Fake It Baby One More Time: A Fake Romance Collection Read online

  FAKE IT BABY ONE MORE TIME

  Logan Chance

  Copyright © 2020 by Logan Chance

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  To all the Logangsters out there who have stuck by me through thick and thin, this one’s for you

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Epilogue (Bonus) One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  GRAHAM

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue (Bonus)

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  BREAK ME

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Epilogue (Bonus)

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Acknowledgements

  SPECIAL OFFER

  Sneak Peek of Cold Hearted Baller

  Chapter One

  Sneak Peek of Date Me

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Also by Logan Chance

  One

  Addison

  Ever have that one person in your life who just gets on your nerves? There’s really no explanation why they make you want to rip paint off walls, they just do. The very existence of this person irritates you to the point of blood-boiling, toe-curling, rage every time you’re in close proximity. I’ve got one of those people—Special Agent Vin Mills.

  Since he’s undeniably attractive, maybe toe-curling is a bad example. I don’t want to give him that credit. It’s like saying Miss America is beautiful. Besides, he gets enough praise from the female species. By the way women flock to him, you’d think they’d never seen a six-foot-three, dark-haired, hazel-eyed, abtastic man before he waltzed in the room.

  I’m not going to say he’s an asshole, despite him meeting the definition criteria, because unless it’s a life or death situation, I don’t normally curse. I’m not a prude; I believe words should have an appropriate meaning. Instead of an asshole, he’s equivalent to ‘you-ate-the-last-chip-and-left-the-empty-bag-for-me.’ That’s real annoyance. Who decided what we’d say to convey our annoyance anyway? They had one job, and they failed me. Failed us all.

  We need new curse words, because this is what he does to me—he annoys me so much, I need new words to quantify it. He’s just so...he’s a… ‘wire-poking-out-of-your-bra-into-your-skin-internet-page-won’t-load’ hole.

  Ok, maybe I need a lesson in name calling, but until new words are invented, I’m going to focus on getting the promotion I deserve.

  To ensure my boss understands how serious I am, I woke an hour early, twirled my blonde hair into a severe bun and went into work before anyone else arrived. I’m not going to give the director any opportunity to deny giving me the chance to work in the field and off the desk. If he balks, I’m going to point out how I’ve been ten minutes early, every day, for the past three years I’ve been in this department, and I’m going to highlight all my accolades, as well as remind him it was me who primarily closed the Mitchell extortion case.

  That one should have been enough to get me promoted.

  It would have too, if not for Agent Mills, the bane of my existence, sliding in at the last minute, in that gruff manly way he has, with a tip from an anonymous source that locked the case airtight.

  “Morning, Kyle,” I greet the janitor, as I hustle toward my director’s office, toward my promotion.

  “No good morning for me?” the deep voice that can turn on every girl within a hundred mile radius while simultaneously turning me off calls out from behind me.

  My high heels come to a screeching halt. When I turn, I see none other than Vin Mills, in the flesh, in jeans and a bicep hugging black t-shirt striding down the corridor.

  “Why are you here so early?” I question as he closes the distance. He’s never early. Agents dress to blend with their surroundings, so he must be working the streets today. So why isn’t he on the street?

  His perfectly bowed lips lift in a half smirk. “Good to see you, Buckley.” It isn’t good to see me; he’s lying. You can hear the falsehoods dripping from the overly friendly way he says my last name, adding an extra syllable in there.

  “Likewise,” I reply, giving him my best fake smile.

  “You got the text from Steele too?” he asks.

  “Of course I got it.” Casually, I rustle through my handbag to grab my phone, surreptitiously scrambling for a mysterious text I should have received. And there it is, lost in my daily meme and inspirational quote texts, a message from Director Benjamin Steele, asking me to come in early.

  I hate surprises, and this is a doozy, but I compose my features to not give away my inside turmoil to Vin. His eyes sweep over my face like my lie is written all over it, and then he nods, slow and smug.

  I don’t like his nod.

