1
POV: YOU ACCIDENTALLY TRIGGERED THE SOCIAL MEDIA APOCALYPSE AND NOW YOU HAVE TO FAKE DATE SATAN HIMSELF. #LITERALLYDATINGTHEDEVIL
DAKOTA
“Marry me or watch your company burn.”
Axel Pierce was a corporate shark, notorious playboy, and (most unfortunately) my brother’s best friend. He stood across from me in his sleek home office, his jaw clenched so tight, I could practically hear his molars grinding.
I didn’t sit in the chair he’d undoubtedly expected me to take. Instead, I planted both palms on his precious desk and leaned forward, invading his personal space until I could count the flecks of gold in his annoyingly perfect blue eyes.
“I’d rather perform surgery on myself with a rusty spoon than marry you,” I replied, matching his intensity with my sweetest smile.
He didn’t back down. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, too, close enough that I caught a whiff of his ridiculously expensive cologne. Sandalwood and something that screamed of decadence that probably tasted as good as Axel looked.
“Trust me, Sunshine, I’d rather watch that gruesome spectacle. But thanks to what you did, I’ve got three hundred employees who need paychecks, and when your brother finally gets out of prison, he’ll have nothing but the money he invested in this company. So, congratulations.”
Okay. There was a lot to unpack there. First of all, my guilt over how this would affect everyone else. I swallowed it. I’d torture myself with that particular emotion later, during my regularly scheduled three a.m. mental hamster-wheel sessions. Second of all, the guilt that my brother, Knox, had invested in Axel’s business. Knox. Who hopefully would make parole soon and would need that money to survive. Third of all, and evidently most importantly according to my emotions, was: how dare he put this all on me?
“What I did?” I balked. “You’re the one who can’t keep it in your pants. Maybe if you had an ounce of self-control, we wouldn’t be having this delightful little chat.”
“Self-control?” He stalked around the desk, each step deliberate, predatory. God, why did he have to move like that? Like every muscle had been personally choreographed to make me notice. “You want to lecture me about control? After you posted a photo of me with the caption:When you forget you’re at a CHARITY gala?”
“How many times do I have to say it? I didn’t mean to post it publicly. It was supposed to go to my private stories for friends only!”
“Your drunken mistake is now my very sober problem.” He raked an angry hand through his dark hair, messing up the perfect style in a way that was unfairly attractive.
Stop. Noticing. His. Hair.
“Our problem,” I corrected, jabbing a finger into his chest. Big mistake. The solid wall of muscle beneath his tailored shirt sent electricity buzzing through me, and when his eyes droppedto where my finger pressed against him, something shifted in the air between us. Something dangerous and entirely unwanted.
His gaze met mine again, darker now, more intense. “Why were you taking pictures of me with another woman in the first place, Dakota?”
Because seeing you with your hands on someone else made me want to throw things, and that terrifies me more than this fake engagement ever could.
“I thought it was unprofessional,” I claimed.
“So you say.” His eyes narrowed. “But why would you care who I was flirting with?”
“Like I said, I was drunk.” Not totally a lie. I was three vodka sodas deep when I’d seen him with his hand on that woman’s lower back, whispering in her ear while she laughed with her hand on his chest. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I deleted it as soon as I realized my mistake.”
“After it went viral!”
“I still don’t understand why it went viral. You’ve been a playboy for years. Who knew the public had finally set a limit on your … recreational activities?”
A vein pulsed in his temple. “My recreational activities?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What’s the preferred terminology? Your conquests? Your rotation? Your?—”
“Enough!” The sharp command sliced through our standoff. Rebecca Winters, our PR crisis manager (yes, that’s a thing, and, yes, we apparently now had one. The best in the country, no less) stepped forward from where she’d been standing silently in the corner, her leather portfolio hitting the desk with practiced precision. “This isn’t helping, and for the fifth time, you won’t actually get married.”
I’d almost forgotten she was in the room, standing like some designer-clad sphinx, judging our every word through calculating eyes.
“The reason the public didn’t like this particular display,” Rebecca continued, her red-soled heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she approached, “was because that woman is Victoria Webb. Senator Stephen Webb’s wife. As in the Senator Webb who’s planning to run for president. America’s golden-boy politician with his perfect wife. Both beloved by millions.”
She pulled out her tablet and turned it toward us. “You essentially posted a photo of a notorious playboy in what looks like an intimate moment with America’s sweetheart. At the exact moment her husband was inside, giving a speech about family values.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Axel growled.
