Fake Fiance Plan Read Online Sophia Bent

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)

My fake fiancé isn’t just a warm body… He is my scorching hot baby daddy.
The deal was to pretend we are in love with each other and not catch any feelings.
Much easier said than done.
One sexy touch from him zaps my willpower.
His gaze sizzles and his caress lights a raging fire inside me.
Being his fake fiancé helps him get the job he wants and gets my parents off my back for not having a husband.
This should have been simple enough….
Except, things with him have never been simple.
A dark secret from his past could ruin everything for me.
And now with this pink line on the stick, things just get really complicated




“So”—beads of sweat dot Nasra’s temple as she twirls her straw without drinking the teeth-numbingly sweet strawberry smoothie in front of her—“What do you think? Will you marry me?”

“Um.” A flush creeps up my neck. What else are you supposed to say when an absolutely gorgeous, but equally intimidating, woman you met maybe a half hour ago proposes marriage to you? “Um,” I repeat.

How did we even get here?

40 minutes earlier

Usually, when I go to work out at 11 pm on a Thursday, a blissfully empty gym welcomes me. Open machines, no awkward grunting or avoiding eye contact with bros in their muscle shirts and too-short basketball shorts. Plus, I can lie on the mats recovering for as long as I want after a strenuous workout. No one to uproot me for their stretches or hour-long yoga sessions.

But tonight, instead of the blessed silence I’m used to, I’m met with the sound of a punching bag being savaged. Someone obviously had a tough day.

And that someone…makes everything in my feel anxious with annoyance. I drop my bag at the cubicles near the entrance. From my position, I can only see her back—her tight curls rest in a neat bun on the top of her head, bright red sports bra with matching leggings complement her deep tan, with her toned shoulders and a right hook I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of. I’m tempted to offer my services as a 24-hour heavy bag holder, if it means I get a glimpse of her face.

Instead, I resolve not to be a total creep. It’s not a great idea to approach a woman at the gym at any time of the day. But at this hour, with the two of us alone… I shudder to think of her reaction. So, instead, I resist the urge and take up residence at the treadmills near the entrance of the spacious gym, farthest away from the woman and whomever she’s imagining the punching bag to be.

Besides, being her human punching bag definitely wouldn’t accomplish my goal of running off every ounce of dejection that sits in me like a pitted cherry seed set to grow out of my throat.

I’ve wanted to work in the legal field since I was a kid. I held dreams of becoming a lawyer, and even if my grades in high school weren’t, you know, top-notch, I thought just maybe I’d be able to pull it off.

So, I’ve been applying to paralegal positions, which would make it easier for me to ease into the field and learn a lot on the job. Then, maybe I could take the LSATs and apply to law school, to take the slow route and become a defense attorney or even open up my own firm.

Of course, none of that seems like a real possibility anymore. Not after the fifteenth rejection, or my parents' insistence I should try something else—something more realistic.

Realistic, my ass.

At this rate, applying for a realistic job won’t be fruitful either. I’ll probably be resigned to my construction job until my body can’t handle it anymore. This is why the gym serves as a second home. I have to make sure I can maintain the rigors that come with the physical labor of the job.

From my perch on the treadmill, I can see the woman reflected in the mirror in front of me. I try to keep my ogling to a minimum, even if it serves as a nice distraction while my lungs burn and sweat pools beneath my arms, slickening my chest.

There’s an allure to her. As she trades punches for kicks and rests to take long pulls from her water, I catch tantalizing glimpses of her face—her near-perfect jawline, elegant neck, and stunning bare-faced beauty. She serves as a balm from the doom and gloom of my day, in addition to the exercise endorphin rush that’s as painful as it is pleasing.

She can give me as much pain and pleasure as she wants.

Still, I manage to be a total creep.

I turn my attention back to the task at hand. I’m nearly at a mile, and I’ll jump on the weight machines after that. And I won’t stare at the bombshell kicking the shit out of the punching bag. Even if she’s moving around, it as if it’s throwing punches back at her. That is super fucking cute.