LS Phoenix's Blog, page 14

When Enemies Know You Best

Funny how the people we hate always know exactly how to get under our skin.

They remember what hurts. What matters. And maybe… what we used to want.

This post is for the ones who were never strangers. Maybe they were best friends. Lovers. Almost something real. And now? Now they pretend none of it ever happened—except every touch, every glance, every fight still feels personal.

Enemies like that don’t need to learn you.

They already know you.

Tension That Hurts So Good

There’s wanting someone.

And then there’s this.

Wanting someone you shouldn’t want. Someone who drives you crazy, who pushes every button and crosses every line. Someone you swore you’d never touch again—right before doing exactly that.

This kind of tension is unbearable. And addictive. It simmers beneath the surface in every fight. Every eye-roll. Every almost-kiss that ends with a slammed door and a pounding heart.

Because hate might be loud, but desire? Desire lingers.

I Hate How Much I Want You

Some people get under your skin.

Others set it on fire.

This week’s theme is for the couples who can’t stand each other—but can’t stay away. The ones who argue too loud, look too long, and touch like it’s a mistake they’ll make again anyway. Maybe they’re enemies. Rivals. Exes. Or maybe it’s worse than all of that—they were almost something real.

There’s something addictive about almost.

Almost lovers. Almost kisses. Almost confessions that never made it past a clenched jaw and a slammed door. That’s where this trope lives. In the heat of the moment. The stare that lingers too long. The kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen. The craving neither of them knows how to kill.

It’s the chaos of wanting what you shouldn’t.

And wanting it so much, it hurts.

If you’re into tension so thick you could choke on it, enemies who flirt like it’s warfare, and chemistry that never quite fizzles out—this one’s for you.

He Doesn’t Just Talk Dirty. He Owns It.

Alpha, Italian, and absolutely not safe for work.

There’s a difference between a dirty talker and a man who commands with his voice.

He doesn’t ask—he tells. And every word drips with confidence, control, and a promise you feel in your bones.

The best dirty talk in romance isn’t just about shock value. It’s about emotional tension, sharp timing, and knowing exactly what to say to unravel her.

When the MMC is dominant, deliberate, and deeply unbothered by rules… that mouth becomes lethal.

Only One Room. Only One Bed. No Self-Control.

When your fake boyfriend is hot, Italian, and jealous… bad decisions are practically guaranteed.

“Only one bed” isn’t just a trope. It’s a test.

Of boundaries. Of tension. Of how long two people can pretend nothing’s happening while everything is.

Add in a fake relationship, a jealous MMC, and the kind of silence that’s too loaded—and suddenly that bed feels a lot smaller.

Because sometimes the rules don’t break. They combust.

Chapter One: Ring Me Maybe

It starts with a phone call meant for someone else.

Emery’s just trying to sleep—until a wrong number, a ridiculous offer, and one dangerously smooth voice flip her entire day upside down.

One mistake. One billionaire. One night she never saw coming.

Meet Marco DeLuca.

Chapter One: Ring Me Maybe

Chapter One

Emery

Ring Me Maybe

I don’t know what’s more annoying, my ringtone or the fact that it’s gone off seven times in the last hour. I slap my phone off the nightstand and squint at the screen. Unknown number. Again.

“Nope,” I mutter, hitting decline and rolling over.

It rings again five seconds later.

“For the love of caffeine,” I groan, yanking it to my ear. “Hello?” Voice a little more gruff than I intend it to be, but come on… I just need my sleep!

A beat of silence, then a male voice asks, “Is this Olivia?”

“Nope. Wrong number.” I hang up.

Thirty seconds later, it rings again. Same fucking unknown number.

“Still not Olivia,” I snap before they even speak.

“Wait, please, this is the number listed on the site.”

“What site?” I sit up now, mildly concerned that I’ve been unwillingly dragged into an MLM or a cult.

“The escort listing?” the voice says casually, like he’s asking about a pizza order.

I blink. “I’m sorry… Did you just say escort?”

“Yes, for Olivia. You are Olivia, right?”

“No! No, I am definitely not Olivia, and I’m definitely not offering… services.”

He hangs up.

I stare at my phone, jaw dropped. Is this real life?

I scroll through my recent calls, four unknowns, three area codes I don’t recognize, and one guy who left a voicemail saying, and I quote, “Loved your photos. I’m into toes too.”

What. The. Actual. Hell.

I throw on a hoodie, stomp into the kitchen, and flop onto the stool by the counter. Ava’s already there, sipping coffee like the world isn’t imploding around me.

“Morning, sunshine,” she says cheerfully.

“I think I’m accidentally listed as a hooker.”

