Faking It by K. Bromberg
Love comes unexpectedly.
It’s rarely pretty.
It’s often messy.
It’ll test your temper, your ability to compromise, your selfishness . . .
And your selflessness.
But if she walks away,
If you’re willing to fight for her . . .
The heartbreak is worth the risk.
—Roarke
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“This book will have you CUFFED to your chair until the very last page of this high-flying tale.”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Audrey Carlan
A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times Bestselling author Helena Hunting
“A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
UnRaveled
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Worth the Risk
Control
Faking It
THERE HE IS.
You know the one. That jerk who pushes into the crowded elevator, thereby moving the mass of people so you end up shoved against the wall in the back. The one who talks too loudly on his phone so everyone knows he’s there when it’s kind of impossible not to know since he just became the twenty-fifth person on a twenty-four capacity elevator car.
“Good onya then,” his voice booms around the crowded space as we all shift when he throws an arm out to gesture. “But mate, she just wasn’t the right fit. Sure we . . . you know, but at some point, brains need to factor into the mix.” A baritone laugh. “You have no idea . . . but uh yeah . . . it’s all a crock. No one believes anyone meeting on a site like that wants anything more than sex . . . meaningful goes out the door the minute you swipe whichever way you have to swipe.”
I roll my eyes as the people around me shift in discomfort. I stare at the back of his head. At the glimpse of dark lashes and the dust of stubble when he turns his head for the slightest of seconds.
His Australian lilt makes me want to listen to him all day long while the content makes me want to tune him out.
I’m done with dicks. Well, not actual dicks—those definitely have their purpose—but jerk dicks. The guys who think they’re too cool for everything. Who think you owe them a date when they hold a door for you . . . well, never mind, that doesn’t happen anymore. Chivalry is dead.
This guy owns the space. Doesn’t care that anyone else is on the elevator and if he did, he just wants us all to know how awesome he is when he probably still lives at home with his mom.
It seems way too many men do these days.
Oh hey, my name is Harlow Nicks . . . a model just trying to make her place in this big, bad world.
So here’s where my story begins . . . I’ll let you read the rest for yourself.
“CRAP.” I GLANCE AT MY paperwork and the ink where I’d written the interview location is smeared. I narrow my eyes and try to discern the suite number: either three hundred and thirteen or three hundred and eighteen.
Thirteen. I’ll go with thirteen.
Or is it eighteen?
With a deep breath I put my hand on the knob of suite three hundred and thirteen just as it’s pulled open.
“Good. You’re here.”
I look up startled to find Arrogant Aussie Guy from the elevator, a look of impatience on his face and irritation etched in his voice. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him so I chalk it up to the elevator ride.
“Yes. Hi. I’m here for—”
“You’re late. Smudge needed to go out thirty minutes ago. Promptness is what I pay you for.”
“Wait. No. I’m not—”
And before I know it, a leash is thrust into my hands and I’m distracted by a very excited bulldog. He snorts and then lunges down the hallway before I have a firm grip on the leash.
Taken off guard on all accounts—the door that was just shut in my face, the dog now bounding down the hallway—it takes me a second to get my wits. Instinct has me chasing after the dog. I can’t just let him run away.
“Smudge!” I say in a harsh whisper as I try to chase after him in high heels that don’t do well at top speeds. Smudge? What the hell kind of name is that?