  We continue the short trek to Steele’s office, and he knocks once, glances down at me, and then opens the door.

  “Liars first,” he says in a low voice for only me to hear.

  My eyes shoot to his. Of course, he’s trying to needle me into calling him a… I’ll have to think of a word later. I straighten my suit jacket and brush past him into Ben Steele’s immaculate office where he sits, in a crisp white dress shirt, behind his neatly organized desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Steele,” I greet him.

  His head
snaps up from his monitor and he rummages a hand through his barely-there silver hair. “Sit,” he directs us.

  I take a seat in the padded-leather chair next to Vin, and without a hello or good morning, Ben launches into why Mills and I were both summoned to his office early this morning, “You two familiar with The Highlands?”

  I nod, as does Vin.

  Everyone is familiar with the ostentatious community that sits nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, hidden behind an iron-gate. The Highlands is in a class of its own.

  I’d never been there, but have seen pictures of some of the mega-mansions adorning every plot of land available.

  “Good.” He drops a bulging case file on his desk. “Case 2902, the Matteo Lombardi case.”

  Vin crosses his arms. “Lombardi? Is he shacked up in posh city?”

  Steele shakes his head. “No, but sources close to Matteo say whoever is laundering his money lives up on that hill.”

  I pick up the file and thumb through the papers. Matteo Lombardi is the most elusive boss of organized crime this city has ever seen. The Feds have been after him for quite some time, and we aren’t any closer to catching him. He’s that good at hiding his tracks. “Does the source know who?” I ask.

  “We have it located to one single cul-de-sac, and you two are going undercover.”

  I try not to gloat. I can see that promotion coming my way once I catch whoever is laundering money for the mob and close this case. Easy.

  “Undercover how?” Vin questions.

  “Well…” his words stop, and I don’t like the sound of this. “We’re putting you two undercover on that cul-de-sac posing as newlyweds.”

  The question on the tip of my tongue rolls back in my throat, and I nearly choke. “Wait. What?” I ask, my brain struggling to absorb this information.

  “You want Buckley and I to pretend to be married?” Vin scoffs, as if it’s the worst idea in the world.

  “Many men would love to be married to me,” I bristle, staring down my nose at him.

  “I’m sure.” Vin’s eyes roam across my features, and I feel like he’s assessing the goods that are about to become chained to him.

  I can’t help but wonder how I rate. On a scale of one to ten, I’m a solid six, I’d say. Maybe a seven today in this skirt and heels. I frown, clearing the ridiculous thought. Who cares how I rate with him?

  And it must not be well, because he furrows his brow and focuses back on Ben. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I am.” Ben pulls at his mustache, his eyes ping-ponging between Mills and I. “You’ll start this weekend. Grubbs will go over backstories and details with you this afternoon.” He stands. “It’ll be a piece of cake. You two are the best in the department, and I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else.”

  Well that’s nice and all, but he’s not the one who has to marry Captain America over here. I’m a professional, though, and not stupid enough to sabotage this assignment before it’s even started by disagreeing with the man who decides whether I get promoted.

  “Addison,” Ben calls before I step out of his office. “Be happy. You’re getting married.”

  I nod. My promotion all boils down to this asinine assignment, so I’ll make sure this goes off without a hitch.

  Two

  Vin

  I’m not really the marrying type—even if it’s pretend—but this will be perfect. For me, anyway. It’s my chance to finally put Matteo away for good.

  We’ve been after the fucker for years. The Chicago-based mob boss moved to the area a few years ago, and has been the model citizen since then. But, we are building a case against him, one stack of cash at a time.

  This is huge. If we can find the money launderers for Matteo’s mob it would be a big break for us. Pretty clever to set up his money launderer in the wealth of the Highlands.

  Let me break it down for you. Money laundering is the process of making dirty money gained illegally appear legal. There’s three stages to money laundering. First, one must introduce the dirty money into the financial system. Now you can’t just go to the store and start making big purchases—that’ll alert the IRS like it’s nobody’s business— so one must move to the second stage called layering. They’ll want to set up some complex transactions to hide the money. It’s usually during this stage one may want to actually launder the money in the dryer. Take a pillowcase, stash the money in it with a few rocks, and tumble it on high for about twenty minutes. This makes the money appear used, like it’s been around the block a few times.