Ava blinks. “Come again?”

“I’ve been getting calls… gross ones. Some guy just asked if I’m Olivia from an escort ad. Apparently my number’s on the listing.”

She chokes on her coffee. “Are you serious?”

“Dead. I’m pretty sure I’m five toe-pics away from being someone’s foot fetish fantasy.”

“Well, at least you’re not getting spam texts about extended car warranties anymore.”

“Progress.”

She grabs her laptop. “Okay, let’s find this ad. They are calling your cell number right?”

I nod my head and Ava starts typing furiously. “Okay, found it,” she says, squinting at the screen. “Escort ad. Her name is Olivia Bennett. Blonde, bombshell, legs for days. Her number is listed down at the bottom in, like, size six font.”

I lean over her shoulder. “And where is mine?”

Ava snorts. “Right at the top. Dead center. Like, headline status.”

My stomach drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Dead center, bold as hell, your number plastered right under ‘Ask for Olivia’. Then what I assume is her real number is tucked way down at the bottom in microscopic font like it’s fine print on a rental agreement.”

“I’m gonna scream.”

A beat of silence. Then Ava starts cackling.

“Oh my god,” she wheezes. “You’re Olivia’s almost-twin. That’s what you get for having a basic-ass number.”

“This feels like identity theft, but make it slutty.”

Ava wipes tears from her eyes. “I’m begging you to answer the next one and mess with them.”

“Oh, I will. If I’m going to suffer, I might as well commit.”

My phone buzzes again. Unknown number.

I raise an eyebrow at Ava.

She nods encouragingly. “Do it.”

I swipe to answer. “This is Em. Not Olivia. But I charge double.”

A pause., then, “Interesting. Do you come with a wine recommendation, or is that extra?”

The voice is deeper this time. Smooth. Confident.

And holy hell, that accent. Italian, maybe? Definitely expensive. My stomach flips, against my will.

“Depends,” I say cautiously. “Are you calling for Olivia too?”

“I was. But now I’m intrigued. What’s your availability tonight?”

I snort. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“I know your voice is the first thing today that didn’t disappoint me.”

Okay, what the hell. “Look, I’m not Olivia. And I’m most certainly not an escort. Someone typed the wrong number in her ad, and I got stuck with the overflow.”

“Ah, so this is a mistake,” he murmurs. “And yet, somehow, I feel like I’m not the one losing here. Funny. You don’t sound like a mistake.”

“Right. Just your classic ‘escort misdial turns into awkward flirtation’ kind of Tuesday. And for the record, I didn’t exactly sign up to be Olivia’s understudy.”

A pause. “Would you be offended if I made you an offer anyway?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“I need a date. Black tie event. Tonight. Nothing indecent. Just arm candy.”

I laugh. “That’s your pitch? ‘Come be my arm candy’?”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“You’re smart. You’ve got a wicked sense of humor. I can work with that.”

I gape at my phone. “Who are you?”

“Marco DeLuca.”

I stop breathing for a second. I know that name. I’ve seen his face splashed across “Hottest CEO” lists and magazine covers. Marco DeLuca, CEO of DeLuca Vineyards. Tuscany’s golden boy. Rich. Handsome. Ruthless in a suit.

“You googling me yet?” he asks, and I hate that he’s right.

I only do it so I can look at him again. I pull up a picture. He’s stupid hot. Dark hair, killer smile, and the kind of jawline that could slice bread.

My brain short-circuits.

“I’ll send a car at seven,” he says smoothly. “You’ll be compensated for your time, of course.”

“How much are we even talking?”

“Ten thousand.”

I blink. “Dollars?”

He chuckles. “Unless you prefer euros.”

“Wait, what? You don’t even know where I live—”

“I will once you text me your address.”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

“You’re still on the call, aren’t you?”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because he’s right.

“…Just for the record, I’m not a hooker, so no funny business.”

Then I remember this man is a stranger and he could be anyone. “And if you’re a serial killer, I swear to God I will mace you and run.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Understood. But I promise, I’m not a serial killer.”

“Okay…. good.”

“See you tonight, Em.” and the phone clicks letting me know he hung up.

Ava is full-on shrieking across the kitchen. “YOU’RE GOING?”

“I don’t know!” I shout, equally horrified and weirdly giddy.

“Em, no. Absolutely not. You cannot just get into a limo with a random man who called you thinking you were an escort. That’s how Dateline episodes start.”

I hold up my phone. “And you wouldn’t do this for ten grand?”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Please,” I add, “you’ve been my best friend since we were kids, I KNOW you would.”

She sighs. “…I mean, yeah. But I’d at least Google self-defense moves first.”

