Fake Date Read online

  Fake Date

  Monica Murphy

  Table of Contents

  Also by Monica Murphy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Holidate Sneak Peek!

  Want to read more? Preorder HOLIDATE!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sign Up!

  Also by Monica Murphy

  Dating Series

  Save The Date

  Fake Date

  Holidate (coming Oct. 15th!)

  Forever Yours Series

  You Promised Me Forever

  Thinking About You

  Nothing Without You

  Damaged Hearts Series

  Her Defiant Heart

  His Wasted Heart

  Damaged Hearts

  Friends Series

  One Night

  Just Friends

  More Than Friends

  Forever

  The Never Duet

  Never Tear Us Apart

  Never Let You Go

  The Rules Series

  Fair Game

  In The Dark

  Slow Play

  Safe Bet

  The Fowler Sisters Series

  Owning Violet

  Stealing Rose

  Taming Lily

  Reverie Series

  His Reverie

  Her Destiny

  Billionaire Bachelors Club Series

  Crave

  Torn

  Savor

  Intoxicated

  One Week Girlfriend Series

  One Week Girlfriend

  Second Chance Boyfriend

  Three Broken Promises

  Drew + Fable Forever

  Four Years Later

  Five Days Until You

  Standalone YA Titles

  Daring The Bad Boy

  Saving It

  Pretty Dead Girls

  One

  Sarah

  Sometimes I marvel at the path my job choices have sent me down. For instance, I’m currently wrist-deep in lace and silk, facing a naked mannequin whose bare boobs are at eye level, so I can’t avoid them.

  And I also can’t help but think that she has way better boobs than me.

  Welcome to Bliss, where we sell fantasy.

  We actually sell lingerie. Bras, panties, nightgowns, sleep sets, you know. Pretty, frilly stuff. Very expensive, high-end lingerie you don’t find at Victoria’s Secret—though I have no problem with Victoria’s Secret.

  Please don’t tell my boss that.

  What Bliss doesn’t sell are sex toys. Marlo—my boss and the owner—finds them, ahem, distasteful. Though she does sell beautiful feather ticklers and silk eye masks, though she claims they’re for sleeping.

  The customers I’ve sold them to? They’re definitely not using them to sleep.

  I’ve worked here almost two years. I started out in the stockroom, opening boxes and preparing items for the floor, i.e. taking them out of their packaging and putting them on hangers. A totally thankless job, though I worked hard at it because I needed the money. Marlo noticed my hard work and promoted me to a part-time sales associate within two months of me starting.

  Now I work full time, and I even have benefits. I also have seniority over most of the staff, which means I can pretty much pick my hours and the days I work.

  What I can’t pick, though, are my clients. I’m a personal shopper for some. One in particular who’s coming in this morning. In fact, he should be here soon.

  Yes, I said he. Insert massive eyeroll here.

  “Sarah.” The gentle whisper voice knocks me from my wayward thoughts, and I finish folding the Belgian lace-trimmed, virginal white negligee before turning to face my coworker, Bethany. I smile at her and she offers me a sympathetic smile in return, because I know why she’s talking to me, and she knows I know why too.

  She also knows how much I hate these appointments. How they—he—drives me crazy. “Mr. Gaines is here to see you,” Bethany says with the slightest grimace.

  I keep the smile pasted on my face because I never let it slip. Not when Mr. Jared Gaines is in the building. Taking a deep breath, I tuck my hair behind my ears as I stride toward the front of the store, hoping my vibrant red lipstick isn’t smudged. Praying my ankle doesn’t wobble as I walk in these new, extraordinarily high-heeled shoes. I wore the shoes for Mr. Gaines today because supposedly he likes me better when I’m taller (pretty much a direct—and odd—quote from a past interaction). He’s early too, of course. Otherwise I would’ve gone to the mirror and made sure I looked the part.

  What part, might you ask? Why, dutiful lingerie shop girl, of course.

  Here’s one of Mr. Jared Gaines’s quirks—he likes to keep me on edge. He told me exactly that the last time he came into Bliss, to buy a black silk camisole and tap pants set for his latest mistress. He wants to keep me guessing, he said. Predictable is boring.

  Well. He’s anything but boring, what with all the lingerie he buys. I’m guessing that means he has a long list of countless women he’s been with. And that brings me to another thing I don’t like about Jared Gaines. He has way too many mistresses. Well, he calls them lovers, dates, girlfriends, whatever, but I call them mistresses, which annoys him.

  I do whatever I can to annoy him, but I can’t be too annoying. There’s a fine line I walk when I’m dealing with him. And he knows it.

  The bastard.

