Fake dating adrian hunte.., p.1
Fake Dating Adrian Hunter: A Spicy Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship Romance, page 1
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Want to Read More?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Fake Dating Adrian Hunter
Copyright © 2022 by Eliza Luckey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contact Information: www.skylasummers.com
ISBN: 978-0-6455663-1-4 (paperback) 978-0-6455663-0-7 (ebook)
Cover Photography: Daniel Krol/Shutterstock.com
Editor: MK Books Editing
To my husband.
None of this would be possible without you.
And to the gatekeepers who have said no to me 400+ times.
I’ll make my own luck.
Chapter One
There were three reasons why graduating high school was the best day of my childhood. One: escaping my small life in Alaska where people only knew me as “Tory’s sister” or “the fat girl with pink hair.” Two: I was about to embark on a once in a lifetime opportunity of studying fashion in Milan. And three—the biggest reason of all: I would never see Adrian Hunter again.
Seven years later, I’m freaking out because there’s no hiding from Adrian at Tory’s wedding.
Why does his sister have to marry mine? And why can’t they get married on one night, like every other couple does, instead of dragging the celebrations out for an entire week? As of today, I’m living in a nightmare, trapped with Adrian for the next seven days. Shoot me now, please. I would like that very much.
“You’re quiet, Verena. You don’t like the resort?” Tory’s hands fidget behind her back as she watches me explore each room of my bungalow.
“Are you kidding? This resort is a palace. You’re mistaking my Adrian nerves for dislike.” I join my sister in the living room. “I see you’ve put my money to good use.”
Dad’s heart surgeon salary too. I’m not the only one paying for this behemoth joining of families. If you look up “extravagant wedding” in the dictionary, you’ll find reference to this week. It will read: a secret destination wedding at the tropical Whitsunday Islands, Australia, to prevent paparazzi and rabid fans of Tory’s sister from gate-crashing. All guests’ flights and accommodation paid for by the Valentine fortune. Oh, and if you’re planning on vacationing that week at the Hayman Island Resort, don’t bother, because the Valentines have reserved the entire island.
I am one hundred percent to blame for the extremities needed for this week.
“I still can’t believe you gave me that money,” Tory says.
I shrug. “I’ll sell one of my designs and break even.” Plus, I’m hoping my financial contribution makes up for all the pre-wedding events I’ve skipped out on, and all the other life milestones I’ve been absent for over the past seven years.
Tory, I’m the worst big sister, I know, but I can’t attend your engagement party. My designs are in New York Fashion Week.
Tory, there’s no way I can fly back to Sitka for your bridal shower. I’m so sorry, my reality show is filming during that entire month.
In truth, I am the worst big sister, and maid of honor. I could have easily rearranged my schedule. But… ugh… Adrian! Coming face to face with him before necessary was not an option. Even without the hindrance of Adrian, returning to Sitka is the equivalent of reliving the most embarrassing moments of my life all at once. If I went back to the place I grew up, I would be the awkward girl everyone remembers. The nobody. The black sheep of the family.
Correction: I’d be the black sheep of Sitka.
The life I’ve worked so hard for in New York, my fashion label, my reality show—none of it will erase their view of me. In their eyes, I’ll always be an outcast. I can’t say seeing them here in Australia will be much different, but at least this isn’t anyone’s home turf.
“Hey, do you know where the concierge left my luggage?” I open the double doors to my bedroom. It’s all deep tones of wood in here, matched with the most beautiful hibiscus aroma. Afternoon sunlight streams through the glass walls, shining onto a canopy bed. But none of my belongings lie waiting.
“I’m sure your luggage will be delivered soon. I’ll call the lobby,” Tory says.
I step out into the back garden as Tory makes the call. And here I was, innocent little Verena Valentine, thinking I knew what luxury meant. Owning a penthouse in Manhattan with front row views of Central Park has nothing on this resort. This bungalow has its own infinity pool that overlooks the crystal waters surrounding Hayman Island. I can walk out onto my own private section of the beach. Sunsets will be amazing here, sipping a cocktail as I lounge on a pool float. If there’s one positive thing about this week, it’s that at least I’ll be suffering in style.
I take a breath, filling my lungs with the salty sea breeze, and tilt my head up to the sky. The sun’s warmth feels beautiful against my skin. Summer in January. I want to kidnap these deadly UV rays and bring them home to obliterate the snow.
My eyelids slide shut, stealing every sweet moment of bliss I can find before the inevitable of facing Adrian. It’s a shame that this trip—intended to be a fun getaway for my sister’s wedding—will be no vacation at all.
