Fake Fiancé Playbook (Fourth Quarter Fantasies #2)

Prologue

Darius

I'm halfway through deleting another email from Houston's front office when a new message lands in my inbox, and one look at the profile picture attached to my new publicist's contact card tells me this season just got a lot more interesting.

I almost don't open it.

The subject line reads: Image Rehabilitation Plan — Immediate Action Required.

Which is corporate-speak for: Hollywood, knock it off.

I've been traded once. Fined twice. My name has spent more time in headlines than highlight reels this year.

I don't need a babysitter.

That's what I think right up until I see her photo.

Well.

Maybe I need a babysitter.

Honey-blonde hair falls over her shoulders in soft curls that look like they belong in a country music video. Blue eyes. A smile that somehow makes me forget I'm supposed to be reading her résumé.

I zoom in.

Because holy shit.

The woman in the picture looks more like the girl next door than a crisis-management specialist. The kind of woman who probably remembers birthdays, sends thank-you cards, and has absolutely no business getting dragged into the mess currently known as my life.

Her name is Claire Wells.

Hot damn.

I read it once.

Then again.

By the third time, I'm no longer annoyed about the email.

***

I click through her professional profile because I'm thorough like that.

She's twenty-eight. A crisis PR specialist with a reputation for cleaning up exactly the kind of disasters I'm known for creating.

The article calling her "The Fixer" has fourteen thousand shares. Another piece quotes a general manager who claims she turned a three-alarm scandal into a brand deal in sixty days.

She's good.

Actually, she's better than good.

You don't build that kind of reputation by twenty-eight unless you're exceptional, and judging by the list of clients and success stories attached to her name, Claire Wells is very good at her job.

I should probably be paying more attention to that.

Instead, I'm staring at her picture.

Blue eyes framed by lashes way too pretty for someone who's supposed to boss me around. A cute little nose that probably scrunches when she's pissed. And that blouse—buttoned like she's trying to behave, clinging like it's trying to snitch on her curves.

I lean back in my chair and study the photo for another second.

Maybe two.

Okay, definitely more than two.

The woman is gorgeous.

Which is inconvenient because gorgeous women tend to complicate things, and this woman is apparently about to spend the next several months managing my life.

Still, I can't help smiling.

I send her a quick message suggesting we meet before the official onboarding call.

She responds in under four minutes.

That works. I'll confirm the time with your assistant.

I grin.

This is going to be fun.

By the time I drift off, Claire Wells has already made herself comfortable in my head.

***

The knock on my door is too polite to be room service. I swing it open, and nearly forget how to breathe.

She's standing there in blue denim and a simple V-neck, her hair full and glossy the way Texas girls pull off without trying, and a smile polite enough to say "y'all" without even opening her mouth.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," she says, her voice carrying that soft Southern lilt.

"Not at all." I step aside, watching her walk in. The way she moves—confident but not cocky, like she knows exactly who she is and doesn't need to prove it to anyone. "Drink?"

She perches on one of my barstools, crossing those legs that go on for days. "Surprise me."

I pour us both some top-shelf whiskey, my fingers brushing hers when I hand her the glass. The contact sends a jolt through me, straight to my dick. Or at least, it should.

We talk for what feels like hours—about anything and everything. She laughs at my stories, really laughs, head tilted back, throat exposed. I find myself leaning closer, drawn in like a moth to a flame. This is my moment. I know this dance better than I know my own playbook.

My hand finds her waist, and fuck, she's soft. Softer than I expected. She smells like vanilla and something else, something uniquely Claire that makes my mouth water. I lean in, giving her space to pull away if she wants.

She doesn't.

Instead, her eyes meet mine, and something shifts. The air thickens, charged with all the unspoken things between us. My heart pounds against my ribs like a drum solo. This is it. This is the moment I own, the one where I sweep them off their feet and show them why they call me Hollywood.

Except...

Nothing's happening downstairs.

I press closer, trying to will my cock into action. Nothing. It's like my dick decided to take a fucking vacation. Panic claws at my throat, cold and sharp. This never happens. Not to me. Not with anyone.

Claire's watching me, those blue eyes so damn penetrating it feels like she can see right through my carefully constructed facade. I try to kiss her, to salvage this, but my body's betraying me. My hands start shaking.

The dream spirals. Suddenly we're not in my penthouse anymore—we're in a stadium filled with people, all pointing and laughing at me.

I'm naked, and my dick's shriveled up like a frightened turtle.

Claire's standing there with a microphone, announcing to the world that Darius "Hollywood" Webb is all talk.

***

I wake up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. My sheets are tangled around my legs, and my dick is limp against my thigh. Humiliation burns through me so hot it feels like fever.

Something about Claire Wells is different.

I don't know what it is. I don't know why a woman I've never met in person already has me rattled at two in the morning. I don't know why the dream didn't go the way dreams are supposed to go.

I just know it matters.

My hand shakes as I grab my phone. I type out a text to my teammate, Jaylen, my fingers fumbling on the screen.

He picks up on the third ring with a string of words I won't repeat.

"You hurt?" he finally asks.

I stare at my phone.

The room is dark and quiet and somewhere in Houston, my new publicist is probably sleeping just fine, completely unbothered, with no idea she just ended me in my own dream.

"No," I say. "Worse."

I pause.

"I've got a problem."