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The Pretend Billionaire Groom: Finding The Love Of Your Life Series, #1
The Pretend Billionaire Groom: Finding The Love Of Your Life Series, #1
The Pretend Billionaire Groom: Finding The Love Of Your Life Series, #1
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The Pretend Billionaire Groom: Finding The Love Of Your Life Series, #1

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This is part 1.

Rose is a veterinarian in Wessler, a small town she calls home. Her father has just passed away. In order to secure her inheritance, she must be married by age twenty-six. And that's when she calls in her crazy, unemployed, and carefree best friend named Tommy. 

When Tommy's responsible brother comes into town from New York City to attend the wedding, he learns they're all taking a road trip to Vegas. The clock is ticking… Old friends reunite to get Tommy and Rose to the altar as fast as possible. 

But sometimes…things don't go exactly according to plan. 

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 7, 2016
ISBN9781533795205
The Pretend Billionaire Groom: Finding The Love Of Your Life Series, #1

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    The Pretend Billionaire Groom - Sierra Rose

    Chapter 1

    I AWOKE TO THE DULCET tones of a dying elephant.

    The bed beneath me shuddered and quaked, and I pried open mascara-sealed eyes to have the morning spit sunlight back in my face. Temples throbbing, I squinted back at the offending window in complete bewilderment.

    Oooooh crap, Rose. What did you do?

    As if to answer, there was another mighty bellow, and I cringed as far away from the snoring colossus beside me as the sheet tethered around my waist would allow.

    Glancing around the room in the harsh light of morning was nothing like what I remembered from my whiskey-induced haze of last night. My eyes traveled first to the life-size cut-out of Ms. Pac-Man, then to the Star Wars memorabilia mounted on the wall, before closing with a silent groan.

    Perfect. Just perfect.

    I peeked over my shoulder to see the man I’d apparently decided it would be a good idea to go home with last night.

    Barry. Or Larry. Or maybe even Terry.

    Still wearing his socks. Nice.

    Like you’re one to talk...

    I pondered. Okay, so I didn’t sleep with this guy. I remembered. We’d both passed out the second we hit the bed. I came over to watch a movie, that I remembered. We watched a movie and drank a little more. He was a nice guy and didn’t make one single move. We both talked about how lonely we were and talked for hours. Not my type, but a very sweet guy.

    But I should’ve never stayed the night. What was I thinking?

    I discreetly peeled away a pillowcase that had glued itself to my lipstick and decided that this was not the morning for un-caffeinated judgment. Waking up face-to-face with Ms. Pac-Man had pretty much ended the battle for self-respect before it could begin, so that insufferable voice in my head could go away any time she so desired.

    Yes—this morning, it would be better to focus my attention on more important things.

    Like escape.

    I glanced over my shoulder again before tentatively lowering first one foot, then the other to the ground. My comatose friend and I were still both wearing our clothes. Thank goodness for that.

    Everything was where it was supposed to be...minus one key item.

    You have GOT to be kidding me.

    My bra—my lucky turquoise mermaid bra, the one that had seen me through high school graduation and into my early twenties—was wedged squarely under my nameless accomplice’s muscled arm, trembling with every deafening snore. A veritable rhinestoned hostage.

    I couldn’t sleep with it on because it was so tight. So I had flung it off. Because, seriously, who can comfortably sleep with a bra on?

    About a barrel of Jameson churned unforgivingly in my stomach as I tilted my head and contemplated its rescue. I could always try for the ‘Shawshank approach,’ coaxing it out inch by inch. Or I could go for a more brazen ‘snatch and bolt.’ I had once liberated a prized stiletto using nothing but a bottle of fish tank cleaner and a long pair of tongs. Needless to say, I was pretty confident in my skills.

    But just as I was fashioning myself a similar grappling-hook device from a trio of wayward chopsticks, the man rolled onto his back, and my beloved bra slipped forever out of sight. I stood there for a second, frozen in an impromptu moment of silence for the dearly departed before my eyes drifted up to the wrinkled candy wrapper stuck to his cheek.

    Oh for goodenss sake!

    I shrank backward to the door, navigating my way through a minefield of dirty laundry. The door opened with a shrill creak and I froze again, glancing back towards the bed. But the guy was out like a light, a steady trickle of drool running down his cheek.

    Probably dreaming of your high score on World of Warcraft, you boozy little—

    Not that I was making any judgments. No judgments here. Not today.

    I crept my way down the hall on tiptoe, deliberately avoiding my reflection as I passed by a mirror. The peripheral silhouette piled atop my head didn’t make logical sense, but I would work it out later. First thing’s first. I had to get out of this house without being—

    Well, good morning, dear!

    I half-tripped, half-fell down the last of the stairs, landing with a disgruntled oof on the hard laminate. When I looked up, I found myself staring into the bright and cheerful faces of an elderly couple gathered around a steaming breakfast table.

    Good— I cleared my throat quickly, pulling myself erect, good morning.

    Their eyes did a curious sweep of me, but their smiles remained intact.

    Are you okay? the lady asked.

    Yes. Why, yes, I am.

    We thought Chris came home with someone last night, the woman continued brightly. You two laughed a lot during the movie you put on.

    Chris. That was it.

    My eyes clouded in momentary confusion. And you would be...?

    She threw back her head and laughed. Aren’t you a funny one?! We’re Chris’s parents!

    A wave of bile rose up in the back of my throat, and I swallowed it down with a sickly smile. Of course you are.

    I slowly stood up.

    They stepped forward to shake properly, before the woman pulled back and gestured to the spread. Eggs and bacon?

