Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(133)

“Hey! They’re tricky!” Zack protests.

“I know, baby.” I think. “Hmm. Show in New York Fashion week. Reach a million sales on the website. Start a garden.”

Josh steps closer at my side, sliding his hand down to curve over my stomach. I get the not-so-subtle hint.

“Have a baby. Or two.” I glance between the three men. “Or maybe three would be more appropriate.”

Considering how different the three men are, they can act remarkably in-sync at times. As soon as the words leave my mouth, the same dark, heated look crosses all of their faces.

Zack looks to see if anyone is watching, then reaches around to grope my behind. “Why don’t we get a head start on that last one?” He asks, his voice suddenly gravelly.

“Right now?” Luke offers, taking my hand. “I’m sure we can make an excuse to go back to the hotel. It’s about time our honeymoon started.”

“What’s the rush?” I smile, tangling my fingers with his. As a light breeze sweeps over the rooftop, sending all of the lanterns swaying in the night sky, our joint future stretches out in my head. It’s so vivid, I can practically see it: the four of us growing older together, our faces lit up by Christmas lights, and birthday cake candles, and New Years’ fireworks. The seasons changing around us. Endless hot summer days and cosy winter nights. Kids, and pets, and houses, and new jobs. We have a whole new life ahead of us. And it’s only just started.

I take a deep breath, then look up into the faces of my three best friends. My neighbours, and my roommates, and my coworkers, and my partners. My husbands. I smile. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”





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CHAPTER ONE - BRIAR





“Now, don’t be dramatic, darling,” my PR manager drawls, examining her nail beds. “It’s not like the man was trying to kill you.”

I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. It’s just turned four AM, and my head is still spinning from last night’s rosé. Red and blue lights flash through the window of my little pink-tiled kitchen, shining in from the police car parked in my drive. Over my head, I can hear the heavy footsteps and low voices of the police officers investigating upstairs.

I am tired.

“A stranger climbed the side of my house, broke my bedroom window, and jerked off in my bed,” I say slowly. “I’m not being dramatic.”

Julie shrugs from her position at the marble breakfast bar, fishing her compact out of her designer purse. “He didn’t even touch you, babe,” she mumbles, patting powder over her pert nose. “This hardly seems like a reason to fire poor Rodriguez.”

My eyes slide to Rodriguez, my home security guard. He refuses to look at me, shifting uncomfortably in his spot next to Julie. His hair is ruffled, his fly is undone, and his shirt is unbuttoned. Julie’s red lipstick is all over his neck.

It’s not too difficult to work out how the intruder managed to get past my gate.

“Yes,” I say flatly. “It is. Rodriguez, do up your trousers and go.”

His eyes widen. “But, ma’am—”

“Don’t ma’am me. You don’t work for me anymore.” I wave at the front door. “Go.”

He stands, puffing his chest out. “Ma’am, really, that’s not fair—”

“Of course it’s fair,” I snap. “You were too busy shagging my staff to notice the strange man breaking into my bedroom. I pay you six figures, and you still can’t get through an eight-hour shift without getting your rocks off. You’re fired. Now get out of my house, before I call your wife and tell her why you no longer have a job.”

I turn on my heel and leave the kitchen, ignoring the muttered ‘bitch’ behind my back.

Right. That’s me. I’m not the one who screwed around on the job and cheated on my pregnant wife. But as per usual, I’m the bitch.

Of course, most people would agree with him. I’m a well-renowned cow. I even have titles: you are talking to the proud three-time winner of Goss magazine’s ‘Biggest Celebrity Diva’ award. A major UK newspaper crowned me ‘Britain’s Biggest Bitch’ just a couple of weeks ago. I don’t think they’re actually supposed to be awards, but I’ll take them all the same.

I suppose it is kind of my fault. As I step into the corridor, I catch a glimpse of myself in the diamond-studded hallway mirror. Highlighted blonde hair. Veneers. Fake nails. I’m the kind of woman people love to call a bitch.

There’s footsteps on the stairs, and I look up to see a policeman stepping onto the landing, holding a clear evidence bag.

“You got a sample?” I ask, leaning heavily against the wall.