Pretend It's Love (3 page)

They were like her—intriguing, unusual, and sexy as hell.

She was a whirlwind of energy. It had certainly felt like a tornado struck him when she’d smacked into him at full speed, knocking the glasses straight off his tray and stealing the breath right out of his lungs. Not to mention he’d had to keep control over his body’s natural reactions when he’d picked her up and felt the brush of her sweet curves against him.

She wasn’t even his usual type. He was a die-hard blonde man and this girl’s hair was like the color of a copper coin. Most of the time, he found himself attracted to the life-of-the-party type, the girls who were the ones dancing even when there was no dance floor. She looked like she knew how to have fun, but there was a serious streak to her. She was sharp, intelligent.

Different.

“You have to at least tell me your name,” he said, running another curl of orange peel around the edge of her glass and dropping it into the drink. “In case this evening of denial ends up with me needing to call someone to pick you up.”

“Guess,” she said with a smirk, reaching out and taking the drink from him.

“You want me to guess your name?”

“Yeah.” Her rosy lips wrapped around the edge of the glass as she sipped. “What kind of girl do I look like?”

“One who knows how to lead a guy straight into trouble.”

He folded his arms across his chest, resisting her bait. Lips quirked into a smile, she waited for him to answer her question, her eyes locked onto his in silent challenge. For a moment the rest of the restaurant faded away; the ambient sounds dissolved into nothingness as his whole world focused in on her. For some reason the little staring contest made his blood pump harder, his competitive side stirred by the tilt in her chin.

“If you don’t guess then I won’t tell you my name,” she threatened, smiling.

“I’ll have to call you Tiger then.”

“Tiger?” She threw her head back and burst out laughing. “Why on earth would you call me Tiger?”

“We had a cat called Tiger growing up. He was ginger and his fur was exactly the same color as your hair.”

“Great, so you’re telling me that I remind you of an old cat.” She tried to sound offended, but her eyes sparkled and amusement bubbled in her voice. “That’s charming.”

“I’m calling it. Bartender one, Tiger zero.”

“My name is Libby.” She extended her hand over the bar. “Don’t call me Tiger.”

“Paul.”

A zing of electricity rocketed through him as her small palm slotted into his. Her skin was smooth and creamy, but she had a handshake as firm as any guy he’d ever met. It was the kind of handshake that warned him not to underestimate her.

“So this isn’t your bar?” she asked, releasing his hand.

“Nope.” He busied himself with wiping down the countertop. “My brother runs this place.”

One of the waiters came past and handed over an order slip. Two boutique beers and a house G&T. Boring.

“It looks like he’s doing well for himself,” Libby said, sipping her drink.

Paul bent down to the fridge below the bar and pulled out two beer bottles. He popped off the caps and set them down on a tray. “We got a write up in Gastronomy Magazine recently. They called us one of Melbourne’s up and comers.”

“Really?” Libby raised a brow and nodded her head. “That’s quite an honor. I’m surprised you could squeeze me in tonight. My grand entrance notwithstanding.”

“Week nights are still a little slow,” he replied with a smile. “But we’re packed on Fridays and over the weekends now. We had a queue right around the corner last Saturday.”

The article had been a huge win for First and reservations were up all around. They’d had to hire two new waitresses to keep up with the demand. Paul felt a surge of pride run through him, despite the fact that it wasn’t a win for him personally. But he wanted First to succeed. His brother deserved it.

“Hey, man. Don’t tell me you’ve resorted to hitting on girls who can’t run away.” Noah appeared at the bar and winked at Libby. “I left some paperwork in the back office. Have you got the key?”

“I’m perfectly comfortable here, thank you very much.” Libby said primly, sipping her drink.

“If he’s hassling you, just call out.” Noah came around the bar and dug his elbow into Paul’s ribs. “Although we never seem to get any complaints, do we? The ladies love him.”

“What the fuck?” Paul muttered under his breath, glaring at his so-called friend as he dug the keys out of his pocket.

“Relax, she knows I’m joking.” Noah grabbed the keys from Paul’s hand. “Gee, can’t take a little friendly ribbing tonight, can we? This is payback for always stealing the pretty girls in high school. That was uncool, and you know it.”

“That was years ago.” Paul turned to Noah so Libby couldn’t see his face. “Are you going to hold that against me forever?”

