Faking It with the Frenemy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Titles by Nadia Lee

  About Nadia Lee

  Copyright

  Faking It with the Frenemy

  Nadia Lee

  Other Titles by Nadia Lee

  Marrying My Billionaire Boss

  Stealing the Bride

  ——

  The Sins Trilogy

  Book 1: Sins

  Book 2: Secrets

  Book 3: Mercy

  ——

  The Billionaire’s Claim Duet

  Book 1: Obsession

  Book 2: Redemption

  ——

  Sweet Darlings Inc. Series

  Book 1: That Man Next Door

  Book 2: That Sexy Stranger

  Book 3: That Wild Player

  ——

  Billionaires’ Brides of Convenience Series

  Book 1: A Hollywood Deal

  Book 2: A Hollywood Bride

  Book 3: An Improper Deal

  Book 4: An Improper Bride

  Book 5: An Improper Ever After

  Book 6: An Unlikely Deal

  Book 7: An Unlikely Bride

  Book 8: A Final Deal

  ——

  The Pryce Family Series

  Book 1: The Billionaire’s Counterfeit Girlfriend

  Book 2: The Billionaire’s Holiday Obsession

  Book 3: The Billionaire’s Secret Wife

  Book 4: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Fiancée

  Book 5: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Desire

  Book 6: The Billionaire’s Holiday Bride

  ——

  Seduced by the Billionaire Series

  Book 1: The Billionaire’s Revenge

  Book 2: The Billionaire’s Pursuit

  Book 3: The Billionaire’s Baby

  Book 3.5: The Billionaire’s Crush

  Book 4: The Billionaire’s Scandal

  Book 5: The Billionaire’s Secret

  ——

  If you want to receive notices about my latest books, please join my VIP List at www.nadialee.net/vip!

  Author’s Note

  I always get asked how to pronounce Ceinlys. So I’ve decided to include it here for your reference: Cane-lis.

  The inappropriately named treats from Japan in this book are real. They’re seasonal/promotional items, so you might not find them if you visit Japan in the future, but they do exist. :)

  I hope you enjoy Faking It with the Frenemy!

  To The Boy, who never fails to make me laugh at least once a day.

  Chapter One

  Kim

  You’d think having billions of dollars would fix all your problems, then give you what you didn’t even know you wanted.

  It doesn’t.

  I know, not because I have billions of dollars, but because I work for a man who does. And a statue he wanted last month is…well…not even close to being in his possession. Not because he can’t afford it, but because the reclusive hermit artist won’t return my damn calls.

  Or texts.

  Or emails.

  So I follow up for the thirty millionth time, instead of doing actual productive work. Like coming up with something my boss wants before he even knows he wants it.

  “Hi, François, this is Kim Sanford, calling—again—on behalf of Salazar Pryce. It’s about your Wife statue. He would like to buy it from you. I know it’s not a commissioned piece, and he’s prepared to offer a very good price. Please call me back.” I recite my number, then, because I’m desperate, I add, “I might send you a naked selfie if you return my call in the next twenty-four hours.”

  I hang up. Hopefully that will motivate him. He’s been wanting me to model for him. He said it’d only be for four to ten weeks, depending on how his muse was feeling, and he’d put me up in his flat in Paris.

  “Ma chère, just imagine! You will be immortalized!” Given where he was looking at the time, he probably meant my breasts would be immortalized. Actually, I think I exist only as breasts in his world. “But they are magnificent! Marvelously proportioned and shaped. A thousand years from now, people will admire your form!”

  More like people will be jerking off to my bronzed tits. Not my idea of a flattering artistic situation. Besides, I’m not going to spend weeks sitting around nude in François’s studio, not even for the sake of art that people might pay millions of dollars for…especially when the purpose of said art is to memorialize my mammaries.

  Maybe I’m just plebian. I don’t get fine art in general. I only buy what I buy because my boss wants it. And I’m pretty sure Salazar doesn’t actually care that much for art. I overheard his financial advisor telling him it’s a safe investment… Salazar just agreed with a small grunt.

  But maybe François could use the naked selfies to inspire his next project—or so he’ll likely claim—assuming I ever send him any, of course. I never promised.

  Praying that the temperamental Frenchman deigns to listen to my message, I go back to my laptop to put the final touches on the special getaway itinerary my boss wants. He already rejected three earlier versions, saying they were too “plain.” A hundred thousand bucks in two weeks is apparently just too basic.

  I lean back in my seat in Salazar’s elegant downtown office and purse my lips. His desk is empty; he’s staying home today. I look out at the blue sky, interrupted by unevenly tall columns of buildings. I wonder what I can add to make the getaway even grander. Triple the budget and extend the length to a month? But what could he possibly do with his ex-wife for that long? And why in the world did they start dating again after they got divorced?