I can do this. I can face my family and all the people from my past. I’m not the girl they remember. I can be civil to Adrian.
I want to support Tory.
I want to support Tory.
“Your luggage is on its way now. You have seven suitcases?” Tory laughs as she joins me outside.
I open one eye to meet her. “You do know who you’re talking to, right? Technically I only have six for my belongings. The wedding dresses are in the seventh.”
Her face lights up. “Phoebe and I can’t wait to see what you’ve designed for us.”
“You’ll love them. I promise.”
“And your maid of honor dress?”
“Ugly. Absolutely disgusting. No one will be able to look at me.”
She swats my arm. “Everyone will be in awe of you. It’s been, what, seven years since you were home?”
“So? They watch me on TV.”
If anyone’s the slightest bit interested in me, it will be so they can find out the dirt on my life and bring gossip to their friends back home. Tory, on the other hand, is Little Miss Perfect in every aspect of life. I don’t hold it against her, but there’s no denying she’s the golden child. The one that makes sensible decisions. My parents have never been prouder than when she announced her acceptance into medical school (in their words, a “sensible” career choice), or the day she got engaged to her high school girlfriend—who just so happens to be the daughter of my parents’ closest friends. Aside from college, she’s never moved away from Sitka and plans to grow old there with her soon-to-be-wife and the perfect children they’ll have one day. All the women in our family are dark-haired Mediterranean beauties, but Tory has inherited superior genes, replicating a Botticelli painting.
“I’m not going to steal your thunder,” I say as we lie on a daybed, its sheer curtains flapping in the wind. I’m so exhausted from the transit I could fall asleep right here. Now there’s a thought—sleep through every unnecessary moment of these next seven days. “I’m more than happy to sink into the background. No one will even notice me.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Adrian.”
Mention of his name sends me stiff. “Don’t compare me to him.”
Tory smiles. “You’re still hung up on him?”
I scoff and gaze out at the ocean. “The guy told everyone in high school that my middle name is Vagina. It’s clearly Virginia, for fuck's sake.”
“I forgot about that. You have to admit, in hindsight, it’s kind of funny.”
“Yeah, well, how about you walk around for a year with everyone calling you Verena the Vagina and see how you like it?”
“Hey, you gave it back to him just as bad. I remember that time you swapped the clothes in his gym locker for a dress.”
“That was payback and hardly equal,” I say. “If anything, it made all the girls love Adrian more, seeing him walk half-naked through school to fin
“Jeez, listen to you. Haven’t enough years passed for you to move on from your falling out?”
I scowl at her, because enough years can never pass when the love of your life breaks your heart.
And gross… I can’t believe I just referred to Adrian like that.
“If you must know the issue,” Tory says, “Phoebe asked Adrian to be the MC, and he said no.”
“Seems kind of rude. I’m glad, though. Saves me from having to look at his face.”
“Don’t start. You said you would behave yourself around him.”
“Relax,” I tell her. “I don’t even plan on speaking with him.”
“You know, there was a time when you two were best friends.”
“Tory, there was a time when I was in love with the guy. Don’t remind me of how pathetic I used to be.”
She gasps, sitting up tall. “You were in love with him?”
“Come on, you had to have known that.”
“I thought there may have been a crush involved. Remind me again why you hated each other so much?”
“Hate.”
“What?”
“You used past tense. I still hate him. And I’m not discussing this with you any longer.”
Tory’s phone rings. Perfect timing. “It’s the bride. I should go,” she chimes, then wraps me in a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you again. We need to spend lots of time together this week.”
“Definitely.”
Her arms are warm around me, and I realize I have missed this. Us as sisters. We FaceTime occasionally but I can’t remember the last time I saw Tory in person. To be honest, I’m surprised she asked me to be her maid of honor. We were close as kids but have slowly drifted apart over the years.
Tory hops off the daybed with her phone still ringing in her hand. “Verena, I’ll give you some time to get settled in. Make sure you’re not late for the welcome dinner tonight. Oh! I almost forgot.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s this week’s schedule. See you tonight.”
The schedule is planned down to the minute with events I’m required to attend highlighted in yellow, all leading up to the wedding at the end of the week. I don’t know why I’m surprised at the attention to detail. When we were kids, Tory’s favorite hobby was organization. I guess nothing has changed.
I flop back onto the daybed as soon as Tory leaves my bungalow.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
My luggage still hasn’t arrived.
