Page 1 of Just My Fake Husband

Chapter 1

River

I’ve been deprived of male attention for a while now, okay? That’s all this is.

I’m chalking up this wobbly, whooshy feeling in my knees when Gabriel Tate appears at my office door to the fact that I haven’t been on a date in approximately a hundred thirty-seven years, give or take.

Because in a normal situation, I would not get wobbly around Gabriel Tate. He and I have something of a past.

My boss is Sebastian Tate, and Gabriel is his younger brother and the philanthropy director of the Foundations Financial company, which is based in Denver.

I’ve followed every move of Gabriel’s career for years, even before I started working at Tate International. I watched what hedid, how he took his father’s company from what it was before and into one of the most laudable philanthropic entities on the market.

It’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. So, when he shows up at my office at his brother’s resort, I usher him inside. When he says, “I need your help,” the immediate response in my mind isYour wish is my command, you darling man.My body heats. The collar of the shirt under my suit is sticky against my skin.

All of this is silly, considering what happened in high school. From the look on his face now, though, he doesn’t seem to remember that. Par for the course with him.

As I walk to my desk, it’s like I’ve donned truth goggles because I’m suddenly aware that the room is a disaster. I call my style modern bohemian chic, with its shaggy palm leaf prints on the walls, gold accents, and pink macrame. Now? With my truth goggles on and the fourth of the six Tate brothers standing here? Things look amateur. I wish I’d had time to take a Hoover to the whole mess of paper atop my desk.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice, taking a stealthy glance into the corridor before closing the door behind him. He even glances at the doorknob, and I swear he’s wishing it locked.

The man is spooked.

“Have a seat,” I say, aware that my voice is more “whew girl” than PR director. I clear my throat.So, it’s Gabriel Tate. So what? Get it together, River!

He only stares a moment before sinking into one of my little leather chairs opposite me, gripping a medium-sized picture frame face down in his lap. He’s in a baby-blue tee and a knit, greyish olive-green blazer that screams casual wealth. His warm tan pants seem tailored to fit him perfectly. They’re just right.

I refuse to be intimidated by his classic beauty. He’s the kind of man who knocks your socks off—who makes you not even want towearsocks again. Hair the color of a wheat field at noon day,blue eyes, white, even teeth, and an affable ease reserved for the rich and movie stars.

And dimples. One on either side of his beautiful mouth.

Except, right now, his golden-ness is dim. If I didn’t know of him already, I would think he was sour. Rumpled emotionally.

A grey pallor globs over him. Even his normally thick and shiny blonde hair now looks defeated.

I take a second to breathe as I walk around my desk, my gaze flitting out the window. The resort sits on the edge of Longdale Lake in Northern Colorado. Even though I’m on the ground floor, this late summertime view of the wild beach, the morning inky lake, and endless pines swirled with aspens is my only means of sanity sometimes.

I sit in my macrame-covered office chair. “What seems to be the problem, Gabriel?”

He blinks rapidly, like he’s not sure how I know his name. How could I not know who he is? In addition to our aforementioned “bit of a past,” the family resemblance is striking. He’s the blonde version of Sebastian, only about a hundred times more agreeable.

No one starts working for the Tates without making themselves aware of the six high-powered, handsome brothers. To them, we’re all just like those nosy women at the grocery stores—Velcro rollers in our hair, pouring over the gossip magazines, going gaga over the entire Tate family.

But I like to think most of us do so with our dignity still intact.

Me? Let’s see if we can summon some of that long-gone dignity, shall we?

“Yes, I know who you are.”

With a wrinkly tension in his forehead, he finds his voice. “Right. And you’re River Judkins and you work for Sebastian in Public Relations.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I have to protest.

“I don’t workinPR, I’m the PRdirectorfor Tate International.”

When I started with the company, I was the only PR rep here and was roped in with the Human Relations department. Now, I manage a whole team of people.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s what I meant.” He purses his lips, making his dimples pop.

I will myself not to mention that his dimples and me go way back. Also? I’m equal parts annoyed and understanding over the fact that he doesn’t recognize me.

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