As Noah sauntered off, Paul turned and caught Libby watching him closely, her hazel eyes sweeping over him in unconcealed analysis. What did he care if she believed that he was a shameless womanizer? It’s not like he’d see her again.

But the very thought made his stomach turn.

“It’s amazing how one little article can make such a big difference,” she said, graciously turning the conversation back to the bar. “You know, this is
exactly
the kind of place that would be perfect for my cocktails.”

Topping the gin off with tonic water, Paul grabbed a slice of lime from the dish in front of him and wedged it onto the glass’s rim. He signaled to the waiter to come and collect the order.

Libby looked at him expectantly. There was something about her sincere face and those beautiful, intoxicating eyes that made him want to help her. He knew little about her business and nothing about her personally, but she stirred in him some basal desire to protect.

“You should talk to my brother.” He hunted around for the business cards that Des had recently ordered but couldn’t find them.

“That would be great.”

He grabbed a napkin and a pen. “Here’s his name and number. He’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

She plucked the napkin from his hand and finished the rest of her drink before fishing around in her bag and pulling out a lipstick and mirror. A woman with blue hair came up to the bar and placed a hand on Libby’s shoulder, her face creased with concern.

“Looks like the cavalry is here,” Libby said.

Light glinted off the gold casing on the lipstick as she dragged the color across her lush, full lips, her mouth opened into a small
O
shape.

Lipstick was high up on his list of things he wished girls wouldn’t bother with—it got everywhere, and it tasted gross. But watching Libby apply it was the most erotic thing he’d seen in a long time. The way the color made her lips look full and moist caused all the blood in his body to rush south.

There is something seriously wrong with you. Lipsticks should not give you a hard-on.

Chapter Three

T
he following week Paul sat in his mother’s kitchen, bracing himself for their weekly “chat”—if you could call it that. Did guilt mongering count as conversation?

“You’re not getting any younger you know.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You act like my whole life is over.”

“I already had your brother and you by twenty-seven. I was married
five
years.” His mother’s Italian accent had softened over the years, but it always came back full strength when she engaged guilt mode. “My parents brought us to Australia so we could make a better life.”

“And I’m disrespecting that because I’m not married and reproducing?” He leaned back in the rickety dining chair, wishing for the hundredth time that his mother would replace the yellow plastic set and bring her kitchen into the twenty-first century. She sat across from him, still wearing the floral apron from when she’d cooked lunch. “Des is only just getting married.”

“Your brother is responsible,” she said, reaching for the carafe of water between them and refilling their glasses. “I knew he would settle down, but he was concentrating on work. You…”

“What?”

“You have a new girl every week; it’s not right.” She shook her head, the reading glasses lodged in her curly, dark hair sliding precariously. “Don’t think I’m stupid, Paolo. I know. You can’t keep changing women like you change…shoes.”

Every Friday he had lunch with his mother before his long shift at First. And every Friday she grilled him about why he wasn’t in a relationship, why he mooched off his brother, why he wasn’t doing anything with himself.

Apparently that now also included criticizing his dating choices.

“Seriously?”

“You think life is all fun and games.”

For a moment she looked sad, the lines around her eyes deepening as she frowned. That look killed him every damn time. Guilt sliced through him, and he hated himself for not being what she wanted…not that he would
ever
let her know that. On the outside he looked as stubborn as ever, but her words tore at him. Shredding him up little by little.

This was a preview of things to come at Des’s wedding. Sadie. His cousin. His aunts. A reminder that he’d disappointed everyone by not being…someone else.

“She’s pregnant, you know,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Gracie?”

“No.”

His heart stopped for a moment. “Who?”

“Sadie.” She sighed. “Zia Marcella rang today, Sadie is sixteen weeks pregnant.”

The air rushed out of his lungs as though someone had punched him in the stomach. The thought of seeing her at the wedding was bad enough, but knowing she was pregnant…

“I have to go.” He pushed up from his chair and grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand.

“Paolo.” She stood, crossing her arms under her bosom. “I don’t say these things to upset you.”

He gritted his teeth, fighting the pounding in his head. He needed to sort out this problem soon. He was not going to face his ex and her smarmy husband alone while they basked in the glow of their perfect life.

The life he had wanted.

“I’m not upset, Ma.” He shrugged into his coat and swallowed against the lump in his chest. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“I want you to have a good life.” She looked up, her black-brown eyes shining.

“I’m perfectly happy with my life.”

