The Temporary Boyfriend (Cedar Falls Rookies #1)

Chapter 1

Operation Honeypot

Jane

“So you’re saying the wedding planner is sleeping with the groom?”

Right on cue, the washing machine downstairs launches into its spin cycle, shaking the floor like it’s personally offended.

“And you need me to do what?” I ask slowly.

Cashmere Blonde in the center—immaculate posture, bone structure that makes you wonder if she's ever eaten carbs—doesn't even flinch. "Seduce. Entrap. Honeypot. Whatever the technical term is for getting a man to cheat so we can have proof."

"We prefer 'expose,'" Hermès Brunette corrects, her gaze scanning my office like she's already writing up health code violations.

"We're saying we have concerns." Cartier Red shoots back, smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Ivory Blonde shifts in her seat, death grip on her purse like it might try to escape.

I stare at the four women crowding my second-floor office—which, if we’re being honest, is generous terminology for a room that permanently smells like Tide, fabric softener, and financial desperation.

They’ve arranged themselves in the chairs I pulled from a curb last spring and still manage to look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial where everyone is flawless and no one has pores. Their "casual" clothes probably cost more than my car.

Well, the car I no longer own because I sold it a week ago to make Grace's tuition payment.

“Right. Concerns.” I lean back in my desk chair, which squeaks like a dying mouse. Dramatically louder than usual, probably from the perfume overload.

Cashmere Blonde—Barbie Wintz, apparently—holds up a hand with the kind of authority that makes you wonder if she's ever had to repeat herself in her entire life.

"Let me provide context. Our closest friend, Natalie Ashford, is marrying Blake Hartwell in eleven days. The wedding celebration starts on the January twenty-fourth and the ceremony is on January thirty-first. At the Cap Juluca resort in Anguilla."

I nod like I know where Anguilla is. I'm seventy percent sure it's in the Caribbean. The other thirty percent thinks it might be near Spain.

"Blake is a senior partner at Hartwell & Cross," Cashmere Blonde continues. "His family has money going back to the Mayflower. Natalie's family owns half of Connecticut. This wedding is a merger as much as a marriage."

"Okay," I say carefully. "And you think he's cheating?"

"We know he is!" Cartier Red says. “Our best friend is marrying that cheating piece of—" She glances at Cashmere Blonde. "—trash. Blake Hartwell. We've seen him with her. Multiple times."

"Her?" I pull out a notepad, flipping to a clean page. My pen is from a dentist's office. It has a cartoon molar on it. "Who's her?"

"Scarlett Thorne." Hermes Brunette’s voice does not hide her impatience. "The wedding planner."

Hot fudge.

"Cliché, right?" Barbie’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass.

Ivory Blond speaks up suddenly. "We tried telling Natalie. She won't listen. Laughed and said we're catty and jealous because we're all single.”

The way Katelyn says single makes it sound like a communicable disease.

"She won't listen to us," Cartier Red, Merritt, says. "She's in love. Or she's in denial. Either way, she's going to marry a man who's actively sleeping with someone else, and we can't let that happen."

I set my cartoon-molar pen down. "So you want proof."

"Irrefutable proof," Hermes Brunette, Sloane, clarifies. "Photos. Video. A recording. Something she can't explain away."

I stare at them.

They stare back.

"You want me to seduce a stranger," I say carefully, "at a luxury resort, in front of wedding guests, to prove he's a cheater."

"Yes."

"And you think this will work because…?"

"You're pretty. You're not in our circle, so he won't recognize you. You do this kind of work for a living."

"I'm a fixer," I correct. "I solve problems. I've tracked down stolen property. I've located birth parents. I once spent three days proving a woman's husband was faking a disability claim by photographing him at a CrossFit gym."

"So you're experienced in covert operations," Merritt says.

"That's different from what you're asking," I reply.

"We'll pay you fifty thousand dollars."

The number lands in my chest like a punch.

Fifty-Freaking-K.

I don't move. Don't blink. Don't let them see that I stopped breathing approximately four seconds ago.

Fifty thousand dollars would pay off the business loan I took out when I thought Jane of All Services would actually be profitable.

It would cover Grace's spring tuition and her housing deposit.

It would fix the leak in my apartment ceiling that's been dripping into a bucket since October.

It would mean I could buy groceries without mentally calculating whether I can afford both vegetables and protein in the same week.

Fifty thousand dollars is life-changing money.

It's also completely insane.

"That's generous," I say, and my voice sounds normal—Calm. Like I'm not doing frantic mental math about monthly payments and interest rates.