  The cheery opening jingle from “Sleigh Ride” startles m
e. I have an instant of total WTF?…then roll my eyes. Jo. She’s the only one who would dare to change my ringtone, and she probably did it yesterday during happy hour.

  I scowl at the annoyingly cheery music—spring is way too early for Christmas tunes—but suddenly realize it might be François finally calling me back. Woohoo!

  “This is Kim Sanford,” I answer, using the Bluetooth set lodged in my ear. Hope surges like a gathering tsunami. I need to hear his gravelly, accented greeting. I’d even welcome a few of his ridiculous innuendos. I know, I’ll put us on video call so he can talk to my breasts like he prefers…

  “Did you see those articles about your roommate? Why didn’t you tell me she married Nate Sterling!” The familiar voice is breathless and fluttery, like an overly excited sparrow. But I didn’t miss the small undertone of disappointment and censure because I’m not the one who married Nate Sterling, billionaire philanthropist and the last available bachelor from the filthy-rich Sterling family.

  And who else but Mom would call to talk about tabloid articles?

  Hope deflates like a balloon that hasn’t been tied properly. “I was busy,” I say, as flippantly as possible. Mom has this super radar when it comes to gossip involving rich men and their marital status. If she could tweak it so it was calibrated to detecting gossip about François’s whereabouts, she could sell it to me for a nice chunk of change.

  Or not. I’m certain she credits her radar for her success in life, if marrying five times can be considered “success.”

  “How can this be? She’s only been in L.A. for…what? Ten months?” Confusion and outrage color my mom’s voice. If she were here, she’d look like a puppy that was denied bacon that all its littermates got. “How can she already be set up for life when you’re not? It’s not fair!”

  I say nothing and save the document on my computer. Mom needs to vent unimpeded. That way she won’t call again about this topic for at least another week. The best course of action for now is just to let everything she says flow through one ear and out the other.

  “You need a rich husband, Kim. Before it’s too late.”

  “It’s already too late.” How many times have we had this conversation? “I can’t do what you did. Five husbands is just…beyond my ability.” Loveless marriages are sad, even if you’re swimming in money. And it sucks even more for the kids. I know for a fact that I was an accident. Nothing ruins a woman’s figure like pregnancy, and Mom’s priority was to cling to youth and beauty for as long as possible in order to snag rich men. She only had me because it would have looked heartless to her fourth husband to have me aborted. And he only allowed it because it would make him look like a dick not to pretend he welcomed the new life he’d created with Mom.

  I’m sure he regretted that when he realized he’d have to pay child support.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mom says. “I had to struggle because I only had millionaires to choose from. You’re surrounded by billionaires. One good marriage should do it.”

  “I’m not eighteen anymore, Mom,” I say, suppressing a long, hard sigh. Only my mother would label being married to a millionaire a struggle. “No billionaire wants a trophy wife over the age of twenty.”

  “You’re still pretty enough, but that won’t last forever. Things are different now, so you can hang on to your youth for a little longer—at least facially—with Botox. But your breasts are another matter.”

  François disagrees, but I keep that to myself. No need to overexcite Mom. The elusive Frenchman is worth a few million bucks at least. But then again, he’s only worth a few million bucks. Trophy wives seem to be setting their sights higher these days.

  She continues, “Can’t Botox your way to perkier boobs, dear. Gravity spares no one.”

  Only Mom would think about Botoxing your breasts. I look down at mine and shudder at the thought of injecting them with bubonic plague or whatever the latest anti-aging rage is. They’re perky enough. And when they reach the point of needing injections or implants or whatever…

  Well. I’ll just have to find a man who appreciates my gravity-ravaged bosom.

  “I simply don’t understand why you aren’t with a rich husband,” she whines. “You’ve been in L.A. for years! You work for one of the richest men in the world!”

  Eww. “Mom. Salazar is old enough to be my grandfather.”

  And even if he weren’t, I’m not going to live my life like Mom. I’m going to be valued for something other than how young I look or my dress size. Like my brain and personality and professional capabilities.

  Mom bulldozes my objection like it’s a milk carton. “A woman’s station in life in determined by the tax bracket of the man she marries. Billionaire, Kim. That’s nine zeros!”

  I can’t even bring myself to sigh. “I’ll have my station in life determined by my own hard work, thanks. That way, I hold my fate in my hands.” I’ll be damned if I let some man decide my future happiness and wellbeing, regardless of his tax bracket.

