Pretending He's Mine

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Smashwords Edition

PRETENDING HE’S MINE
Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com

Cover Design by Josyan McGregor

PUBLISHED ON SMASHWORDS BY:
Lauren Blakely

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

eab:20130224.01

Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance
(NOT appropriate for younger readers)

Once upon a time in New York City, there was a down-on-his-luck actor named Reeve, who was talented and gorgeous in that dreamy, broody sort of way that makes all the women swoon. But show biz is a rough biz—he lost out on a part in a big film, and now his day job hours have been cut too. What’s a handsome young thing in need of a role to do? Enter Sutton Brenner. She’s sexy and shrewd and the most top-notch casting director there is. She’s this close to landing a coveted gig casting a film based on a best-selling mega-romance novel, but there’s a catch. After one too many transgressions with lovely single ladies, the film’s philandering producer has been put on a short leash by his wife, who’s forbidden him from working with anyone unattached. So the happily single Sutton strikes a pact with Reeve—play the role of her fiancé until she closes the deal, and he’s guaranteed to get an audition for the starring role in the film. But as the two play pretend, the lines between make-believe and matters of the heart start to blur. Especially after that hot night in the balcony of the Broadway theater. And that scorching afternoon in the stacks of the New York Public Library. Who’s playing who? Or is someone else really the director in the secret affair of their lives?

Pretending He’s Mine
is a 30,000-word companion novella in the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling
Caught Up In Us
series. It’s not necessary to have read
Caught Up In Us
to enjoy
Pretending He’s Mine
. This is not a sequel. However,
Caught Up In Us
fans should be pleased to know that Jill has several scenes and that both Kat and Bryan appear in a key scene in this novella! There are also two bonus/additional scenes from
Caught Up In Us
exclusively in this novella! And a sneak peek at the first chapter of
USA Today
Bestselling author Monica Murphy’s upcoming novel
Second Chance Boyfriend
, as well as an excerpt from the upcoming young adult novel
Hell’s Hollow
by Summer Stone.

Caught Up In Us
is available from many fine e-tailers, including
Amazon
,
Barnes & Noble
,
Smashwords
,
Kobo
, and iBooks soon!

Copyright
Dedication
About

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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue

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Bonus Scenes from
Caught Up In Us
Acknowledgements
Contact

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Sneak Peek of Monica Murphy’s
Second Chance Boyfriend

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Sneak Peek of Summer Stone’s
Hell’s Hollow

The metal dug into his wrists. As Reeve watched the red indentation forming on his skin, he never thought he’d be the one in this position. Even in his wildest hopes, he never imagined he’d be wearing only boxer briefs and cowboy boots while handcuffed to a bedpost.

But if he were to really analyze the situation, with complete and total honesty, the boots were probably the strangest part of the whole scenario. He’d never been a cowboy boots kind of guy. Combat boots, maybe, worn and tattered. Jeans and tee-shirts, for sure.

But genuine cowboy boots?

So not Reeve.

“Tell me when it hurts.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said.

A pair of hands wrapped around him, tugging on each end of the handcuffs, tightening them. He felt another pair of hands slide up his back. He sucked in a breath. Damn, why did it have to feel so good? Why wasn’t he the one doing the cuffing, and calling the shots? But then, the deal with Sutton Brenner had never started with him calling the shots. It had always started with her, with her glorious legs, ice-blue eyes, curtains of brown, silky hair, and the body that would put a Victoria’s Secret model to shame. He was pretty sure Sutton’s hands were the ones tracing long, lingering lines up his back.

The two women weren’t the only ones in the room, but Reeve did his best to keep his head down, his eyes off of anyone else.

“How about a cowboy hat before I take you for a ride?”

He heard the sound of a whip cracking against a palm, and then a wide-brimmed hat came down on his head, pushing his dark hair into his eyes. Sutton stepped back. Her role was done.

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Sutton Brenner had seen a lot of young men with their shirts off. A fair amount with jeans off too. Yes, she definitely considered herself a top-tier appraiser of the finest specimens of toned, muscled, and eminently lickable male flesh. Not that she went around sampling the produce. Rather, she was known for being able to pick ‘em. She could identify a thoroughbred with one sharp-eyed stare. Reeve wasn’t the typical buffed, oiled and flexed 200-pounds of muscle you’d see in a fireman’s calendar, nor was he your standard-order bachelorette-party beefcake with a bowtie and a big smile. There was something a bit more refined about him. Not just in his face—those cheekbones had been sculpted by Renaissance Masters, she was sure—but also in his body. He was longer, lankier, with the tightly toned frame of a cyclist, but filled out in all the right places. Trim waist, cut abs, arms with just the right amount of delicious definition. And that hair, so soft and inviting.

