The Big Fake Read Online Penelope Bloom

Categories Genre: Funny, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)

From bestselling author of His Banana comes a brand new romantic comedy about a recklessly charming billionaire in need of a fake girlfriend.

What do you do when you find out your boyfriend cheated?
Throw up on a gorgeous stranger. Obviously.
Rock bottom, nice to meet you.

Dean Slater–the guy wearing my breakfast–got cheated on, too.
And we have a perfectly stupid plan to make sure it never happens again.
If everyone thinks we’re together, we can both stay off the market.
No matchmaking friends and family. No more messy breakups.
We’ll keep things long distance, never be in the same room, and it’ll be smooth sailing.
Except there’s a catch.
We’re both invited to my sister’s wedding.
Oh, don’t worry, it gets worse.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************




Some days, there was just a feeling in my chest that everything was about to go very, very wrong. You could call it a form of “ESPN,” as my cousin would say–like a telepathic connection to the future. Maybe it was just my supreme intellect collecting subtle clues and assembling them in my subconscious. Then again, it could’ve been the text from my friend at work begging me not to come in.

Yeah, it was probably the text.

I rode the elevator up to my floor, fingers twitching against the hem of my coat and feet tapping. My heart was hammering. Thump. Thump. Thump. Big, punching beats that practically rattled my bones.

I slid my eyes up to the row of numbers at the top of the old-fashioned elevator. A red arrow slowly slid from left to right, working its way past four, then six, and inching ever closer to ten.

I had no idea what was waiting for me on the tenth floor. Whatever it was, Marley was definitely trying to convince me not to come in today, so it had to be bad.

Now, me freaking out wasn’t exactly national news worthy material. I had a little bit of a known habit when it came to being overly anxious. If I saw a friend walking the same direction toward me down a city street, I’d go into defcon four over the decision to wave, smile, or pretend I didn’t notice them. A confrontation at work? That was grounds for calling in sick. All week. Even rain freaked me out sometimes, because I imagined all the gunk floating in the air getting a public transit ride via a drop of water straight into my eyeball. I wasn’t sure if that’s how you got gonorrhea, but I didn’t see the reason to take chances.

With a little professional help, I managed to transform myself from a constant mess to only a mess when I had an excuse. The problem? There was always an excuse to freak out if you looked for it. Once, I’d read about a little fish that swims up the tip of men’s penises. I think it was local to Africa, but if you really thought about it, what was to stop one of them from hitching a urethra-taxi over to the States? How did I know it wasn’t in there with a lover, ready to colonize our waters? And why would it only be the penis?

But my therapist would tell me to control what I could control. Take deep breaths. Convince my body we were calm and it would take my lead. Except I was about to step into some real shit. I should be on high alert, shouldn’t I? I should be ready to use every ounce of martial arts skills I didn’t have to attack the problem.

I put a hand over my chest just to make sure I wasn’t imagining the racing heart. Nope.

One of my co-workers was at the front of the elevator. He must’ve heard my heavy breathing. He turned around, half-leaning and giving me that pursed lip, eyebrows raised look that said–Mondays, huh?

I tried to smile back at him, but in my current state, I think I mostly just showed my teeth as if the dentist had asked me to open up for his tools.

He gave me a confused double take, then rushed out as soon as the doors opened on the tenth floor.

I felt clammy all over and I was definitely sweating. It wasn’t a polite, dignified level of sweat, either. I was pretty sure my white button down blouse with the puffy, super cute sleeves was now pit stained and my nose was definitely beading with perspiration.

All of my nerves had been sparked roughly thirty minutes ago. I was minding my own business, as I tend to do. I had my morning coffee in hand–actually, I don’t drink coffee, but that’s between you and me. I get a coffee cup and fill it with soda. People judge when they see you sipping on a Diet Coke, so I found it easier to just sneak my sodas in coffee cups. Sue me. Actually, please don’t do that–I was never more than one thread away from broke at the best of times.