Ava paces like a caged tiger behind me while I just… sit there. Staring at my phone. Like it might self-destruct the second I type something I can’t take back.

“Just to be clear,” she says slowly, “you’re not actually doing this, right?”

“I mean, I don’t plan to get murdered,” I mutter, tapping the screen and opening a new message. “But I’m texting him.”

“Em.”

“Ten. Thousand. Dollars.”

“Em.”

I glance at her. “Ava, I’m poor. My job barely pays my bills, I still have student loans, and I eat expired ramen on purpose. If this man wants to throw obscene amounts of money at me just to show up in a dress and smile for a few hours? I’m not saying no. I’m saying… please and thank you.”

She throws her hands up. “Okay. But I swear to God, if he tries anything, I will be on the next Dateline episode talking about how I told you so.”

“Noted.” I suck in a breath, then type out a message and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

ME: Against my better judgment… here’s my address. Please don’t be a serial killer. Or a toe guy.

MARCO: You have my word, no murder, no feet. Unless you’re into that. In which case… we renegotiate.

ME: Wow. A gentleman.

MARCO: Always. Black tie, 7PM. Come dressed to distract me.

ME: I’m not even sure what that means, but okay. Also, I don’t own a tiara or Louboutins, if that’s what you’re expecting.

MARCO: You don’t need them. Trust me, you’ll own the room just as you are.

ME: That’s… weirdly sweet for someone who literally dialed the wrong number.

MARCO: Maybe it wasn’t that wrong. Maybe I was meant to call you instead.

ME: Smooth.

MARCO: It’s a full-time job. I take my work seriously.

ME: Okay, Romeo. What exactly am I walking into tonight?

MARCO: Cocktail hour. Dinner. Networking. A speech I’ll pretend to care about. And then, hopefully, dessert with you.

ME: I’m assuming you mean dessert-dessert.

MARCO: For now. I can behave… if you insist.

ME: Oh, I insist. Remember, I’m not a hooker. I just play one on the phone.

MARCO: Haha Noted. No touching. No funny business. No feet.

ME: You’re never letting that go, are you?

MARCO: Never. See you tonight, Em.

…………

I set the phone down slowly.

Ava is watching me like I just sold my soul to the devil.

“He’s funny,” I say quietly.

“He’s hot,” she corrects. “Funny is just the trap.”

I glance at the time, 9:15AM. That gives me less than ten hours to figure out how to fake my way through a black-tie event with a hot as hell CEO.

“Are we doing a makeover montage now?” Ava asks, eyes lighting up.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Yesssss.” She grabs her keys, already halfway to the door. “Dress. Shoes. Emergency backup lashes. Let’s go.”

I grab my phone and follow her out. Because somehow, in the span of one chaotic morning, I’ve agreed to be the accidental date of Marco Freaking DeLuca.

And I’m not even mad about it.

…………

We hit a couple stores even though I tell Ava I already have a dress. She claims she just needs “options,” which really means she wants to see how many sequined disasters she can get me to try on ‘just for fun’.

I give her three.

Three full-blown, rhinestone-covered, skin-tight, absolutely mortifying attempts before I finally drag her out of the last boutique and go home.

“Okay, okay,” she huffs, tossing her iced coffee into our trash can. “Show me the infamous dress. I need to know what we’re working with here.”

I pull it from the back of my closet, it’s still hanging with the sales tag from a year ago. It’s a deep emerald green, off-the-shoulder, the kind of fabric that somehow hugs everything without clinging. I bought it for a charity gala with my ex. He bailed, and the dress never saw the light of day.

I change in the bathroom, smoothing the fabric down and exhaling slowly before stepping out.

Ava’s eyes widen the second she sees me.

“Oh my god. MARCO IS GOING TO COMBUST.”

I glance at myself in the mirror. Okay… yeah. It’s a good dress.

“You look like a walking power move,” Ava says, practically vibrating. “Like a Bond girl who just took over the movie.”

I smile, small but growing.

“Now,” she says, spinning around. “Hair up, down, or murderously hot half-up?”

“Let’s go murderously hot.”

We start pulling makeup bags and curling irons from drawers while music blasts from her phone. Between the teasing, the lashes, and a surprisingly heartfelt pep talk about “leaning into main character energy,” I almost forget how absurd the entire situation is.

Almost.

Because once Ava’s distracted trying to find the perfect earrings, I catch my reflection again—lipstick perfect, eyes smoky, dress clinging in all the right ways—and that flicker of panic comes creeping back in.

What am I doing?

This is a man I’ve never met. A billionaire. With cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds. He could be anyone. He could be charming and dangerous. He could be lying about everything.

