I hate him.
I hate him so much.
Here I am, performing my ass off, caring about the difference between frozen spinach and fresh spinach as Ellie tells me all about her spinach balls that Dave likes so much. I listen with a smile, respond with thoughtful questions, and even delight in exchanging emails so she can send me, as she said, “all of the recipes.”
And what do I get at the end of the night from Huxley?
Are you thinking a thank you?
Possibly a good job?
I’m not looking for a celebration of my accomplishments, but I’d appreciate a little bit of kindness.
But it seems as though kindness isn’t part of Huxley Cane’s repertoire.
That’s fine. Totally cool. Because, guess what? I know what to expect now.
Which would be nothing.
I should expect nothing from him.
Silence fills the car as we make our way through Beverly Hills. Huxley flies through the streets, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, disregarding every speed limit stated on the side of the road. And when I glance over at him, I notice the tight grip of his hand on the finely conditioned leather, the steel of his jaw, and the pinch between his brow. What the hell is he so disconcerted about? I’m the one who has been thrown through the wringer today.
He just sat there and dictated.
Annoyed with him, I keep my eyes forward as we begin to slow down. We pull up in front of a large, wooden gate. He presses a button on the visor of his car, and the gate slowly opens to the right, into a white stone wall covered by vines. Of course.
Ahh, this must be home sweet home. In my head, he has some ostentatious house with pillars, obnoxiously large fountains, gold fixtures, and marble everywhere, even on the walls, because he can afford it, but as we turn into the driveway, I’m completely surprised by the house that comes into view. A coastal-looking white house with black-framed windows, large, southern-looking lamps flanking each side of the main door, and a simple black tin roof.
This was not what I was expecting at all.
It’s chic.
Modern.
In style.
Nothing ostentatious about it other than the size.
Huxley parks the car just as someone steps up to his car door and opens it for him. “Mr. Cane, welcome home.”
“Thank you, Andre.” Huxley hands him the keys. “Everything all set?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for staying late. You can head home.”
“I’ll park your car in the garage and plug it in first. Have a good night.”
“You too,” Huxley says, and excuse me while I pick up my jaw because . . . how come Andre gets spoken to like a normal person and I don’t?
Huxley opens my door for me and then holds out his hand, but since we’re no longer under the eyes of Dave and Ellie, I ignore his help and attempt to shut the car door, his grip on the top of the door preventing me from doing so.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.
“I can open and shut the door myself.”
Leaning in close, he says, “And I have staff around the house that will be watching us interact, so you need to act like you’re my fiancée.”
“Uh, excuse me?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Did you read the entire contract?”
That godforsaken contract. How many times is it going to come back and bite me in the ass?
“Of course I did.”
I didn’t.
Who really reads contracts these days? Lawyers, that’s who. I read the important parts—at least, I thought I did. There was a section about staff, but I breezed over it. I thought it was just about how he has staff that works for him, so, I don’t know . . . be kind. Something like that.
“Then you’d have noticed that section. Andre is my trusted right-hand man, he knows of our arrangement, but he’s the only one.”
“Doesn’t your staff have NDAs?” I ask.
“Yes, but things always seem to slip. We’ve fired a few staff members for tipping off the media, so I still don’t fully trust everyone in my house.”
“Seems stupid to me.” I reluctantly take his hand. “Allowing these strangers to come into your house and take care of you, but you don’t trust them. Yeah, really intelligent.”
“There are very few people I trust.”
“Do you trust me?” I ask as we walk toward his grand entrance. The black door feels incredibly intimidating despite the potted flowers welcoming you.
“No,” he answers without thought.
“Wow, that’s . . . that’s fucked up.”
“I barely know you. Why would I trust you?” He opens the front door and I’m greeted by an expansive entryway, light blond floors, white walls, and a straight shot all the way to the back of the house, where the largest sliding glass doors I’ve ever seen open to a beautifully lit-up pool and dreamy backyard with enough foliage to block out the neighboring properties. He places his hand on my back and says, “You need to earn my trust.”
I glance up at him and say, “You’re not the only one who needs trust to be earned.”
“You’d be a terrible businesswoman if you offered up your trust right away. I respect you more for making me earn it.”
“Oh, yay, I earned your respect,” I say sarcastically as I walk into the house. I take in the impersonal décor and the calculated placement of each item. Large vases, sleek-looking bowls, and foliage offer the lack of personalization I’m talking about. He probably doesn’t even know half of these decorations exist.