“But I have rules," I say. "Three of them, actually. No danger. No messing with true love. No legal trouble."

Barbie tilts her head. "This doesn't violate any of those."

"It violates all of them," I counter. "Seducing someone at a wedding? That's a lawsuit waiting to happen. And if your friend loves him—"

"He's cheating on her," Merritt interrupts. "You'd be saving her from a lie, not breaking up true love."

"Why me?" I frown. "There are agencies that specialize in this. Private investigators with actual credentials."

"We contacted three agencies," Sloane says. "All of them recognized Blake's name and refused the job. His family has reach. No one wants to cross Hartwell & Cross."

"But you're small," Merritt says, and it's not an insult. It's just a fact. "You're not part of the established investigative network. You're off the radar. Blake won't see you coming."

"And if he asks who I am?" I counter. "If he wants to know why I'm at the wedding?"

"You'll be my plus-one," Barbie says. "I’d RSVP for two but I just broke up with my boyfriend. I’ll say you’re a friend from college, just hanging out with me for moral support and beach cocktails.”

"I don't exactly blend in at billionaire weddings," I point out. "I'm not—" I gesture at them, their coordinated neutrals and their art-gallery posture. "I don't have the wardrobe for this."

"We'll provide the wardrobe," Merritt says. "Dresses, shoes, accessories. Everything you need to look like you belong."

"Do you own a valid passport?" Sloane asks.

"Yes."

I got it two years ago when I thought I might take a vacation. Then I remembered vacations cost money and require free time, two things I don't have.

"Then we're set." Merritt pulls a folder from her bag—leather, structured, probably worth more than my rent—and slides it across my desk. "This is everything you need to know about Blake Hartwell. His preferences. His patterns. His tells."

I flip it open. There's a photo of Blake clipped to the inside cover.

He's handsome in that generic rich-guy way—square jaw, perfect teeth, hair that probably has a standing appointment with someone named Ricardo.

He's smiling in the photo, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Classic. I've seen this smile before.

It's the "I've never been told no" smile.

The "my trust fund has a trust fund" smile.

"He has a type," Barbie says, studying me like I'm a project car. "Brunette. Busty. Confident. You've got the raw materials."

"Dye your hair brunette. You've got boobs in spades—just need a better bra. Push-up. Underwire. Ones that make your goods point at him instead of the floor. Hair extensions if we need length."

"I don't think—" I fight the urge to swing my breasts at them.

“A spray tan wouldn't hurt."

"A spray tan," I repeat.

“You’re very pale,” Sloane observes. “Like you’ve been living under a rock.”

"I've been living in Boston," I counter. "In January. There's a difference."

"He also likes women who challenge him," Sloane adds. "He's bored by the society girls who agree with everything he says. Be smart. Be sharp. Make him work for it.”

I stare at the photo. At the dossier. At the four women watching me like I'm a show horse they're evaluating for purchase.

"I need to be honest with you," I say. "I don't have experience with this kind of job."

"You've done undercover work," Merritt says.

“I’ve pretended to be a customer at a gym,” I correct. "That's different from seducing someone."

"How different can it be?" Barbie asks.

I almost laugh. Sweet mercy—where do I start?

"I'm not—" I pause, searching for a way to say this that doesn't make me sound like a complete disaster. "I'm not good at flirting. I don't have a lot of practice with the whole seduction thing."

"You're twenty-six," Barbie says, like that's an argument.

"And busy," I reply.

“Busy,” Sloane repeats, flat.

"I run a business. I take care of my sister. I don't exactly have time for an active social life."

The four of them exchange glances. It's the kind of look that rich people give each other when they're trying to figure out if you're lying or just tragic.

"When you say you don't have experience," Merritt says slowly, "do you mean you're…"

She trails off. Katelyn's eyes go wide.

"Are you a virgin?" Barbie asks.

The washing machine downstairs starts filling for a new cycle. The pipes clang. I focus on that sound instead of the heat crawling up my neck.

"That's not relevant," I say.

"That's extremely relevant," Sloane counters. "We're asking you to seduce a man. A playboy at that. If you've never—"

"I didn't say I've never," the lie comes fast and desperate. "I’m just saying I don't have a lot of practice. There's a difference."

I’m going to burn in purgatory. But they don't need to know that the sum total of my romantic experience involves one boyfriend in college who dumped me when he realized I was more interested in studying than putting out, and a series of almost-dates that fizzled because I kept canceling to deal with Grace's school emergencies.