My (Mostly) Fake Wedding Read Online Penelope Bloom

Categories Genre: Funny, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

My (Mostly) Fake Wedding

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Penelope Bloom

Book Information:

The first rule about a casual hookup is to have an exit plan. No strings. No attachments. Get in, get out—euphemism intended. The lesser known second rule?
Make sure your casual hookup isn’t about to become your wedding planner. Yeah. Long story.
The wedding was going to be a fake. The only catch was nobody could know. Not even my wedding planner. Now the wedding planner thinks I’m the world’s biggest bastard. She thinks I’m in love with the woman I’m supposed to marry. She thinks a lot of things, but she doesn’t know the truth.
She’s got no idea she’s going to fall for me by the time this thing is over. She’s got no idea our little hookup wasn’t meaningless. Not to me, at least.
And worst? She thinks she’s safe around me. She thinks I’m off the market, that there can’t be a repeat because there’s someone else.
There’s nobody else. Just her. And ever since the first taste, I knew she was all there’d ever be.
Books by Author:

Penelope Bloom



In life, you can’t always run from your problems. But in some rare cases, you can pack your bags and fly a few hundred miles away from them.

I tucked my carry-on a little tighter in my lap and tried to breathe normally. Just breathe, Belle.

At a wedding venue not far away, I knew there was a Chernobyl-scale Bridezilla meltdown still in progress. I also knew the wedding ceremony was being held at a beautiful little villa in the hills of Texas. I knew the color scheme was a tasteful blend of violets and ivory and that the entire ceremony had put the bride’s parents out roughly three hundred thousand dollars.

I knew all this because I was the one who planned the wedding.

Unfortunately, I was also the one who ruined it.

I caught myself not breathing again, and forced a slow, deep intake of air through my nose. I wondered if this was how it all ended. My body was going to make an executive decision to off me. The diagnosis was shame and embarrassment. The case was terminal, and the body’s prescription was to make me forget how to breathe.

I heard my phone buzz from my purse for the hundredth time in the last hour. Nope. Not answering that. It felt like Mike Tyson himself was trying to land a knockout punch on me with every missed call and every wandering thought that brought me back to a few hours ago. Was I going to do the brave thing? Take one right on the chin? No, of course not. I was going to duck, dodge, and run as fast as I could with my tail between my legs.

I was practically first in line when the call came to board the plane, and I sank into my first class seat like it was a bomb shelter—because honestly, nothing in the world sounded quite as nice right then as getting a mile above my problems and being jettisoned away.

His face made an unwelcome visit in my brain. Lance Sunderland. My childhood crush. The guy who had unknowingly friend-zoned me while he fell head over heels for another woman. The guy who didn’t realize it ripped my heart out when he asked me to plan his wedding, even though he was excited because he knew it was a big opportunity for my business.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat. Don’t do it, Belle. Think about something else.

I had a view of the airport from my window seat. I looked to my left, idly watching the small figures of people walking past the endless windows.

That was when one figure in particular caught my attention. Among the sea of shuffling, bent silhouettes, one stood out. He was tall, upright, and taking one long-legged stride after another while a small swarm half-jogged behind him.

I sat up straighter, squinting for a better view. For a confused second, I thought I saw lightning flash, but then realized people were taking pictures.

The pursued man passed out of my view just in front of the terminal where I’d boarded.

Must’ve been a celebrity, I thought. I idly wondered who it could be, and if I was going to get a nosy chance to peek at them if they boarded my plane. I’d never been the type to buy into celebrity worship, but I wasn’t above gawking if one wanted to pass by within arm’s reach. I was human, after all.

I didn’t have to wonder for long, because a mountain of a man shouldering a black backpack was walking down the aisle of first class. He had on a black baseball cap and sunglasses in that stereotypical get-up celebrities thought made them inconspicuous. Even with most of his features hidden, he was clearly drop-dead gorgeous.

He wore a few days of stubble on his chin, which was tanned and sharp. He had a muscular neck, which I decided in a split second was strangely attractive. Then again, it could’ve been the fact that his entire body was composed of lean, defined muscles stacked on top of more lean, defined muscles.

I was still totally not celebrity worshipping—because yeah, whoever this guy was, he was definitely someone famous—when he stopped right beside my seat. He reached up to shove his backpack in the compartment above me.

My eyes wandered down to where his shirt drifted up from his jeans to reveal a tantalizing little sliver of his stomach.

Boom. Apparently running away from your problems was the watered-down version of whatever medicine I needed. The direct, intravenous injectable version was dressed incognito and dripping with sex appeal about three feet from my face.

He sat down on the aisle seat directly beside me.

In some part of my brain, I realized the pilot was speaking over the intercom and there were sounds happening. Stewardesses explaining what to do in the event of a crash.