Wedding disaster a fake.., p.1
Wedding Disaster: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance, page 1
Wedding Disaster
A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance
BB Hamel
Contents
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1. Isabel
2. Conlan
3. Isabel
4. Conlan
5. Isabel
6. Isabel
7. Conlan
8. Isabel
9. Isabel
10. Isabel
11. Conlan
12. Isabel
13. Conlan
14. Isabel
15. Isabel
16. Isabel
17. Conlan
18. Isabel
19. Conlan
20. Conlan
21. Isabel
22. Isabel
23. Conlan
24. Isabel
25. Conlan
26. Isabel
27. Isabel
28. Conlan
29. Conlan
30. Isabel
31. Isabel
32. Isabel
33. Conlan
34. Isabel
35. Isabel
36. Conlan
37. Isabel
38. Isabel
39. Isabel
40. Isabel
41. Isabel
42. Conlan
43. Isabel
44. Isabel
Preview: Marriage of Sin
Also by BB Hamel
Copyright © 2023 by B. B. Hamel
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Chapter 1
Isabel
My boss’s front door is open again.
Not as in, unlocked—that would be normal for a fancy, upscale neighborhood like this one—but it’s left slightly ajar. Which should be a surprise but isn’t. I push it all the way and step into the foyer, squinting at the black designer high-heel shoe left tossed near the stairs, at the glittering silver necklace dangling from the banister, and at the pair of black women’s underwear on the top step.
He’s got another guest.
I close the door behind me, hard. I make sure it’s nice and loud so my man-child boss can hear it. If Con cares that I’ve arrived at my normal time, there’s no indication of it. He’s not down here ready to start the day, and definitely not prepared to act like a normal, well-adjusted adult.
I wish this weren’t infuriatingly common.
I head into his expensive kitchen. It’s a wasteland. This place barely gets used. I make coffee in his fancy machine and check the refrigerator, but there are only bottles of French champagne, condiments in the door, and old takeout. I toss the food, sip my coffee, and consider leaving when the stairs creak.
That’s either the man himself or his date sneaking off to drown her shame in a very hot shower.
Con appears in the hallway, yawning as he scratches his head. I lean back against the counter, setting my jaw, as a war of emotions flood through me.
My boss is stupidly attractive.
The sort of attractive that just feels unfair.
He’s actually hard to look at sometimes.
There’s no denying it. I can’t pretend the guy isn’t perfection, there’s a reason he could bring home a new girl every night if he wanted.
He’s tall with an athletic frame. Not too muscular, but not thin. His chest is sculpted and defined, his abs always somehow flexing, without a slab of excess body fat anywhere. Which is a minor miracle, considering the man lives on restaurant food and alcohol. I have no clue how he manages to look like he waltzed out of an underwear ad, but it’s like he was blessed with inhuman genes.
I force myself to meet his gaze. Symmetrical face. Bright eyes. This confident smile that seems to suggest he’s either in love with you or knows someone that wants to fuck you.
I press my knees together.
I hate my boss.
“Good morning, Isabel.” He yawns and nods at the coffee machine. “Is that for me?”
“No, but you can have some.”
“Lovely, thank you.” He brushes past me and pours a cup. “Exactly what I needed.”
“I thought we talked about this.”
“About what?” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. His eyes are light blue, like the color of a pale Caribbean ocean. His jaw is square, his cheekbones are high, and just the right amount of stubble makes him look absurdly masculine.
“About wearing a shirt when I’m coming over.” I nod at his bare chest. “It’s unprofessional.”
He rolls his eyes. “Call HR then.” And moves past me toward the pantry. He roots around, looking for something, and emerges with a pack of peanut butter crackers. “You are in my own house, you know.”
He unwraps the crackers and eats them one at a time.
“Yes, and you also knew I was coming over, like I do every single morning. Half the time, you’re mostly naked.”
“Mostly. I’m not an animal.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“It’s not like I heard you ring the doorbell.”
“You’re right, I didn’t, since you left the door open again last night.”
He looks slightly chagrined. “Well, that’s not ideal.”
“Not like it matters in his neighborhood, but still, you’re practically begging someone to come in here and murder you.” We’re in a nice little section of multi-million-dollar bungalows in Santa Monica. He’s close enough that he could spit on the beach if he wanted—although I’m pretty sure he hates sand and never goes anywhere near it.
“Still, next time, ring the doorbell and let me know you’ve arrived, then I’ll make myself more presentable.”
“We both know that isn’t true.”