Sutton bit her lip just thinking of all the days and nights she’d spent with him. Sure, he might be the one chained to a bedpost now. But she was an equal opportunity objectifier and she grinned privately as she rewound through all the times he’d had his way with her. But this moment wasn’t about her. It was about him. The spotlight was definitely on him.

Callback.

The word itself was alluring. It whispered of promises and hope and possibility. It was the thing an actor wanted most to hear after an audition, but hell if callback wasn’t the big tease. It was the carrot you chased and rarely caught.

Reeve longed to hear those words on his voice mail, to see them in his email. They came in fits and starts, and he hadn’t gotten a callback since he finished the run of an off-Broadway production of Les Mis. The producers had modernized the show so Reeve had gotten to sing like a rock star, and he felt like one too, earning comparisons by critics to the lead singer of Arcade Fire in one review, and Coldplay in another. The show closed a few weeks ago, and Reeve found himself where young actors in New York often find themselves. Looking for a job. It was a constant state as a thespian. You had to live your life on the edge of want every single day. If there was anything else he remotely wanted to do with his life—be a cop like his dad, or a high school English teacher, like his mom, he’d have signed up for the police academy or a teaching degree a few years ago. But acting was his passion, the thing he couldn’t live without, and so, at age twenty-four, he’d amassed a couple decent credits, and a few nice gigs, but not a ton of dough. Despite the reviews for Les Mis, he’d only made a few thousand bucks from the show.

That was the problem with theater. It barely satisfied the beast of New York City rent.

Sure, there were commercials, and Reeve had snagged a couple of spots, pimping whitening toothpaste in one, and flashing his bright, perfect smile. Hey, he wasn’t bragging. He just had straight teeth, thanks to years in braces as a kid. But he needed a bigger payday. Nab a meaty role in a film, or land a part in a TV show that makes it, and you’re on your way to no longer having to strap a messenger bag across your back, and zip through traffic like you’ve got a deathwish. Bike messengers were still in demand by law offices and financial firms, but the clients could be douchebags, and Reeve got tired of the dirty looks he’d get from the pinstriped-suited men in elevators. As if they’d never seen a guy with bike grease on his cheeks before.

Today was one of those days. A snooty lady in an office building had made him take the stairs fifteen flights rather than the elevator, then he’d been nearly clipped by a cab making an illegal turn on Third Avenue, and to top it off he’d almost gotten sideswiped by a bus when the driver didn’t bother to look whether the lane was clear. Was it so much to ask for drivers to pay attention?

Now, he was racing against the clock to deliver documents for a deal closing.

“Hold the door,” he called out as the brass elevator doors of a swank Park Avenue office building started to shut. The whole place was gold-plated and marble-floored and reeked of insanely high hourly billing rates, the likes of which Reeve could barely even imagine.

He ran over to the lift, messenger bag smacking the back of his tee-shirt, and raced inside. The gray-haired man who’d held the door gave him a quick once-over and then snorted a “harumph” and shook his head.

“Need a tissue? Some cough drops, maybe?” Reeve said, because he knew the blue blood was dissing him in his street wear, with his bike helmet still on, and fingerless gloves on his hands, and the attitude ticked him off.

“Shouldn’t you be taking the service elevator, young man?”

“Oh, right. I should,” Reeve muttered under his breath while staring at the elevator buttons. “Because I might infect the people in here with my low-paying, grubby, barely-covers-the-rent job.”

Evidently, the man had good hearing. “I could call building security on you.”

Crap. The guy probably owned the building. Reeve should have known better. He should have shut his mouth. He should have said, “Yes sir, I will take that elevator next time.” But honestly, the whole bike-messenger-in-the-service-elevator was supposed to be a thing of the past.

“Sorry,” Reeve said.

They stepped out at the same floor and walked into a glass-paneled office suite.

“Hello, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” the receptionist said and Reeve cringed as he handed her the package. “For Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Reeve said in a low voice.

He turned tail, ready to get the hell out of the office, when Mr. Fitzpatrick called out to the receptionist. “Sally, dear. Would you please look into a new messenger service for our documents?”

Fuck. His boss was going to skewer him. Why did he have to make a snide comment? Reeve didn’t usually let pointed remarks get the better of him. But, it wasn’t even the richie-rich dude in the suit that he was pissed at. Reeve was still pissed at himself over blowing a callback a few weeks ago.

It had been a plum role. A supporting part in a new Joss Whedon flick. He’d nailed the first audition, then he’d prepped and practiced his lines over and over before the callback. That was the problem. He’d wrung all the feelings from the words after one too many solo rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror. By the time he opened his mouth for the camera that was rolling on his callback, he was on auto-pilot. He knew from the way the producer had said “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” that he’d flubbed it and Reeve only had himself to blame.