At one point he was sure that was true, but now he constantly battled restlessness and dissatisfaction. Pride wouldn’t allow him to let anyone else see that, though, and he wore his reputation as armor. Better to be a womanizing playboy—as his mother had once called him—than to be a loser.

He
had
to come up with a solution to this wedding situation. No way was he going to be the Chapman failure again. He needed an idea, and quick.

“Is it so wrong that I want a few bambini in the house?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped backward. “No, there’s nothing wrong with that. But I won’t play happy families. You’ll have to wait until Gracie gets knocked up.”

“Don’t say knocked up.” She scowled.

“I gotta run.” He turned, shoving a hand into one pocket to fish around for his car keys.

“Wait!” She scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a cardboard tray filled with plastic containers and glass jars. “I made sauce and some sweets. Chocolate cannoli and
kraffen
.”

“The apricot ones?” His tastebuds were already cheering for the delicious doughnut-like pastries.

“Of course.” She sent him away with another guilt trip about settling down and finding a wife.

By the time he arrived at First the sun beat down in full force. His leather jacket felt like a straightjacket, stifling him, so he stripped it off and threw it onto the back seat. With a cardboard tray of food balanced in the crook of one arm, he stepped out into the sunshine and kicked the car door closed behind him.

“It’s already crazy in there.” A voice caught his attention as he walked toward First.

Noah leaned against the side of the restaurant, shielding his eyes with one arm. He looked as though he’d been put through the wringer.

“Busy?”

“Yep. Totally nuts.” Noah shook his head. “You’re going to be in for a treat tonight.”

Great. Fridays were crazy enough anyway with several of the office buildings in the block using First as their after-work watering hole. There were also a few clubs in the area, which meant they got a lot of younger customers having dinner and pre-drinks before a big night out. Fridays were rowdy, and normally he thrived on the hustle and bustle of a busy night’s trade, but today his energy was failing him.

Probably because his head was filled with a confusing mix of his pregnant ex and the redhead from last week.

“Excellent,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“Oh, more treats from Mama Chapman?” Noah peered into the box and fell into step beside Paul.

“Don’t even think about swiping any of this.”

The bottles and containers were labeled with sticky notes and his mother’s looping, barely legible cursive. Most of the bottles were labelled Des or Paul, but sure enough there was a bottle of pasta sauce and a container of pastries that had “Noah” written on it.

“Score!” Noah reached in and grabbed his items, halting Paul so suddenly that the tray wobbled precariously.

He was about to let out a string of expletives when his attention caught a colorful flash.

“Tiger!” he called out, shoving the tray into Noah’s hands.

Libby turned, shaking her head at him. “I told you not to call me that.”

She had a box in her hands, a folder sticking out the top. Her mass of copper hair was piled onto her head in a way that looked messy and yet totally perfect. A bright red dress skimmed the tops of her knees, swirling in the light breeze. Again she wore stupidly high heels that looked sexy as all hell.

“How’s the ankle?” He looked pointedly at her shoes.

Her lips melted into a sheepish smile. “I was housebound for a few days but there wasn’t any permanent damage…just a big dent in my pride.”

“And yet I see you haven’t learned anything about choosing appropriate footwear for walking down the street.” He wandered over to her and lifted the box from her hands. “Let me carry that for you.”

“Don’t you have your own things to worry about?” She gestured at Noah.

“Nah, he can handle that.” Bottles of vodka with girlie logos on the front filled the box he’d taken from her. “I assume this is your product.”

“You assume correctly,” she said as they walked, her heels clicking on the pavement. “I had a meeting with your brother.”

“And?”

She gave him the thumbs down signal. “No good.”

“Why?”

His brother was a huge champion for local business. In fact, he stocked several beers from Victorian craft breweries, and he ordered a chunk of his morning pastries from a woman who ran a catering business out of her home. Why not give Libby a chance?

“I don’t think he feels that these type of cocktails suit the clientele.” She sighed. “He was very polite, but I didn’t get much out of him.”

“That sounds like my brother.” He shook his head. “I can talk to him for you.”

They stopped beside a bright red car, and Libby fished around in her bag for her keys. “You would?”

“Of course.”

She opened the side door and bent over the backseat, pushing boxes to the other side. Red fabric stretched across the perfect curve of her ass as she leaned forward, sending Paul’s pulse skyrocketing. Teetering on her heels, she wiggled backward and braced her hand on the car door as she stood.