  Besides, contrary to her worries, I’ll be financially set within a month. By then, I’ll have been working for Salazar for five years. I’ve never failed to deliver for him, and that means he’s going to give me a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus, as per my employment contract. It isn’t enough to set me up for life—not the way my mom’s hoping—but as long as I’m careful and continue to work, I’ll be fine.

  Mom makes a sound that’s somewhere between scandalized outrage and a patronizing “there, there.” “You’re so funny.” Her tone says there’s nothing funny about my attitude. “But really, dear. You’re too old to hang on to such an unworkable idea.”

  I roll my eyes enough to get slightly dizzy. “It’s because I’m older that I believe it.” I’ve seen my share of gold diggers and parasites. They appear wherever Salazar is. The sad thing is, most don’t end well. They’re discarded like used Kleenex. I, on the other hand, am not only kept, but valued. And it’s because I play a game called “Kim is so awesome at her job, she don’t need no stinkin’ sugar daddy.”

  “Maybe one of Salazar’s sons will divorce.” There’s a desperate hope in her voice. “Billionaires often do. You should induce one of them to leave his wife. Someone’s bound to be bored, stuck with the same woman for so long.”

  “Okay, stop. I’m not a home wrecker.” She might as well call me a whore. “And even if I were so inclined, they’re so devoted to their wives, it’s unreal. Even if they were to become single again, no. There’s a reason I didn’t date them when they were still available.” For one thing, it would have been way too awkward to continue working for Salazar if things hadn’t worked out.

  “Oh, fine.” Her pout is palpable. “You’re so picky. How about Milton or Byron Pearce? Or Edgar Blackwood?”

  “Milton and Byron Pearce are not in my social circle.” To be more precise, they aren’t in the Pryces’ circle, so there’s no reason to run into them. “And Edgar Blackwood lives in Louisiana, of all places. I don’t do long-distance relationships.” Besides, I’ve never even met the guy.

  “How about David Darling? He’s seriously handsome. If I were forty years younger, I’d go for him. Bet he’s great in bed.”

  Something sour floods my mouth. I so do not need to know Mom has a thing for a man young enough to be her son. “Didn’t you hear what I said about long-distance relationships? He lives in Virginia.”

  “Not anymore, dear.” Mom’s voice is practically a purr. “Sweet Darlings opened a new office in Los Angeles.”

  And what does that have to do with me? But instead of asking that—because I’m sure Mom will come up with some inane logic twister—I reach for my coffee. Caffeine should perk me up, make me ready to continue working on Salazar’s itinerary after this brain-cell-killing call.

  “But if you’re feeling too shy to throw yourself at him, how about Wyatt Westland?” Mom asks. “You two were close back in high school, weren’t you?”

  I almost spit my coffee, then check to make sure I didn’t spil
l anything on my dress. Crap. That was close. “Wyatt? When did he become rich enough to suit you?”

  Wyatt Westland is my nemesis. Maybe the full-blown Antichrist. He’s the reason I couldn’t have nice things back when I was growing up in Corn Meadows. The fact that I was dumb enough to like him and sleep with him still infuriates me. But his family has never been rich. His parents are ordinary middle-class folks, unless their bookkeeping service is really a front for some Mafia money-laundering scheme.

  “This year,” Mom crows. “He’s loaded now! He sold some kind of technical thing to a company called Sweet Darlings and made over a billion dollars!” There is reverence in her voice, as though Wyatt ought to be canonized.

  Well, that’s some vomit-inducing news. “Isn’t he married?” He dated and then got hitched to my former-best-friend-turned-tormentor, and I’ll never forgive him for that. Not because he married her, but because he dumped me right after taking my virginity in order to be with her. There’s got to be a special, unused corner of hell for that kind of asshole.

  And that’s not all. He also ganged up on me with his buddies after Geneva made me trip and fall in science class. I was carrying a beaker, which broke, and the edge sliced my jaw line, leaving me with a permanent and very visible scar. Mom wanted me to have plastic surgery—because men don’t want scarred goods—but I refused, even though Wyatt & Friends started calling me Scarface. Because I knew, even back then, I’d leave the hellhole of Corn Meadows as soon as possible and never look back. I’d forge my own path and surround myself with people who wouldn’t tie my worth to a scar or how perky my boobs were.

  “No! He got divorced! He’s eligible! Rich! And perfect!” Mom exclaims with breathless excitement.

  “I’d rather lick a fire hydrant in a dog park.”

  “Do you want me to set up a date with him?” she asks.

  Maybe the fire hydrant analogy wasn’t clear enough. The ear-to-brain filter that lets her hear only what she wants to is not only highly efficient, it seems to be indestructible.

  “You know what, Mom? The reception here in the office is horrible. Oh, gee, I’m losing the connection.” I make some hissing static noises and hang up.