I make a call to the lobby, but no one answers. I’ve got thousands of dollars of clothes in those suitcases. Are they just lying in a pile in the lobby?
Five minutes later, I make another call, and there’s still no answer. I begin thumbing a text to my two bodyguards hanging out in the next bungalow over, the ones who Tory gave strict instructions are meant to be lying low this week and pretending like they don’t exist unless I’m placed in a life-or-death situation. The text goes something like this: Help! This is totally a life-or-death situation. My luggage hasn’t arrived, and I can’t leave the safety of my bungalow in case I run into Adrian. Please bring my bags to me and I’ll give you both a pay raise.
I delete the message before sending, hating the power Adrian already holds over me. If I cave in and hide from him, he wins by default.
A further twenty minutes pass and I’m still in my bungalow, knees bouncing as I rock back and forth on the bathtub rim, psyching myself up to leave my bungalow. I’m a despicable excuse for a woman. Months of mental preparation have all flown out the window and I’m a ball of anxiety over this man that I’ve spent my entire life either loving or hating.
There’s only one thing that snaps me out of this funk.
My babies.
And when I say babies, I’m referring to my beautiful clothes that are sitting out in the open, alone and afraid, vulnerable to being kidnapped. And besides, I am Verena fucking Valentine. Who the hell is Adrian? Some nobody who peaked in high school.
I puff up my long, dark curls, refresh my makeup, and push up my breasts. After a day in transit, I’m not in my finest form. But I wore this uncomfortable yet magnificent dress in preparation for the slightest chance that Adrian would see me arriving at the resort. There’s no way I’m letting him witness me in anything other than a stunning outfit—designed by me, obviously. The dress is short and floral with real-life roses adorning the bodice. Practical? Not at all. The roses will be dead within a day. But you don’t get anywhere in the fashion industry by playing it safe. My stilettos are a pain in the ass too, but this situation is worth sacrificing comfort.
After a five-minute walk through the resort where I harness my best Kendall Jenner catwalk strut for Adrian precautions, I arrive at the lobby, finding a group of paramedics. I officially feel bad for complaining about my luggage. Resort staff are gathered by a stretcher, peering down at one of their colleagues.
“I’m fine,” the sick staff member says, pale as anything in the stretcher. I lose count of how many times he repeats himself.
“You collapsed,” a paramedic tells him. “Better to be safe than sorry.”
That eases my guilt a little. No one is seriously harmed. And thank God Adrian is not here.
I scan the lobby for my luggage. As with everything else at this resort, I’m standing in pure luxury. There’s a coastal theme shared among each building. It’s an open lobby with no walls, only columns and a thatched roof. And there, across the lobby, are my babies. Given the current health emergency among staff, surely I can take charge and wheel my own luggage back to my bungalow? I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. But seven suitcases? I’ll need to make a few trips.
I attempt to position the first suitcase upright so that it’s on its wheels. The suitcase is heavy, though, and I strain every muscle in my back as I try to lift it. After a series of unflattering grunts and swear words, not to mention the devastating number of petals that have fallen off my dress, I go stumbling backward, landing flat on my ass. I’m quick to my feet, hot with embarrassment as I straighten my dress and look around. Thankfully, no one notices me. It would appear everyone is still consumed with the paramedics. With more caution, I move onto the next suitcase, and crap, this one is heavier.
I’m bending over—tugging at the handles, pretty sure my dress is about to ride up my ass and reveal my G-string—when I hear a deep voice say my name.
My eyes shoot open. I know that voice. It’s ingrained in my memory and will remain there for the rest of eternity.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Not like this.
Adrian Hunter is not meant to see me for the first time with my ass sticking in the air and me sweating over luggage. I’m meant to look hot in a bikini, laughing in the distance with a bunch of sexy men chatting me up by the pool. He’s meant to think, Fuck, why was I such a dick to Verena all those years ago?
Bracing myself with a deep breath, I stand tall and turn to face Adrian.
And wow, this is bad. This is one hundred times worse than I anticipated. Coming into this week, I thought I prepared myself well for our reunion. I memorized a list of amazing comebacks to all of his rude comments that are sure to fly my way. I designed a flawless wardrobe and have been hitting the treadmill harder than usual. But I forgot to prepare myself for the “Adrian charm.”
It’s true what they say about men getting better with age. Adrian is so beautiful that part of me thinks he might be Satan. No one can look this good without selling their soul to the devil and then murdering the bastard to become his successor.
