’m not going to the hotel bar.” One hand sunk deep in my pocket, I scoot sideways between two teenagers engrossed in their phones.
“Pretty sure the saying is Misery loves company . . . not Misery loves the minibar.”
“I just want a drink,” I mutter. “Not a lecture.”
“Here’s a revolutionary idea. Why not a drink and a little company?”
“You’re a gobshite.” I mutter the uncomplimentary epithet as I turn into a quieter side street, away from the hustle and bustle.
“You deserve to let off some steam. Treat yo’self, as the kids say.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re definitely in a mood.”
“Look, I’m over one-night stands.”
“Said no man ever.”
“I am who I am,” I grumble, trying to keep a lid on my worsening mood.
“And like I said, you’re nice.”
Fuck it, maybe he’s right. I have just spent the afternoon doing and saying all the right things. I pressed my lips to the cheek of a woman I once passionately kissed, shook hands with and congratulated the man she kisses now. I danced with mothers and grannies, toasted love and marriage, and fixed on a smile until my cheeks fuckin’ hurt.
All because I’m a decent fella.
A nice guy all out of nice right now.
“What I feel like right now is getting nice and drunk in a place where the windows are dirty, the floors are scuffed, and there are pretzels on the bar that you wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot barge pole.”
“You do you, booboo. But it’s more fun when you do someone else.”
“Where the beer is cold,” I say, talking over him, “and the people mind their own feckin’ business.”
“Oh, subtle, Matías.”
“Subtle doesn’t work on you.”
“As the only married man between us, I really think you ought to pay more attention to the things I say. Maybe we should get you one of those cute bracelets with the beads and ‘WWFD.’”
What Would Fin Do.
“So I can do the opposite?”
“Listen, if you want to settle down, you’ve gotta put yourself out there!”
Right now, I feel more like putting my fist in his face. It’s just as well he’s a couple of continents away.