Page 1 of One Sweet Lie

PROLOGUE

HARLOW

“Lies are the bedrock of a miserable life.”

That quote is etched onto the entry doors at Central State Prison, courtesy of their Scared Straight Program, and it still haunts my darkest nightmares.

My stepmom insisted on shipping me there once a month because she was convinced my “creative stories” were bound to lead to a life behind bars.

In her mind, stealing a pack of strawberry bubblegum and skipping school were the gateway crimes to grand theft auto, perjury, ormurder.

During my last visit—when an inmate told me she was desperate “to taste those sweet, C-cup sugar tits during lights out”—I told the truth about everything.

No matter what.

“Do I look ‘fat’ in this dress?”Yes.

“Did you like my mom’s homemade lasagna?”You couldn’t pay me to eat it again.

“How do you feel about my new haircut?”Please ask your stylist for a refund.

That blunt honesty cost me a few friends, so I learned to settle for a soft balance between fact and fiction. The truth was only required when small lies, little sweet ones, wouldn’t suffice.

My newfound balance took me far in life—through the finest cooking schools and top chef kitchens—until I met Pierce Dawson.

This gorgeous, grumpy asshole was nothing like the pastries I baked.

Hard around the edges and best left untasted, he believed his colossal wealth entitled him to everything inside New York. We peasants solely existed to steal glimpses of his beautifully chiseled face. Or to sneak sips of his bitter sarcasm…

I’m not sure if it was the thought of his full lips gracing mine or the fantasy of him owning my body for hours in bed, but trading in my apron for bibs and bottles to be his full-time nanny is officially the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.

That prison might’ve been onto something, because looking back, I honestly wish I’d told him the truth on day one…

ONE

PIERCE

Three Months Before “Day One”

Charity parties with the rich were the worst type of parties on the planet. There was no celebratory song to mark when the guests could slip through the nearest exit, and no gift presentation to segue into the host saying, “Thank you so much for coming, don’t feel bad for leaving early.”

They were a never-ending charade of wealthy people putting on airs and acting like they cared about whatever cause was on the ten-thousand-dollar-per-plate menu.

Tonight’s cause was “Winter Scarves and Mittens for Kids.” Why no one mentioned the kids would probably prefer coats over accessories, I didn’t know.

I also didn’t ask.

As the newest owner of the Brooklyn Jets basketball team and the second-youngest billionaire in this city, I had to show my face at these things often.

Unfortunately.

“Congratulations, Mr. Dawson!” Timothy Weir, the CEO of JMC, patted me on the back. “Hopefully, the team can have a better record than last year, now that you’re the owner.”

“It’ll be hard for them to do worse than 0-82.”

“Oh, I bet!” He laughed. “How embarrassing that they didn’t win a single game! Is that a record?”

“Yes…”

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