“You don’t know me from a bar of soap.” She pushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes and bit down on her cherry-colored lip.

“Des doesn’t, either. It’s possibly why he wasn’t keen to get your product in.” Paul lowered the box to her backseat and shut the door. “He tends to keep things in the community. All the key employees at First are people he knows and a lot of our suppliers are connections he’s made through friends and family.”

“I understand.” She nodded, sighing. “But I’ll be honest, I’m desperate. I’ve met with a ton of places this week, and all I’m getting is no, no, no. Getting showcased here would mean the world to me.”

The frankness in her tone hit him square in the chest. He wanted to help her more than anything and he couldn’t explain why, but his instincts told him to believe in her. For the longest time he’d avoided getting to know any women. He didn’t want to know about their lives or their problems. But something about Libby had changed that. He
would
help her.

But there was still the problem of getting Des to feel the same way.

“Maybe I could try again, I mean, I know he doesn’t have any connection with me but—”

An idea hit Paul like a bolt of lightning, the perfect solution to her problem—and his. “But you
could
have a connection to him.”

“How could I do that?”

“This is going to sound crazy. But hear me out.”

Libby leaned against the car and nodded. “Crazy is my specialty these days.”

“We can get together. Then, as my girlfriend, you can get to know Des and gain his trust.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re right, that’s completely crazy. Why would you date me just so I can get to know your brother for the sake of business?”

“We wouldn’t really be dating. I’m not the relationship type.” Even the thought of it made him itch; he would
not
revisit the pain of what Sadie put him through ever again. “I have zero interest in settling down, but my family is on my back and Des is getting married soon. I don’t want to deal with the questions about why I’m not getting married, too.”

She didn’t need to know about the issue of him facing his ex.

“Why is being single such a bad thing?”

“It’s an Italian thing.” He shrugged. “Getting married means I’m taking life seriously.”

“Because that means grandkids won’t be far away?”

“Exactly.” He raked a hand through his hair. “At least if I find someone who can pop out grandkids I’ll be good for something, according to them.”

“I’m not going to have your babies.” Libby shook her head, laughing.

“Good, because babies sound like a perfectly good way to ruin my life. I have to get this wedding out of the way and then I can figure out how to avoid the problem permanently. Maybe I’ll move to Siberia.”

Libby grinned. “It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one with a crazy family.”

“Think about it. We’ll pretend to be dating, so you can come along to our family dinners and get to know Des. You can convince him to stock your line and then we conveniently break up after the wedding.”

And in the meantime he’ll come up with a solution to his lackluster career in time to make the necessary changes before the wedding. Simple.

“No babies?” She smirked.

“Absolutely no babies. Nothing real. This will be a completely fake relationship, and you don’t have to do anything for me except come along to a few family functions.”

Chewing on her lower lip, Libby narrowed her eyes in thought. “Right.”

This was totally and utterly crazy…and brilliant. It would solve both their problems and he would have time to figure out what to do with his life. Plus, there was no way in hell he was going to face his ex at the wedding alone. He needed a gorgeous woman on his arm and at least four fingers of scotch before he could deal with that.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“I have a feeling I’ll regret this.” Shaking her head, she put a hand on his arm. “But yes…I’ll be your fake girlfriend.”

G
iddiness swept through Libby, though she wasn’t sure if it was her body rebelling against the craziness of Paul’s idea or the fact that touching him had all but lit her on fire. She’d remembered how it felt having him carry her more than she cared to admit. Now he was in her space again, and his closeness made her legs wobble like jelly.

But she didn’t mix business with pleasure, and a fake relationship was the
only
kind of relationship she was interested in.

Especially since his friend had made it clear he wasn’t exactly the conservative type when it came to women. The last thing she needed was to get emotionally entangled with another playboy like her last boyfriend. She would
not
be chewed up and spat out by a man ever again.

“Deal?” She stuck her hand out and he took it, wrapping his fingers around hers and sending a frisson of excitement zipping through her.

Okay, he’s hot. No big deal, you can handle it. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“Deal.”

“So how exactly does this work?” she asked, pushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “I can’t say I’m well acquainted with fake relationships.”

She wasn’t exactly well acquainted with
real
relationships, either, unless you could call a weeklong fling a relationship. Libby had thought she was in a relationship once, she’d even thought that she might have been in love…what a joke.

Now she preferred her men like her cocktails—good-looking, strong, and for weekend and emergency use only.