“Yeah, well, why can’t we have a little fantasy to make the morning easier?” He gestures at me. “Speaking of which, what’s on the schedule?”
I’m tempted to tell him to put a shirt on first. Maybe even force him to pick up some of the clutter. While the kitchen’s basically bare, the living room looks like a wreck: glasses left out, the ashtray filled with the remnants of what I’m pretty sure has to be several fat weed joints, a couple bottles of whiskey teetering on the floor, and the television left on mute playing the Home Shopping Network.
I don’t know how a man that runs multiple highly successful hotels can live like this and still function.
Yet Con manages to pull it off.
“You have meetings in an hour.” I flip open his date book. It’s physical, which he always loves to make fun of, but I keep better notes with a pen. “I pushed them back the moment I saw the door was left open again. And when I saw the panties on the stairs.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that isn’t the most sanitary thing in the world.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I’d never take off my underwear in dirty place like this.” I don’t know why I say it and I regret it the second it comes out.
Only I’m sick of dealing with Con’s bullshit—after three years of cleaning up after him, putting up with his comments, forcing myself to ignore his beautiful shirtless body, despising his don’t-give-a-shit attitude, I’m ready to explode.
I half expect him to fire me on the spot. Instead, he only smirks. “You’ve been saving that for a while, haven’t you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s just that—”
“I get it. I’m shirtless and you’re not thinking clearly.”
“No, I mean, you should definitely have a shirt on—”
“It’s fine, Isabel. You don’t have to explain yourself. I am very distracting.” He tilts his head, his smile fading. “Though I expect better.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
Nothing pisses me off more than when he says I expect better. It’s his favorite go-to line like I’m the one letting him down. Like I’m the one that doesn’t have my shit together. Like I’m the one parading a bunch of floozy girls through my house, one after the other, sleeping with them, drinking with them, smoking with them, and tossing them aside for the latest model the moment they become uninteresting.
I’m the only reason this man hasn’t drowned a long time ago.
“I switched your first two meetings to virtual,” I say, changing the subject, my cheeks burning with frustration. I keep my tone crisp and professional. “You have time to get showered and changed, and you can take them here at the house.”
“Perfect.” He sips his coffee. “I’ll make sure to put on a shirt for those.”
“I’ll send your car to bring you to the office when you’re finished.”
“Actually.” He hesitates, glancing toward the hallway. “Send the car now.”
I open my mouth to protest. I do a lot of things for Con—I pick up his dry cleaning, I send over a maid service, I make sure he doesn’t run out of those stupid peanut butter crackers—but I don’t get rid of his girls. Those mistakes are on him.
But I keep it to myself. Sending the car isn’t outside the purview of m y position, regardless of what it’s being used for. And anyway, the sooner I get out of here, the better I’ll feel.
I hate my boss more than I like to admit.
“I can take care of that,” I say, making a note.
“Perfect.” He turns to the coffee machine and begins to make more. “That’s all. Thanks for your chipper attitude today, Isabel.”
I’m tempted to tell him off. Con can be such a bastard sometimes.
Instead, I walk past him, my heels clacking on the hardwood floor, and head outside.
I take a few deep breaths on the stoop, gathering myself.
There are days, like today, when I want to quit more than anything in this world.
But then I remind myself that I don’t have a college degree, barely have a high school diploma, and can’t afford to stay in my house without some solid income.
Despite all Con’s flaws, he pays very, very well.
Probably out of guilt.
The man has to be aware of his own trash personality.
I head down the stoop, already jotting reminders in my planner about the day. I barely notice two guys sitting in a car right out front, both of them smoking and eating from a takeout bag. They stare at me as I wander past, and I frown back at them. But before I can ask what they’re doing, I get a text from Con.
Need that ride sooner than later. Please.
“Poor girl,” I murmur to myself and call the car service.
Chapter 2
Conlan
I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and survey the disaster.
It’s a mess of pillows, clothes, empty bottles, and condom wrappers. People say a lot of things about me, but at least I practice safe sex. Lying in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, is the girl I slept with the night before.
Alissa Something.
Blonde hair. Nice tits. Straight, white teeth and the fakest laugh I’ve ever heard. I met her at some rich-people party up in the hills and only brought her home because she promised to fuck me.
Promised is an understatement—she followed me into the bathroom, shoved her tongue in my mouth and her hand down my pants, and said she wanted to ride my dick until her pussy broke.
I was drunk. Also a little high and very bored. So I figured, why not? Alissa seemed nice enough.