Past the entryway, the house opens up into a great room with vaulted ceilings covered in white shiplap and lightly stained wooden beams. The house is devoid of any color, only decorated in variations of white, with pops of black and green here and there from a plant I’m sure he doesn’t bother watering himself. The kitchen is massive. The island traverses the entire length of the kitchen, with marble countertops and black cabinets, but the uppers and lowers around the kitchen walls are white with modern, black hardware. It’s an absolute dream kitchen, and I’m pretty sure if Kelsey saw this house, she’d be drooling.
“You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen. My chef prepares premade meals and puts them in the fridge. If you’ve any requests, just let me know, and I’ll make sure they’re prepared.”
“I can get my own food.”
“Do I need to remind you, you’re my fiancée?”
I turn toward him and catch him with his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat vulnerable as I take in his house. I lean in and whisper, “Fake fiancée.”
Ignoring my comment, he says, “Nothing is off limits in the house. What’s mine is yours.”
“Oh, so no threat to stay out of the west wing?”
His brow knits in confusion.
“You know, like from Beauty and the Beast.”
“Are you comparing me to the Beast?”
“Not quite. He seemed to have more manners when dealing with his captive.”
“I don’t find that amusing.”
“Shocking,” I say and walk over to the fridge. I pull open one of the enormous Sub-Zero doors. Just like he said, there are meals fully prepared and stuck in the fridge with dates marked on the top. Man, the kind of things money can get someone. “Like Brussel sprouts, do you?” I ask, seeing a lot of them in the containers.
“They’re good for you.”
“So I’ve heard.” I shut the fridge and then ask, “Where’s my room?” And then it hits me. “Uh, wait . . . are we going to have to share a room?” I hold up my hand. “Because that’s where I put my foot down. There’s no way I’m sharing a bed with you. I need my own space.”
“This way,” he says, walking toward the staircase just off the grand living room.
“That wasn’t an answer. Are we sleeping in the same bed? I’m going to tell you right now, you won’t want to. I like to sleep naked.”
“Not a hardship for me,” he mutters as he walks up the stairs.
“Was that a compliment?” I ask, trailing behind him. “Are you saying I have a nice body? Wait . . . it doesn’t matter if you did. Don’t be a pervert.”
“I’m not being a pervert. You’re the one who brought up the naked thing.”
“I’m trying to tell you why I’m not a good partner in bed.” I pause and then say, “Wait, I didn’t mean that. I’m a really good partner in bed. I know how to make a man sing to the high heavens with these hands. Miracle workers, they’ve been called before. I’m a good partner in the sexual aspect, the real deal. Amazing at giving head, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Well, I am. And I’m very comfortable with my sexuality. Very adventurous. But when it comes to actually sleeping—not sex, but sleeping—that’s when things go haywire. I’m erratic. I’ll sleep sideways in bed. I have no problem kicking someone to get them out of the way and I don’t cuddle. So, you know . . . sharing a bed and a room with you isn’t a great idea.”
When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns right and heads down a long hallway.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
I catch up to him. “Then how come you’re not answering me?”
“Because your incessant chatter is annoying me.”
“Wow, you really are such an asshole,” I say as he opens a door on the left.
I step into the room and I’m immediately transfixed by the modern, light-stained four-poster bed, which claims the attention of the room with its soft white linens and fluffy pillows. At the foot of the bed is a bench with pillows, and across from the bed is a fireplace with two mid-century modern black chairs angled toward the flames. Off to the right is an en suite bathroom, which I’m sure is decked out in marble like the kitchen. But what’s really catching my eye is the dresser under the large window that overlooks the front yard. Because on top of it are my three dildos. One pink, one purple, and the suction cup dick I recently purchased.
Dear Christ, what are those doing out? And who the hell touched them?
I glance over at Huxley, and to my lack of fortune, he’s staring at my pleasure collection as well.
“Did your staff unpack my things?”
“They did,” he says.
“Seems as though they came across my lady toys.”
“Is that what you call them?” he asks.
“I could say dildos if that makes you feel more comfortable. Although, it probably doesn’t bode well for you that I have those, huh?” I nudge him with my elbow. “You know, since you’re supposed to be keeping me satisfied.”
