The Fake Boyfriend (Steamy Shorts #30)

Chapter 1

EMMY

I'd rather be anywhere but here.

I sit rigid in the conference room chair, eyes fixed on the brooch pinned to my cardigan—Violet's vintage Chanel, gold and art deco with a single pearl accent.

The metal warms against my skin, a talisman keeping me from shattering.

Three weeks since the funeral, and this—this formal reading—makes her death legally final.

I hate it so much.

My throat tightens. The space behind my eyes burns. I press my thumb against the brooch's edge, focusing on the slight discomfort rather than the hollow ache in my chest.

Everything about Morrison & Hale screams cold.

The conference table—glass and chrome, wiped spotless.

Leather chairs that probably get replaced every few months.

Abstract art on the walls, all sharp angles and muted colors.

Those pieces most likely cost north of five million, and let's be honest, I can do a much better job with my eyes closed.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a postcard, steel and glass stretching into the gray sky.

Nothing like Violet's library, with its worn Queen Anne chairs and stained glass, books stacked in perfect disarray, scents of paper and lemon polish and time. It was my grandmother's pride and joy.

My mother, Victoria, sits beside me, spine straight, ankles crossed, face arranged in practiced grief—though her eyes dart occasionally to the papers across the table, already calculating figures.

Marcus, my brother, squeezes my hand when I touch the brooch again. My anchor in the storm.

Meanwhile, Adrian Hale sits across from us, organizing documents with maddening precision.

I notice his hands first—long fingers aligning papers, checking page numbers, no wedding ring.

The charcoal suit fits his broad shoulders to a tee, a crisp white shirt contrasting his olive skin.

His jaw could cut glass, his dark hair expertly styled, and when he glances up, those gray-blue eyes scan us with detachment before returning to his papers.

Of course, he's unfairly attractive. Smart and successful and looks like that.

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

At least he has the personality of a dried coconut husk, I think. He probably doesn't even laugh or smile because he thinks those things are beneath him.

Don't look at his hands again. That's twice now. Stop it.

I focus instead on hating his perfectionism—the way he squares the documents at perfect right angles, the almost imperceptible adjustment of his silver cufflinks.

This is our fourth meeting. Three times were during probate, with each interaction more antagonistic than the last. He embodies everything I despise: corporate, emotionally locked, conventional. I represent everything that probably irritates him: chaotic, emotional, creative.

Whatever. It's not like I'm marrying the guy.

"In the matter of the Last Will and Testament of Violet Hartford Blake..."

Adrian's voice fills the room—deep, measured, professional.

I really hate how his baritone feels like a caress on my skin.

Of all the inappropriate places to notice.

In my defense, I already noticed these things the first time I saw him.

With every meeting, however, he only becomes harder and harder to ignore.

Stop listening to HOW he talks. Listen to WHAT he's saying.

I wonder if he ever sounds different, relaxed, warm—but I instantly shut that thought down.

"To the following literacy charities, I bequeath the sum of five hundred thousand dollars, to be divided equally..."

Adrian continues reading standard bequests.

My fingers twist Violet's brooch as impatience builds with each bequest. I want this over with.

Victoria shifts beside me, checking her watch. Marcus's thumb rubs my knuckles in silent comfort. Adrian turns a page, the paper crisp in the silence. I count ceiling tiles—sixteen visible from my chair.

"To my beloved granddaughter, Emerson Blake..."

I sit straighter, hands stilling in my lap. Adrian's voice continues, steady and controlled.

"...I leave my estate, including the Victorian mansion, five acres of surrounding property, and the entire contents therein, most notably my library collection comprising over fifty thousand volumes."

Adrian looks up. "The library includes first editions of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' from 1813, F.

Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby' from 1925, Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises' from 1926, and Charles Dickens' 'A Tale of Two Cities' from 1859, among others.

The estate has been appraised at eight million dollars, with the library collection valued at approximately twelve million. "

Relief floods through me—the tightness in my chest loosens, my breath releases. The library. MY library. My sanctuary. My heart.

It's mine and all the memories it holds. God, yes.

I'm already imagining curling up in the window seat, surrounded by—Adrian's voice shifts. Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. He seems almost ... apologetic? Careful?

"Provided..."

Wait, he's not done?

"Provided that Emerson is in a committed, loving relationship at the time of inheritance.

