Page 9 of Falling for your Fake Boyfriend

“Isla Lovely.”

I smiled and waited for her to crack a smile. “Your last name is Lovely?”

“It is.”

I nodded. “Actually, it fits.” I pulled out my phone. “We’ll exchange numbers and then you can send me your address.”

“Will you tell my boss about the candy catastrophe?” she asked.

“Your catastrophe is safe with me. And don’t worry, I’ll buy some replacement candy, so Rosie will be none the wiser.”

“We’ve got a deal,” she said with an emphatic nod.

I turned to go back to the office.

“Mr. Greyson?”

I turned around. “You can call me Luke, considering, you know, that we’re an item.”

“And you can call me Isla. Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m such a nerd.” Her blushes were nothing short of beautiful. “I was just going to ask—what if we actually fall in love?”

I smiled and chuckled as I turned back to the office.

ChapterFive

Isla

Ella’s buttermilk-colored hair was propped up by a pink scrunchy on the top of her head. She was wearing a T-shirt with a photo of Jane Austen, and since the cottage floors were always cold, she’d pulled on a pair of purple striped socks. It wasn’t exactly research attire, but she was busy doing just that. “Aha, here he is. Lucas Evan Greyson.” She bunched her brows as she scrolled through the screen. Her big brown eyes popped up over the phone. “It says he was born in 1935, and he’s a shipping magnate.”

“Yuck.” Layla added in a little shake to show her disgust. “You’re going to pretend to be the girlfriend of a ninety-year-old man? I think you should have asked for ten grand.” Another shake of disgust followed.

“And he’s got mutton chops,” Ella added with a laugh. “All right, I’m going to assume that I’ve found the wrong Lucas Greyson.”

“The man had no mutton chops, and he wasn’t a day over eighty,” I said.

Layla gasped.

“I’m kidding. Oh my gosh, little Miss Gullible.ThisLucas Greyson is tall, handsome and has a smattering of facial hair on his jaw, but no mutton chops.” I still hadn’t absorbed the whole thing. I’d finished cleaning the office space, and he’d gone back to his office to work. Our gazes passed each other a few times through the tinted office window, but once I finished, I wrapped up my vacuum cord, gave him a meek wave, which he returned with a smile and a nod, and I walked out the door. He sent me a text the second I stepped in the elevator. It said, “See you Thursday at seven.” I had checked the text three times before I fell, exhausted, into bed, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined the whole darn thing.

Layla’s phone buzzed. She grunted as she read the text. “Maryanne called in sick, so Aria needs me to come in and cover her shift.” She uncurled her legs and dropped her feet to the floor. “I wish something exciting like this would happen to me.” She stopped before leaving the room. “What will you wear? I’ve got that cute little black skirt, and Ella has that nice pink button-down blouse.”

“Uh, I get the feeling this might be one of those stuffy, dressy affairs. Luke gave me five hundred dollars for clothes.” It was a tiny detail I’d forgotten to mention but one that nearly dropped both their chins to the floor.

“On top of the seven grand?” Ella asked.

“Yes. On top of it.”

“Maybe he really is a shipping magnate,” Layla said.

“Or a prince,” Ella said with a sly wink.

“Don’t get all starry-eyed and romantic about this, El. It’s strictly a business contract. I just have to smile, be polite, fade into the background and then the money is mine. Oh, but El, I’m no good at picking nice clothes. I spend a third of my day in T-shirts covered in flour and sugar. Another third in T-shirts that are plastered with dog hair, and the last third wearing the scratchiest, most unflattering uniform on the planet. I need fashion help.”

Ella waved her hand in front of her Austen shirt and striped socks. “And clearly, I’m the person to come to for that.”

Layla dipped back into the room. “Ella, you could take my place at the café, and I’ll go shopping with Isla.” She added her pleading, impish grin, the one she used to use on us to get the last piece of cake after dinner.

“I think we can manage without your fashion expertise,” Ella said. “This is a formal wedding, not a rave party. Off you go. If you’re late, Aria will be grumpy.”

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