“It’s nothing new to them. They know I have toys.”
Errr . . . what?
Did I hear that correctly? Huxley Cane has toys? Talk about a plot twist.
“Uh, what? Where?” I look around the room. “Do you hide them in your nightstands?” I walk over to one and open it, finding absolutely nothing.
“This isn’t my room.”
I stand tall. “Wait, so we’re not sharing a room?”
“No. My room is directly across the hall.”
“I see.” I fold my arms. “And what will your staff think about that?”
“They’ve been informed that we’re attempting to remain celibate before our wedding.”
A loud snort pops out of me and I cover my nose. “I’m sure that was laughable for them.”
“Why would that be laughable?” he asks.
“You know . . .” I wave my hand at him. “Aren’t you always bringing women home?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I think about that. “Well, I guess that’s good for me. Don’t have to pretend your wandering eye doesn’t bother me.”
He closes the distance between us with purposeful, commanding steps. His hand falls to just above my collarbone and he grips me tightly, his fingers pressing into the back of my shoulder. The position not only commands my attention but steals the breath right out of my lungs.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, his voice menacing. “I don’t have a wandering eye, never have, never will. And I signed a contract with you. That means I belong to you and you belong to me until our obligations are fulfilled within our agreement. Do you understand?”
His words pierce me, their meaning strong, poignant.
There’s no one else he’ll be looking at, no one he’ll be fucking until our agreement is up, that’s what he’s telling me, and it shouldn’t have any effect on me. But for some reason, it sends a chill down my spine, an ice-cold chill.
Growing irritated with my silence, he steps in closer, his body an inch from me. His hand slides up my neck and his thumb locks under my chin. He tilts my head up, forcing me to lock eyes with him. “Do you understand, Lottie?”
God, being this close to him, forced to look him in those sinister, dominant eyes . . . in this moment, I realize just how much I’ve put on the line. Because even though his personality speaks of nothing but arrogance—and I could never imagine myself falling for a man with such an incessant need for authority—I can’t help but feel something when he speaks to me with such conviction, when he claims me with his hands.
Swallowing hard, I say, “No philandering. Got it.”
“I’ll be loyal to you; I demand the same respect.”
“You act as if I have men lining up at the door to take out my hot mess of an ass. Trust me, no need to worry.” I pat his chest, trying to lighten the tension in the room, and take a step away so I can catch my breath.
That was . . . consuming. Something to remember—when he commands a room, commands my attention, commands my every move, I can see myself drowning in his presence. There’s no doubt about that.
I walk over to my dildos and pick them up one at a time to inspect them. Even though Huxley is an atrocious man with a mercurial attitude, he’s incredibly hot, and the way he spoke to me just then, with that alpha tone? That was hot. Go ahead, chastise me. I know I shouldn’t think anything about him is hot, especially after our recent interactions, but, ugh, his deep, sultry eyes, the way he towers over me, the baritone of his voice . . . yeah, it’s doing all sorts of things to me that will require assistance from one of my vibrating friends.
Maybe I’ll use my purple dildo tonight. I love the twisting motion it does. Although, my suction cup penis is calling my name, but that’s best used in the shower. It’s why I got it, so I could get off from behind, one of my favorite positions.
“What are you doing?” Huxley asks as he watches me run my hand up and down my purple dildo.
Because I think it’s fun to test him, I say, “Deciding what I want to fuck myself with tonight. You know, since my fiancé is celibate and all, I need to get off somehow. Your staff most likely understands the circumstances.” I pick up my suction cup dick and run my hand over the tip. “God, I love it from behind, but I’m too tired for a shower right now.” I hold up the purple one. “Looks like me and Thor will be having some fun tonight.”
I glance up at Huxley, and I’m rewarded with a tight jaw and an irritated glare.
Perfect.
Revenge is mine.
I’m not saying I’m a beauty queen over here, turning this guy on with every step I take, but I do know something about men. No matter who you are, if you’re stroking a dildo in front of them, they’re going to think about sex. And when they think about sex, they get turned on. And a turned-on asshole who has to go to bed alone is satisfactory to me. I hope he suffers . . . just to even the scales for the aggravation I’ve experienced tonight.
“Breakfast will be at seven thirty tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re there.”
“Seven thirty?” I shout. “It’s a Sunday.”
