But He's My Fake Fiancé (But He's a Carter Brother #3)

by Annah Conwell

Dad: Where are you? It’s 1 PM. I let out a heavy sigh. My dad is also a fan of intense punctuality. When I told him I’d get to the club around one, he heard I’d be there at exactly one. Sloane: I just finished up some research I was doing. I should be there soon. Dad: Okay. A man of many words, my father. I get in my silver BMW convertible and throw my required hard hat into the passenger seat. It knocks against my laptop bag and rolls onto the floor. With a shrug, I pull down my visor mirror to inspect my hair. Yikes. This Georgia humidity is not doing me any favors. I redo my ponytail, grabbing a hair wax stick from my purse to smooth my flyaways down. Thankfully, my mascara is waterproof and the rest of my makeup is on the subtle side today, so I look glowy and fresh-faced after a few strategic dabs of a napkin from my console. My dad won’t care if I arrive looking less than runway-ready, but my dearest stepmother will likely tell me I look like a sweaty troll. Okay, she might not say those exact words but she will say something like “Are you feeling okay, dear? You look a little warm.” Which is code for sweaty troll status in Monica Covington speak. I strip off the long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing, exposing the soft pink tank top underneath that I’ve paired with black yoga pants and white sneakers. It’s not a glamorous look, but since it’s from Lululemon maybe Monica won’t nitpick it too much. Who am I kidding? She’ll spend the first thirty minutes of lunch trying to con...