  All the girls who work at Bliss Lingerie in downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea know Jared Gaines. They all lust for him too, because he’s gorgeous and young and rich and successful. He’s a billionaire with a house on 17 Mile Drive that has a bazillion bedrooms, yet he’s the only one who lives there. Oh, he has a quaint little cabin (insert sarcasm) in Tahoe, too. Where he goes skiing or snowboarding during the winter, I’m not sure which. Sailing in the summer, because of course he has a boat. I’m sure it’s massive. The biggest, baddest boat on the entire lake, because that’s the kind of man he is.

  I’ve wondered more than once if he has a small penis. That’s why he buys all the toys—to make up for what he’s lacking.

  I recently discovered he owns enough cars to take a different one out for a drive every day of the week, maybe more. How do I know all of this? There are countless articles about him on the internet. Google his name. You’ll find out the scoop.

  Well. Maybe not all the scoop. You see, there’s one little secret not that many people know about Jared Gaines.

  He’s kind of a dick.

  Harsh words and all that, but it’s the truth. I bet he’d own up to it. In fact, I’m sure he’s really proud that he’s considered a dick. Yes, he’s gorgeous and young and rich and successful, with all his money and houses and cars. And that’s great and all, but he’s also
rude and demanding and cold and discerningly quiet. I don’t like quiet.

  I don’t trust quiet.

  Don’t trust men with too many “girlfriends” either.

  “Ah, Miss Harrison. You’re looking extra lovely today,” Jared Gaines says when he sees me heading toward him. He’s leaning against the cash desk, his arm propped on the counter’s edge, and he stands up straight as I approach, his appraising gaze raking over me, making my entire body go warm.

  I remind myself the way his compliments and how he looks at me mean nothing. He’s a man whore who thinks he can have any woman he wants just by looking at them. Most of the time I think he looks at me in a certain way and says those sorts of things just to get under my skin.

  And it works.

  I come to a stop directly in front of him, my pleasant smile so wide I can feel the corners of my mouth start to tremble. It’s difficult to maintain the façade when I just want to hurl insults at him and kick him out of the store. But I’d get fired on the spot for doing that, so I keep my instincts in check. “Mr. Gaines. You’re—early.” I say that last word with a hint of disdain, hoping he notices.

  Of course he notices. The man doesn’t miss a thing. “Better early than late, don’t you think?” A single dark brow lifts, and I tell myself an eyebrow can’t be sexy.

  But damn it, his is. Everything about Jared is sexy. His glossy dark brown hair, those equally dark brown eyes, the square jaw and full lips and amazing body that I’ve only ever seen clad in an expensive suit. I bet he looks equally gorgeous in worn jeans and a casual button-down shirt. Shorts and a T-shirt.

  Or hmmm, maybe nothing at all.

  You dislike this man. He represents everything you hate. He’s a player, a user. You mean nothing to him, and he means nothing to you. Don’t forget that.

  I clear my throat, somehow keeping my smile in place. My mental arguments never seem to work when I’m around Jared Gaines. “I’ve set aside a few exceptional items I think you might like for Miss…”

  I let my voice drift, like I can’t remember the woman’s name, but that’s the truth. I don’t remember her name, because he never gives me a name. He shops for a bevy of anonymous women. Women he buys lingerie for at least once a month, sometimes twice.

  Seriously. Who does that?

  Irritation fills his dark gaze, and I swear he practically growls. “Perfect. Show me,” he snaps.

  There are no pretenses, no real pleasantries between us beyond the occasional compliment he offers just to get under my skin. He doesn’t have time for that sort of nonsense—another little something he told me once, after I tried to make small talk while showing him a variety of skimpy G-strings for yet another long-gone mistress. I’d fumbled around with the delicate, lacy things as I spread them across the marble countertop, hardly able to look at him as I rambled on about the comfort and practicality of thongs.

  My boss Marlo gave me a long lecture after he left without making a purchase. Something he never did. She informed me we don’t sell practicality and comfort.

  We sell fantasy, remember?

  That particular incident occurred approximately six months ago. For some reason, even after my bumbling attempt at selling him practical thong underwear, he keeps requesting my assistance, which honestly makes no sense. Most of the time he looks at me like I disgust him. It takes everything within me not to sneer back at him like he disgusts me as well.

  Though he doesn’t. Disgust me. Not at all. God, it’s so annoying how disgustingly attractive he is. And he knows it. When he’s at the store, I never see a hair out of place. His suits are immaculate. His shirts wrinkle-free. And his ties are always perfectly knotted and straight.

  I’d love to yank that expensive tie out of place. Haul him closer to me by pulling on that tie, press a lingering kiss on his warm, strong neck and leave a red lipstick smear on his skin.

  I bet he’d hate that.

  “Miss Harrison?” His deep voice knocks me from my illicit thoughts, and I realize I’ve come to a complete stop, fantasizing about him. Yes, fantasizing about him. What’s wrong with me? If he could read my mind…

  “Sorry.” I shake my head and shoot him an apologetic smile, our gazes meeting, but he looks away quickly, like maybe he can’t stand the sight of me?