But then I remember the way he said my name. Em. Like it wasn’t just an accident. Like I was supposed to answer that call.

And just like that, I square my shoulders.

“I’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.

Behind me, Ava says, “You sure do.”

…………

By six forty-five, I’ve checked the clock seventeen times, changed earrings three times, and reapplied lip gloss twice even though Ava swears it still looks perfect.

“Breathe,” she tells me, standing behind me like a drill sergeant with a curling iron.

“I’m breathing.”

“You’re not.”

I inhale, sharp and shaky. She raises a brow.

“Okay, maybe I forgot how.”

She laughs and tosses the iron on the counter. “You’ve got this. You look like you belong in a Vogue spread and your boobs are basically perfect right now.”

I glance down. Fair point.

Before I can reply, headlights sweep across the front window.

Ava peeks through the blinds. “Limo’s here. Black. Sleek. Definitely expensive.”

My heart thumps louder than it should. “Do I look like someone who belongs in a limo?”

“No. You look like someone who owns it.”

I grab my tiny clutch and try not to pass out as I make my way to the door.

“You text me the second you get there,” Ava calls. “And if he says anything serial killer-y, you hit him with that heel and run.”

“Got it.”

“Also,” she adds as I open the door, “ten thousand dollars or not… if he’s ugly in person, blink twice and I’ll fake an emergency.”

I snort. “What kind of ugly billionaire are we expecting? Shrek with a yacht?”

“You never know. He might’ve used good angles.”

The limo driver steps out just as I reach the sidewalk. “Miss Harrington?”

“That’s me.”

He opens the door. I slide into plush leather seats and try to remember how to sit like someone who’s not about to hyperventilate. There’s a chilled bottle of champagne waiting. Because of course there is.

I don’t touch it.

My phone buzzes.

MARCO: Limo arrived?

ME: Yes. Very swanky. Not even slightly murder-y so far.

MARCO: Excellent. Champagne is for you. Relax. I’ll be waiting out front.

ME: You’ll know it’s me by the nervous energy and the faint scent of panic.

MARCO: Can’t wait.

I stare out the window as the limo glides through the city, heart thudding somewhere in my throat.

This is really happening.

Ten thousand dollars. One night. With a man I’ve never met.

I grip the edge of the seat and mutter to myself, “Please let him be hot. Please let him be normal. Please let this not be the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Spoiler: the bar is low.

The car pulls to a stop. The driver rounds the side and opens the door.

And that’s when I see him.

Marco DeLuca. In the flesh. And holy hell.

He’s tall. Dressed in a black tux like he was born in it. Hair dark and perfect. Hands in his pockets like he owns the night and knows it.

His eyes meet mine. And just like that, the nerves vanish.

Because Marco doesn’t just look good. He looks like trouble.

The End for now! Releasing January 2026

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Jealous Looks Good on Him

He said it was fake. Until someone else looked at her.

There’s something about a possessive MMC.

The kind who plays it cool until someone else flirts with her. Then suddenly, he’s leaning closer. His hand’s on her waist. His voice is darker.

And just like that, the line between fake and real disappears.

Jealousy in romance hits different when it’s layered with tension, unspoken rules, and the need to stake a claim without admitting it out loud.

He might say it doesn’t matter—but his reaction tells a different story.

The Lines Are Already Blurring

There’s pretending… and then there’s pretending while he watches you like he owns you.

The plan was simple: play the part, keep it clean, stay detached.

But detached doesn’t seem to be on the table. Not when she smiles at someone else. Not when she looks too good in his clothes. And especially not when the fake part starts to feel like a lie.

Emery’s caught in something she can’t define—because it’s not just pretend anymore.

Not when every glance says otherwise.

The Problem with Pretend

Sometimes the worst thing you can do… is fake it too well.

Marco and Emery agree to keep things simple.

Pretend to date. Smile for family. Walk away when it’s over.

But pretending gets complicated when the looks last too long, the touches stop being fake, and the man who promised not to keep it professional starts acting like she’s his.

What starts as a business arrangement doesn’t stay in the lines—and neither do they.

One Call. One Mistake. Everything Changes.

Wrong number. Right man. Very, very wrong idea.

It all starts with a call she should’ve ignored.

Emery’s world flips the moment she picks up—and the voice on the other end isn’t who she expects. Marco DeLuca is powerful, and way too commanding for someone she’s never met. But one wrong number turns into an offer. Pretend to be his girlfriend. Follow a script. Keep things professional.

Except nothing about Marco is professional.

And the moment she agrees, she’s pulled into something far more complicated—and dangerous to her heart—than either of them planned.

Wrong Number is releasing January of 2026! Pre Orders will be available soon!