  Finally it is integrated into the financial system through additional transactions until the dirty money is ….you guessed it, clean money.

  As stoked as I am about the case, Buckley, on the other hand, looks like a five-year-old kid that just learned there’s no Santa Claus as we enter Grubb’s office to get our assignment details. She’s overreacting; it’s just another day in the life.

  Pretend to be married. Done.

  Pretend to be happily in love? Easy.

  Living in the Highlands will be the hardest part.

  It’s like that subdivision with the crazy neighbors in The Stepford Wives. The Highlands is overflowing with carbon copy mini mansions and too perfect couples, notorious for being over-friendly.

  Buckley could use some lessons in being nice. I don’t know if she’ll fit in with her overabundant sass. I’m not sure how it all fits in a body that comes just to my shoulder.

  She’s nice-looking—beautiful, actually—but that’s where her niceties end.

  Ok, her body is pretty nice, too. Alright, better than nice—great. Now I just sound like Tony the Tiger. She’s not good, she’s grrrreat.

  All joking aside, she’s pretty. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a smile that could melt a heart of iron.

  “We’re here for marriage counseling,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, when we enter Grubb’s office. You’d think Buckley was up for the death penalty the way she’s dragging her feet, as if a fake marriage to me will be an extreme form of torture.

  I had to laugh earlier when she said many men would love to be married to her. I’m sure there’s a whole slew of men wanting a pretentious, neat freak, who doesn’t know how to let loose and have a good time.

  “Have a seat, newlyweds,” Patrick Grubbs, the department’s lanky, carrot-topped intel aficionado, teases. “Let’s go over a few facts of the case, and a few facts about your marriage.”

  “I don’t want to get married on a beach,” Addison declares, taking a seat beside me.

  Slowly, I turn my head to study the prim woman beside me who can’t possibly be serious. “You do realize this isn’t a real wedding, right?”

  She squirms under my scrutiny, running a hand over her tightly coiled bun. “I know, but I can’t picture myself ever getting married somewhere so sandy. So, if someone asks me about our wedding day, dear,” she says the word like it’s physically painful to say, “I just want to be able to reminisce without worrying about how I got all the sand out of my hair.”

  “How about a quick Vegas thing?” I suggest, pegging her for the type that would never go for a spur of the moment wedding. “That’s more my style.”

  “No,” Addison dismisses the idea, just like I knew she would, but not for the reason I thought, “I had a boyfriend once, who left me to marry his co-worker there while they were at a convention.”

  “Ouch,” I cringe for her.

  “So, I guess, many men other than him would love to be married to me.”

  “Ok, enough,” Grubbs interjects, scrubbing a hand down his mustached face. “You two are Highlanders now. No one living up on Fancy Hill would ever get married in Vegas on a whim. Remember, these people are a force of their own. We’ve already set it up. You had a highly expensive destination wedding, which the director and I have forged for you.”

  Buckley grins, exposing even white teeth. “Thank you. A destination wedding sounds lovely. Where did we go?”

  “Japan.”


  Her brow raises. “Japan? Do people even get married there?”

  “Of course people do,” I say. “Broaden your horizons.”

  “Enough,” Grubbs says, handing us each a file. “Here’s the details of your wedding and marriage. Memorize it.” He shoos us out of his office. “And please stop bickering. You’re supposed to be in love. Try to act accordingly.”

  We leave the office, and my eyes roam over Buckley’s petite frame. I imagine what she’d be like away from the office, maybe with her hair down. I can almost picture it.

  “I’ve always dreamed of having a nice big house, but it was never in the Highlands.” She smoothes a hand over her hair, securing her bun. “They’re a different breed up there.” She’s sure right about that.

  “Yeah, bright side though, the money launderers should be easy to spot. They’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” I assure her.