    No thanks. But it was nice meeting you.

    But we insist, she said.

    I’m really not presentable, I said, looking away.

    His mom walked over to me and touched my arm. We don’t care, dear. Please just have a few strips of bacon and some orange juice. Or better yet, I’ll make you the best hangover cure known to man.

    Come on, his dad said with a big smile. What’s five more minutes?

    Um...

    His mom led me to the table, and I didn’t have the heart to bolt out of there.

    Listen, I really have to go.

    Eat first.

    I sat down and started to eat after thanking them for their hospitality. The eggs were the best I’d ever eaten, and the bacon was to die for. We made small chat, and his parents were actually quite nice. The hangover drink wasn’t bad either and actually helped. 

    So you said you’re a vet? his mom asked.

    I smiled. Yes.

    Whoa! his dad said. Our son has landed himself a doctor!

    I told you there’s hope for him yet, his mom said.

    I almost spat out my juice.

    We’re not a couple, I said. We just watched some movies, talked, and fell asleep.

    Like an innocent sleepover?

    Yes, exactly like that.

    How do you handle pit bulls and Rottweiler’s and big German shepherds? his dad asked.

    Well, actually, the dogs that scare me most are the little Chihuahuas. They’re much more likely to bite.

    Really?

    Absolutely. 

    It wasn’t until forty minutes later that I was finally able to make my escape. Turns out, Chris’s parents—who he still lived with—were not the kind of people who understood the words ‘no thank you.’ Between that and the fact that greasy bacon was one of the only things able to cure a hangover, I allowed myself to be shepherded to the table and ate whatever they put in front of me with false cheer.

    Thankfully, Chris never made an encore appearance and by the time I finally made my way to the front door, I was somehow under the delusion that this tragedy of a day might yet be salvaged. Sure I had woken up tangled in Pokémon sheets, lost my lucky mermaid bra, had breakfast with the parents of a guy I went home with to watch movies with, and realized—as Mrs. Walton kindly told me halfway through the meal—I had pieces of a broken golf visor stuck inexplicably in my hair; but in a strange way, the combination made me almost relieved.

    This was rock bottom, wasn’t it? What the heck else could possibly go wrong?

    I was still thinking that over, reveling in my newfound sense of optimism when I said goodbye and stepped out the front door onto the morning paper.

    A familiar face stared back up at me.

    ‘Millionaire Mogul Dies at 65’

    My breath caught in my chest, and for the second time that day, I froze.

    Dad?

    Chapter 2

    I BORROWED THE WALTON’S paper, retreating back to my apartment in a kind of trance. An initial call to my mother went unanswered, but in truth, I hadn’t expected to reach her. She was probably off in the Bahamas, or the Seychelles, or the Maldives with her newest boyfriend, blissfully unconcerned with the goings-on of her ex-husband. Although all I wanted was a friend, the next call went out to the family lawyer.

    My father had been a lawyer, after all—the greatest lawyer this little Southern town had ever seen. Although his ‘rise to power’ only included one or two international successes and the accumulation of a few million, it was a few million more than the rest of the community would ever see and was enough to catapult him to the status of a local celebrity. Not a hero—there was no way the gentle southerners could ever see a two-time divorcee and estranged father (not to mention, a lawyer) as beloved—but celebrity was celebrity.

    Razor tongue and a heart of stone, Arnold Garland was reviled and feared – two things he cherished deeply. After leaving his second wife for a career of island and bed-hopping, he publicly disowned his only daughter for not following in his footsteps. Not only did I show not the slightest inclination towards getting a law degree, but I actually selected a profession that—while most thought it noble—he deemed to be the work of farmhands and servants.

    I was a vet.

    At first, he thought it was a phase, some sort of hormonal rebellion I needed to get out of my system before I made my way into the fold. But the longer I stayed in school—that’s right, Dad, some people say that veterinary exams are even harder than the bar—the more he began to see me as a carbon copy of everyone else in Wessler, this picturesque little town he despised.

    By my second year, the tuition checks stopped coming. By my third year, so did the phone calls. He didn’t come to my graduation. We didn’t do Christmas. The only thing he did do—inexplicable as it was—was move his office from New York to Wessler.

    The townsfolk couldn’t believe it. Why would a big time east coast lawyer come all the way back to this blink-and-you-missed-it city nestled away between the rolling hills and lazy rivers of rural Tennessee?

    Only I knew the truth. He came here to torture me.

    His law office—the biggest building in a little city—had been built directly across the street from my budding practice. Specifically designed so that every day, I was literally cast in his towering shadow. Over the years, as I occasionally glared through my office’s sunlit windows—usually over the back of a sickly Pekinese—I came to imagine that he was glaring back at me, forcibly reminding me of his daily disapproval. It was a cold war, right there on Main Street.

    The scandal was delicious. Of course, the longer it dragged on and the more reclusive my father became, the quicker people were to lose interest. You see, my father may have been a local celebrity, but I was beloved.

    I had grown up here. Never missed a beat. Walked the streets barefoot with my friends eating popsicles. Hunted for crawdads on balmy evenings down by the local pond. Played soccer every fall and softball every spring.

    I did the obligatory one terrified night in jail for adolescent stupidity, went to a college nearby, and came back to take care of everyone’s cats and puppies.

    Yep—I was as beloved as they came.

    So while I built a life for myself, wandering happily around the sunbathed streets, my father holed himself away in his dark monument of parental disapproval—coming out less and less often, and eventually only talking with his solitary friend: the family lawyer.

    Thus, it was the lawyer—before anyone else—who got my call.

    ‘This is

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