“We have things to discuss.” And with that, he shuts my door. I hear him go into his room across the hall and shut the door behind him.
Someone needs help with their anger problems.
Maybe I was wrong, maybe he is treating me very much like the Beast treated Belle.
“An invitation would’ve been nice, not a demand,” I mumble as I set Thor down on the bed. I walk over to the closet to discover that not a single piece of my clothing is hanging up. Instead, it’s all designer clothes, ranging from flowy dresses to tight-fitting evening wear, to blouses, to jeans. And then lots of shoes. Okay, that’s kind of nice, because—
“Oh my God,” I whisper, picking up one and clutching it to my chest. “Louboutin. Sweet heavenly Lord.” I set it back down carefully and give it a small pet. “You’re beautiful. Always remember that, especially when my careless feet scuff you up, because sometimes I walk like a newborn fawn.”
I open the drawers in the closet and . . . oh, wow. Picking up a white lace thong, I hold it up to the light.
“That’s a whole lot of nothing.” I glance down and open another drawer to find matching bras. “Do undergarments really matter?” Well, if his staff is doing the laundry, he probably doesn’t want my mismatched stuff just floating about.
It’s annoying how thorough he’s been in such a short amount of time.
I toss the garments back in the drawers and then search for my pajamas, which . . . seem to be nowhere. The more I look through drawers, the more I notice one thing in particular—there’s a lot of lingerie, but there isn’t one trace of my oversized T-shirts, my band shirts, or any trace of my personality.
I lift up a two-piece silk set—petite shorts that I’m sure will barely cover my ass and a matching slinky top. This is what he expects me to wear?
Garments in hand, I storm through my room, out the door, and right across the hallway to pound on his door.
“I need to speak to you,” I shout.
It takes him a few seconds, but when he whips the door open, he pulls me in by the hand and spins me against the wall as he shuts the door.
Standing tall in nothing but his shorts from tonight, his immaculately muscular chest rises and falls as he stares at me, his body overbearing, large, fuming. Someone spends time in the gym, and his name is Huxley Cane, because . . . wow. Just . . . wow.
Who knew pecs could be so thick? I bet they bounce when he runs.
“What the hell are you screaming for?”
Uhh . . .
What’s the question?
I’m sorry, but I’m sort of distracted by the absolute god who’s standing in front of me. Yes, it’s easy to see that he’s an attractive man. I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t. But I never noticed he was hiding so much more under his dress shirts. And I mean . . . so much more.
Thick, flat pecs, carved shoulders, biceps that look like chiseled marble. He has the fit build of a surfer, all muscle, from the neck down, all the way to his perfectly defined abs and the indented V in his hips. And because life isn’t fair, his boxer briefs cling to his waist just above where his shorts hang.
It’s official—my fake fiancé is a total dreamboat.
Too bad he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.
Still fuming, he asks, “What the hell do you want?”
Oh, right. I’m supposed to be mad at him.
One hand on my hip, I hold up the negligee and ask, “Do you expect me to wear this?”
His eyes fall to the black silk in my hand and then he looks back to me. “Is there a problem with that?”
“Uh, these are not pajamas.”
“I thought you sleep naked, so what’s the big deal?”
“Uh, I’m not going to sleep naked in a random stranger’s house.”
“Then what’s in your hand should be suitable.”
My eyes narrow. “Where are all of my clothes?”
“In storage.”
“Why?”
He drags his hand over his face. “Because they weren’t suitable for the role you need to play. This was discussed. Why are you bringing this up when I’m trying to get ready for bed?”
“Because I thought I’d have some of my own clothes to put on at least.”
“Not necessary, I made sure you have everything you need. Now if that’s all, I’d like to get some sleep.”
Could he be any more of a dick?
Probably.
I bet this is just the tip of the iceberg for him. I bet he could be way more of an asshole, which of course makes me wonder how far could I possibly push him. Seems as though I have some time to find out.
Clutching my new pajamas, I say, “You’re dreadful, you know that?”
“You’re no ray of sunshine yourself.”
Even though he’s at least a foot taller than me, I step up to him, crank my head back, and say, “I hope you have a sleepless night.”
“Sweet nightmares,” he replies back with such a level of snark that I think I might have met my match.
Little does he know, he’s not the only one who can play dirty.
I may have a contractual agreement with the man, but I sure as hell can make his life a horror film. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing.