Certainly willing, anyway.
Now my head’s pounding. I barely remember what we did, but based on the state of the room, it wasn’t entirely seemly.
I text Isabel, letting her know that she’d better hurry with the car.
My poor assistant. I almost feel bad about all this, except there’s the hungry way she stares at me whenever I come downstairs shirtless in the mornings, which is the only reason I keep doing it.
She says I should stop, but come on.
I love that look.
Her little stare. The way her gaze shifts to my chest, my stomach, and back up to my eyes like she’s afraid of what she’s feeling.
Everything else about her frustrates the hell out of me.
She’s stuffy, obsessed with being professional, always giving me shit for the way I live, and constantly judging every little perceived mistake.
But there’s that fucking look.
Her big, green eyes, slightly widened, her pump, pink lips parted enough to show her teeth with that little gap in the front, her tongue pressing up behind it. Her dark hair cut straight across her forehead, long and wavy down to the middle of her back, usually pulled up in a tight bun. Her professional clothes, the way she does everything in her power to hide her figure—curvy, full, lovely—but even the most stodgy and formal outfits still manage to flatter her.
My assistant wants to fuck me. It’s obvious, except she hates me too, which makes it that much better.
It’s almost worth taking all her other shit.
“Good morning,” I say, kicking the mattress hard enough to shake the girl awake.
She stirs, groans, and lifts her head.
Just as I remembered. Extraordinarily average. She cracks a smile. “Morning,” she says, groggy. “What time is it?”
“A little past eight.” I glance at the clock. The first meeting is at nine and I need at least a half hour to make myself feel human again. “You have to go.”
Her smile disappears. “Sorry, what?”
“I have work.” I cock my head. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Oh. Right.” She shuffles up, not bothering to cover herself. The tits remain above average, but less impressive without an alcohol haze. “Do you mind if I shower?”
“Yes,” I say, gathering her stuff. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a dick, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Except I do mean to be a dick.
I learned a long time ago that being kind in this situation doesn’t help anyone. Don’t give her any false impressions about what last night means.
We fucked. Probably had fun, I’m not sure. Now it’s done.
“I can just clean up and let myself out. I won’t bother you.”
“I need the shower.” I shove a bundle of a bra, a dress, a shoe, and a belt into her arms. “My car’s on the way to bring you home.”
“Okay, sure, right, can I just use the toilet first?”
I’m tempted to say no. “Go ahead. I’m not unreasonable.”
Although I am.
She relieves herself and takes her time doing it. Eventually, she comes out, half-dressed and looking frazzled. “I’m missing my jewelry. And my bag. Also, where’s my phone? And my underwear?”
We spend a few minutes hunting it all down, but soon she’s stumbling out into the blinding daylight. Who the fuck made the sun so bright? “Last night was fun,” I say, gesturing toward the black sedan out front. “Really, it was great. I got your number already.”
“You did?” She looks confused.
I didn’t.
“Absolutely. I’ll call.”
“Okay. Great.”
I’m not really going to call.
“Good meeting you, Ali—” I stop. Her mouth twitches. I’m about to say Alissa but suddenly remember. “Allison.”
She beams. “You too.”
I give her a peck on the cheek, and as I escort her down the steps and toward the car, two guys come storming over with their cell phones out and their cameras start going off. Click, click, click, click, rapid-fire.
It’s disorienting. I’m not used to finding two surly-looking men in sweat-stained t-shirts with their cell phones out tapping away, not even bothering to mute the shutter noise. The older of the two, crew cut gray hair, thick gut, calls out at my date. “Allison Leyland, does your father know you’re here? Are the rumors about him true?”
“Oh, god,” she groans.
“What the fuck is this?” I stare at the guys, not comprehending.
“Allison, what will your father say, spending the night with Conlan Costa? Does the general know about your relationship? Or was this just a one-night stand? Conlan, did you know Allison is nineteen?”
I frown at her. “You said you were twenty-four.”
“I lied,” she says, brushing past the two men. “Leave me alone, you assholes.”
“Nineteen?” I murmur to myself, still dazed. “What the fuck?”
The men continue to haunt her. They snap pictures, take video. She gets into the back of my town car and slams the door in their faces. My driver pulls out, nearly clipping the older of the two slobs, until I realize.
They’re fucking paparazzi.
“Hey,” I bark at them. “What the fuck was that?”
“You don’t know who that was, do you?” The guy that nearly got hit shakes his head at me. “Man, you really messed up.”
