Page 1 of Don't Fall For Your Fake Boyfriend

Chapter 1

Willow

Airports. Is there any place on earth more chaotic? I’m standing in the security line, balancing on one foot like a flamingo as I wrestle with my stubborn left sneaker. My bag slides off my shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but I ignore it. I’m on a mission. Get shoe off. Get shoe off now.

“Ma’am, you need to keep the line moving,” the TSA agent says, sounding like he’s one more dropped sneaker away from a meltdown.

“I’m trying,” I reply, maybe a little too loudly. The man behind me coughs, and I feel his eyes drilling holes into the back of my head. I finally manage to yank the shoe off, sending it flying onto the conveyor belt with the grace of a professional bowler. Nailed it.

As I shuffle through the metal detector in mismatched socks—one pink, one green—I remind myself why I’m here. Vegas. Hartford’s wedding. My friend is getting hitched to a man who looks like he stepped out of a romance novel. And I’m her bridesmaid. No pressure, right?

With the security ordeal over, I make my way to Gate 17, clutching my boarding pass like a lifeline. My heart is doing this weird fluttery thing, which I tell myself is excitement and not a premonition of impending disaster. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

I find a seat in the crowded waiting area and plop down, grateful for a moment to breathe. I fish my phone out of my bag and shoot Hartford a text.

Me: Just made it through security. Can’t wait to see you!

A reply pings back almost immediately.

Hartford: Yay! Can’t wait to see you too! Remember, you’re the one holding my dress when I pee.

I laugh, earning a curious glance from the elderly woman beside me. I try to explain, but she just nods knowingly. I guess some things don’t change no matter how old you get. Weddings are one of those things.

The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing that my flight to Las Vegas is now boarding. I grab my bag and join the queue, which, of course, is already a jumbled mess. I end up behind a tall guy in a black t-shirt and Chucks who’s shouting into his Bluetooth headset about beer making. I still. I know that voice.

Brock Atwood. Brother of the groom, and somebody I do not get along with.

It’s already bad enough my ex-boyfriend, Lake Spriggs, will be at this wedding, now I get to fly on a plane with Brock.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I make a mental note to remain invisible. He doesn’t have to know I was ever on this flight.

Simple.

As I step onto the plane, the familiar scent of stale coffee and recycled air hits me. I find my seat—13A, a window seat, thank goodness—and stow my bag in the overhead bin. I’m just settling in when I hear that familiar voice I’m trying desperately to avoid.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat.”

I look up and see him. Brock Atwood. Incredibly handsome in every sense of the word. It’s a shame really. Too bad he has to be so gorgeous, because he’s a complete pain in my ass. Has been since we were kids. Perfect. I glance at my boarding pass again, hoping I’ve made a mistake. Nope. 13A. I gesture to the empty middle seat beside me.

“That’s yours,” I say, trying to keep my tone polite. He looks down at his ticket, then back at me, and shrugs.

“Well, looks like we’re neighbors,” he says with a grin that’s probably meant to be charming but just makes me want to throttle him. And not in a good way. Throttle, not straddle.

I nod, forcing a smile. “Lucky us.”

He sits down, still yammering away on his headset. I lean against the window, closing my eyes and imagining Hartford’s face when she walks down the aisle. I can’t help but smile. This wedding is going to be perfect.

Minus my ex-boyfriend, Lake.

The plane taxis to the runway, and as we take off, I feel a surge of excitement. This is it. A week in Vegas, celebrating love, laughter, and maybe a little bit of chaos. What could possibly go wrong?

As if in answer, the fasten seatbelt sign dings, and I hear a voice over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re expecting a bit of turbulence on our way to Las Vegas, so please keep your seatbelts fastened and enjoy the flight.”

I sigh, tightening my seatbelt. Turbulence. Of course. I glance at Brock, who’s finally hung up his call and is now scrolling through emails. He catches my eye and gives me that grin again.

Great.

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