She must present her significant other to my attorney, Adrian Hale, for verification of the relationship's authenticity.

Mr. Hale will assess the genuineness of said relationship through observation and questioning.

If Emerson is not in such a relationship, or if Mr. Hale determines the relationship to be fraudulent, the entire estate and its contents shall be sold, with all proceeds donated to literacy charities. "

He pauses, then adds: "Emerson has thirty days from the reading of this will to comply."

I stare at him, trying to process the words. Confusion first—what is he saying? Why are the words 'committed, loving relationship' coming out of his mouth? He can't…can he?

No. Wait a goddamn minute.

No, no, no.

Violet wouldn't, she couldn't have done this. My beloved grandmother forcing me to do something I don't want? Then, I feel her betrayal, cold spreading through my chest, stomach dropping to the floor. Finally, panic stirs within me—thirty days, I'm single, Adrian as judge.

My face goes hot, then ice-cold. My hands go numb. The brooch pin digs into my chest.

Violet. The one person who never pushed, never judged, never demanded I be anything but myself. And THIS is her parting gift? Manipulation disguised as inheritance? What the hell is going on?

"This is absurd!" Victoria jumps to her feet. "Ridiculous! Controlling!"

"Mom, wait—" Marcus reaches for her arm.

"She can't do this! It's emotional blackmail!"

I remain frozen, silent, drowning in shock. Across the table, Adrian sits, unmoved, still, his face could have been carved from marble for all the emotion it shows.

Victoria paces the length of the conference room, gesticulating wildly, her voice rising with each step.

"Outdated, patriarchal nonsense! As if being in a relationship determines your worth! I'll contest this. We'll contest this."

Marcus tries to calm her. "Mom, let's talk outside—"

Victoria whirls on Adrian. "You should be ashamed, letting her write this."

Adrian stands to his full height. "Mrs. Blake, I advised Mrs. Blake against this clause. She insisted."

Victoria doesn't listen, storming toward the door. I notice Adrian's jaw tighten—the only crack in his perfect composure. Huh, so he IS human. Who would have thought?

Marcus squeezes my shoulder. "Call me later. We'll figure this out."

I can't respond. Can't move. He follows Victoria reluctantly, glancing back at me with concern before the door closes with a soft click.

There goes my only support.

Sudden silence fills the room. Just Adrian and me, alone in the conference room. The hum of air conditioning seems louder now. The sound of traffic below continues, muffled through the glass. I stare at the will papers on the table. Adrian remains standing, waiting.

Numbness spreads through my limbs. My thoughts circle relentlessly: thirty days, relationship, Adrian judges authenticity. Impossible.

The betrayal settles deeper. Violet knew I was single. Chronically single. Didn't have casual relationships. Refused to try online dating. Married to my work. She KNEW.

And she put Adrian—cold, allergic-to-emotions, infuriating Adrian—as the gatekeeper. Why?

When I find the courage to speak, I glare at him. "How could you let her do this?"

Adrian sits back down and sighs, as though I'm just a petulant child who cannot understand. "Ms. Blake—"

I stand, unable to remain still. "Don't. Don't you, 'Ms. Blake', me. How could you let her write something this manipulative? Does it even make sense to you?"

"I advised against the clause. Strongly. She insisted it remain."

"Why? Why would she—" My voice cracks, and I hate it.

"She said you needed, in her words, 'a push to take a chance on love.'"

"A push? This is emotional blackmail! I know it, you know it, even that damn pen you're holding knows it!"

"The terms are legal and binding. I've verified—"

"I don't care about the legality! This is" —I run a hand through my hair, searching for words— "controlling. Outdated. It's—"

"It's what she wanted."

I step closer, anger building with each word, and jab an accusing finger at him. "You don't get it. You couldn't possibly understand."

One eyebrow raises a little, and he leans back in his chair. "Enlighten me."

"That library is—was—" I struggle to articulate what it means, and I only get angrier at the sight of Adrian looking so calm and unfazed.

"It's where I fell in love with stories, with books, where I learned how stories have the power to make us feel so many things at once.

Violet gave me that. And now she's using it as leverage to force me into some fairy tale she invented? "

Adrian pauses. "She was concerned about you."

I laugh bitterly. "Concerned. Right. You probably told her I was some tragic spinster—"