Falling for Your Fake Fiancé (Love Clichés, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

“I better go, Mom. Need to start the hunt for a suitable wife. Do you think Craigslist is a good place to start? Maybe Facebook Marketplace?”

there are few things as disgusting as the tongue of a Great Dane inside your mouth. It’s the most action I’ve seen in over a year, and I am NOT here for it.

Oh, no you don’t, Apollo. I’ve seen 101 Dalmatians. And I am not about to be set up by a dog. Nuh-uh. Stick to planning which tree to water next, buddy. Because you are not playing matchmaker with me and your donkey’s butt of a human.

I have to bite my lip to hide my grin. Can’t show too much of my hand to Thayden. He might get the wrong idea. Heck, I think I’m beginning to get the wrong idea. Lots of very, very wrong ideas.

Mama insisted I stay carb-free from the moment I started developing curves. As if removing sugar from my diet would keep my A cups from sprouting into C cups. In case you were wondering, it did not.

I hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can get out whatever has his eyes flashing with mischief. I swear, it’s like this man’s mission is to torture me. And based on the rapid beating of my heart, the more primal, less logical part of me loves it. That part of me needs to have a come-to-Jesus meeting.

do I really need to give the man any more space in my life? I feel like I tried to slam the door on him and he keeps on wedging his foot inside.

He’s a rake. A rogue. A modern woman might refer to him as a canoe for feminine wash. But I’ll stick with Shakespeare. Thayden is a scoundrel and a knave.

Judge away, but as much as I love reading, sometimes a good YouTube binge does my soul good.

I do the Google street view—because what was that invented for if not to better stalk people?—and my jaw flaps when I see the place.

But I believe the fabric of a person can be known by their stitching. That is, the small parts helping to make up the whole quilt.

“English lit major. I may speak Southern, but I do like my grammar and correct word choice.” And if it matters, I’m Team Oxford comma all the way. But I doubt Thayden knows, uses, or cares for my ride-or-die punctuation.

He’s a charmer, I remind myself. It’s all an act. And you’ve seen what charming men can do. Be Fort Knox! Not an open-all-night convenience store.

And is it so wrong that it feels so right when Delilah gives me a hard time? I could listen to her insult me all day long.

The phone goes still, and I watch until my screen goes black, then unlock my phone and reread the whole thread, smiling until my cheeks cramp.

So far, the only thing I’m releasing is sweat. Buckets of it. Whoever said ladies only glow never lived in the South. Or knew actual ladies.

Maybe I should have. That seems like a logical first step, one normally taking place before looking into the man’s underwear drawer.

To sum up, this non-date is totally smoking every real date I’ve had in my life.

The waiter brings the check while I’m weighing the pros and cons of licking my plate clean. I decide it would be uncouth, and instead swipe a finger through the remainder of the icing. Because licking your finger is much more ladylike than licking your plate—etiquette 101.

The inches separating us are painful, a chasm made up of pure attraction. I hate those inches.

Wow. Okay, so we’ve turned from hypothetical marriage-contract stuff, to the most epic DTR talk ever. Straight from a first non-date date to future intentions and marriage talk.

in a strange turn of events, I am wedding dress shopping with my future temporary mother-in-law, who tricked me into a legally binding agreement. The greeting card aisle doesn’t cover that one yet.

Before I can stop her, she starts pulling the dress together in the back, using giant clips to hold it in place. They remind me of the chip clips we have at the house, and now I’m feeling like a bag of Doritos.

Relief and disappointment make for a bitter cocktail.

jealousy is like Hydra. Cut off one head and another one grows right in its place.

This woman is like one of those complicated knots I never learned to untie because I wasn’t a Boy Scout. Just when I think I’ve got it, the thing is even tighter than before.

The man is like a pie set out in a window to cool, and I want to take a big bite.

Same page, maybe, but I can’t help but wonder if we’re holding very different books.

We didn’t exchange I love yous yet or anything, but we’re on the same page. And we’re getting married. All of this totally out of order, but who cares? We don’t need to follow some checklist. She wants me. I want her.

Manners make a perfect mask.

I’m going to marry the love of my life. That’s all that matters.

“I’m being more than properly spoiled. Y’all! They serve us drinks on the beach! In pineapples! I had a massage in a cabana!” “I bet that’s not all you had in a cabana!” Abby yells. Even out of sight, she’s somehow the biggest presence in any room. “I will neither confirm nor deny such allegations,” I say, hoping the blush isn’t evident in my cheeks. “Confirmed!” Thayden yells from the shower. “THAYDEN!” I shout.

“Everything comes back around,” Abby argues. “Bell bottoms became bootcut jeans. Leggings were big in the early ’90s and now again. Chokers! Overalls!”