Blake needs a date to his enemy's destination wedding. And not just anyone-a professional. The billionaire genius behind 215 Tech doesn't have time to nurture a real relationship. He hires Lucy to be his fake girlfriend, but things become real when...
Gabe places his hand at the small of my back. The hairs on my arm stand on end as he guides me through an iron gateway. Gas lanterns line the stone path through the courtyard, their columns topped with bronze gargoyles. The house has to be over thirty thousand square feet, not including the acreage around it. It's been refurbished, but pays tribute to its gothic roots with stained glass windows and spires high above our heads. Intricate roses are carved into the molding, and the doorways have pointed arches.
Slate steps lead to a pair of walnut front doors, which are propped open to allow guests inside. Blake's stepdad stands in the foyer, welcoming donors to the charity dinner. He pats a man's shoulder, guiding him indoors, before looking up to greet me and Gabe.
"Hey, Lucy!" Mason exclaims, surprised but not shocked at my being here. I don't know what Blake told his family about our relationship—if anything. "Blake didn't mention you were coming, but we're glad to have you."
Gabe whispers in my ear as we climb the steps toward Mason. "You know him?"
"Hi," I greet, pretending I didn't hear his question. I'm too busy studying my periphery for signs of Blake. "This is Gabe—"
"Gunderson," Gabe finishes, taking Mason's offered hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Mason says, his dark eyes bouncing between us, noting how close Gabe is standing to me. I get the feeling Blake failed to mention our 'breakup' to his parents. "How do you know Lucy?"
"I convinced her to be my date for the evening," Gabe jokes.
Mason raises his brows, looking to me. "And Blake is okay with this?"
Gabe peers down at me as well. "Who's Blake?"
Is there a cliff nearby?
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling dizzy. "He's, uh..."
"I'm Blake."
There's no reason for relief to be coursing through my veins, but alas, it's there. I suck in much-needed air, filling my lungs to capacity and breathing in that fresh, masculine smell. My vision clears and the blood returns to my cheeks.
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Blake walks into the foyer from around a corner, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers. He leans against a long console table, the picture of ease with the top two buttons of his silk shirt unfastened and his hair dark as midnight. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the hidden strength in his forearms. His gaze passes over the top of my head, landing on my client.
Blake isn't surprised by my presence. In fact, he appears smug. Like I'm a fly caught in his web, but he hasn't decided if he's hungry yet.
"Gabe Gunderson, the golfer," Blake states, a wicked smile on his lips.
