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There are no second chances at first impressions.
And Vincente Forde, perfume mogul, nailed his—straight into my car.
Tiny car, massive attitude. Not to mention, the thing probably costs more than my rent for the next decade. And he acts like I’m the one who took his parking spot outside his building. Seriously, who does this arrogant, sculpted devil think he is?
He offers to cover the damages—because, duh, he should—and I figure that’s the last I’ll ever see of Mr. Rich and Ridiculous.
Except, of course, it’s not.
Guess who struts into my stepbrother’s engagement party like he owns the place? Yeah, it’s Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-To-Drive-Properly, lounging by the bar like he’s posing for GQ.
I think I hate him.
Only now, there’s something he wants from me.
My friends grow a rare perfume ingredient he desperately needs.
And Lord of the Scowl is willing to pay me ridiculous money to help get it.
Oh, and he also wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend.
As if there’s anything remotely boyfriend-material about him.
We’re the perfect (mis)match—sure, he makes me feel things I’d rather not admit, but I’m not falling for his smug smile or perfect cheekbones.
Except… the more we pretend, the harder it is to remember it’s all fake. And I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only one wishing it was real.