  Asshole.

  “Follow me,” I tell him, my voice sharp, my heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. Mr. Gaines falls into step behind me as I escort him to one of our small, private showing rooms in the back of the store. I can sense he’s following close, can smell his expensive cologne, hear him tapping on his phone before he shoves it into his pocket.

  I’m hyper-aware of his nearness, and I hate it. Hate myself more for being so aware. He doesn’t even notice me. Though I don’t care.

  Really, I don’t.

  “I don’t have all day,” Gaines complains, and I send him an irritated glare over my shoulder before I stop and open the door to the private showing room. He follows in after me, practically at my heels, and I step out of his way before he mows me over. I shut the door with a soft click and take a deep, cleansing breath before turning to face him. He’s already sitting at the small table in the center of the room, his gaze going to mine as I approach. I pause mid-step, taken aback by the unfamiliar gleam in his eyes.

  An almost…hungry gleam.

  No. No, no, no. He barely tolerates me. I despise him. Yes, he’s attractive, but he’s also annoying and rude and the most insensitive man I’ve ever encountered in my life. Who has that many mistresses? Who spends thousands of dollars on lingerie? He doesn’t even have a steady girlfriend. The man clearly has a problem.

  A non-commitment problem. As in, he can’t commit. As in, he doesn’t want to.

  “Did you bring the items I requested?” he asks as I settle into the chair across from him and cross my legs.

  Leaning forward, I tap the sleek black box sitting on the table in between us. He sent a text to Marlo the night before with specific requests for today’s appointment. So. Weird. “Yes, I did.” I smile, but he frowns in return. Like he can’t trust me to get it right.

  “Sheer? Lacy? Bright and colorful?” His words are clipped, and he shoves his jacket sleeve away from his wrist to check his Rolex. Like he’s already wasted enough time on me and needs to leave.

  Annoyance fills me. He’s the one who made the appointment, yet he acts like it’s a big waste of his time. The moment he exits the store, I’m telling Marlo I don’t want to deal with him any longer. He can find another Bliss associate and terrorize her instead.

  “Miss Harrison?” he asks when I don’t answer him.

  Whoops. Caught lingering in my head again. My mother always said I was too much of a dreamer.

  “All of those things, yes.” I rest my hand on top of the box, letting the anticipation hang in the air for a moment. I’d never admit it to him, but every one of these items I chose for his perusal, I would wear. In fact, I might be wearing one of the items at this very moment.

  But that’s my little secret.

  “Go on then. Show me what you’ve got.” His dark gaze meets mine, full of irritation, and I press my lips together to keep back the retort that threatens.

  I’d give anything to stand and drop my skirt. Let him see the panties I’m wearing. That would really show him what I’ve got now, wouldn’t it?

  Instead, I take the lid off the box and carefully push away the pale pink tissue, then pull out a delicate coral-colored, sheer bra trimmed in mint green lace. I move the box aside and lay the bra across the table, my fingers skimming along the lace. “Sheer and bright, just as you requested.”

  He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine, and I jerk my hand away like he burned me. My hand, my entire arm, tingles from the seemingly innocent touch, and I keep my gaze averted so he won’t see how much he affected me.

  So…odd.

  And unexpected.

  Totally unexpected.

  “Is it bright enough?” He’s holdin
g the bra in his big hands, stretching it out carefully, his expression impassive, like he’s closing a deal versus considering unmentionables for the special—ha ha—lady in his life.

  “I think it’s very bright,” I say after a quiet moment. My voice rings in the otherwise silent room, and I bring my fist up to my mouth, coughing as lightly as I can. “The colors are fun, like a ’90s vibe—”

  “So you’re saying it’s not modern enough.” He toys with the bra strap, twisting it around his index finger much like he twists everything I say. I watch, distracted by his hand. His fingers are long, his palm broad. I imagine him touching me, tracing my skin with his fingers, cupping my—

  “It’s modern.” My gaze flies to his. He’s smiling, a knowing glint in his gaze, like he actually could read my mind. God. “Yet with a vintage feel. Both cute and sexy. Fun, even. Does your mistress not like vintage items?”

  “I don’t have a mistress,” he growls, dropping the bra like it’s a dead animal. The sneer on his face tells me he’s displeased. I’m guessing he believes I overstepped my boundaries? Who knows? “Do you have something else to show me?”

  Sighing loudly, I pull a sheer pair of panties out of the box. They’re trimmed in vibrant pink lace, little red cherries randomly stitched across the black fabric. The backside is practically non-existent, with a heart-shaped cutout that would expose pretty much—everything. I planned on showing these to him last, but his attitude is making me impulsive.