Fake Dating The Billionaire Actor

Prologue

AITAH (Am I the asshole) for hiring a gorgeous man to pretend to be my boyfriend at my sister’s wedding and now backing out?

Okay, so hear me out. The title sounds bad, but I have to back out!

Let me take it from the beginning…

My sister said I’m too ugly to find a boyfriend, and so I was DETERMINED to find a date for her wedding day. (Today, by the way…)

And I found him at the local bar. I was drunk, unhinged, fucking blind and squinting from having chugged tequila and then I TOLD HIM EVERYTHING!

I told the guy that my beautiful sister thinks I’m fugly. Stupid. And way too lazy to keep a relationship alive(I leave dishes everywhere and blame my cat!), and that no sane man would ever want to be my boyfriend.

The man?

He was amused and agreed to be my fake date for the wedding. (again, this is happening now. In ten minutes to be exact!)

The problem?

HE IS WAY OUT OF MY LEAGUE!

I don’t remember much from our bar date. Like, I remember that he was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL man that I’ve ever seen and that I couldn’t stop complaining about my life and sister. Then when he texted me to remind me he is coming here, wrote his name and I googled it, I kind of almost choked.

My fake date is Dante Evans.

And who the hell is Dante Evans, you might ask?

Ha.

He is an actor. Like, the guy is a super popular actor who plays superheroes in movies. He is rich. Handsome. Funny and did I mention his abs?

ANYWAY, I HAVE TO ABORT THE MISSION AND DITCH HIM!

I texted him ten minutes ago, saying he can’t show up as my date, but Dante?

He called me an asshole and said that he is still showing up. That I can’t just cancel on him at the last minute when I promised there would be wedding cake.

So, AITHA?

Chapter 1

Jennie

I shouldn’t be this nervous, but I am.

I’m standing on the stairs leading up to the church, watching cars pass by while wondering when Dante Evans is going to show up. My phone is clutched by sweaty fingers. I blame the sun for the sweat under my pink dress, but I know it is caused by my nerves.

Why the heck did I have to get drunk and ask the richest actor to be my fake boyfriend for this wedding? What was he even doing at that little sports bar?”

The church bells haven’t even started chiming yet, and I’m already regretting all my life choices. Every. Single. One.

Especially the one where I poured out my entire origin story to a hot stranger at a bar and then convinced him to pretend to be my boyfriend. Of course, it turns out that the stranger was an actual celebrity. And not any celebrity. He’s Dante freaking Evans, the kind of man every woman wishes would marry them.

And now he’s late…or maybe deciding to stay far away from the chaotic mess that is me.

A tiny part of me hopes so.

The other part? That part just wants to fling myself into traffic to avoid having to face my sister without a date.

I’m five seconds from pulling out my phone and fake-texting a breakup message to myself when an expensive white car pulls up to the curb like it’s allergic to dust and mediocrity. The kind of car that purrs instead of growls. Rich people stuff.

The door opens and… there he is.

Dante Evans.

He steps out in slow motion. At least, it feels like slow motion, and no, I don’t imagine the slight breeze that lifts his dark hair like he’s in a cologne commercial. Hot. Alive. The very brooding and chiseled actor.

And he’s looking directly at me. Sort of like he’s amused and knows I’m sweating in places no woman should be sweating.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” he says, walking up the steps with all the confidence of a man who’s been on a red carpet and probably kissed Scarlett Johansson for a movie. “Should I catch you?”

That voice could probably whisper a grocery list, and I’d clap.

“I-I thought you weren’t coming,” I say, flailing slightly with my arms like a confused chicken.

“You tried to cancel ten minutes before call time,” he says, tilting his head. “That’s not very professional of you, Miss...?”

“Jennie.” I squeak. “Jennie Rhoades.”

His eyes gleam with mischief. “Jennie Rhoades. Who gets drunk and hires a man at a bar to be her boyfriend because her sister’s a nightmare.”

I cover my face with my hands. “I told you everything, didn’t I?”

“You told me more about you in ten minutes than most of my dates have managed to do in an entire week,” he deadpans.

I groan.

He steps closer. “But you also promised there would be cake. And I’m not a man who ignores dessert.”

I peek at him through my fingers. “You’re… really doing this?”

He shrugs, smoothing the lapels of his charcoal suit like he’s not the hottest thing to ever stand on church steps. “I needed a day off. And honestly?” He glances toward the double doors, where guests are starting to shuffle in. “Pretending to be your boyfriend sounds a lot more fun than dodging interviews and reading lines with people named Chad.”

I snicker. “Why are they always named Chad?”

“Exactly what I’m wondering,” he says, his lips twitching.

He is really pretty. It makes me stare at him. I don’t even blink.

Eventually, Dante offers me his arm. “Shall we, girlfriend?”

When my face burns and I hesitate, he looks amused. This is a man who knows he is the shit and that I’m close to peeing in my dress from the forced proximity.

And yet, despite knowing he is messing with me, my stomach somersaults. “You’re really good at this fake boyfriend thing.”

His eyes do this lazy sweep of my body, and something unreadable passes over his handsome face. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

OH GOD.

Is that a promise?!

My heart picks up speed. Dante doesn’t pick up on that. He calmly leads me inside like a gentleman. And I, Jennie Rhoades, professional oversharer and emotional mess, am walking into a wedding with a world-famous, gorgeous man on my arm.

My sister is going to explode.

And honestly?

I can’t wait.

The church smells like money and roses. Not the regular grocery store bouquet kind, but the kind that comes with their own personal florist named “Pierre.” White petals line the aisle, a harpist plays something I can’t name and everyone looks like they ironed their souls for this occasion.

Dante fits in disgustingly well.

He’s all jawline and mystery. He is also acting like this is just another red carpet. Except instead of paparazzi, it’s my Aunt Edna staring at us and whispering to Uncle Steve.

“Why does that man look familiar?” I hear her saying. “And what is he doing with Jennie?”

Ah, so she has noticed he is out of my league as well? I guess that makes everyone. I feel like a penguin waddling next to a lion.

“People are staring at us,” I whisper, trying to look casual and failing. My smile is twitchy and borderline manic.

Dante’s lips curve. “They are.”

“Why aren’t you looking uncomfortable about that fact?” They are seeing us as a couple. Isn’t that embarrassing for him?

“Nah. I’m used to being watched,” he says, tucking my hand a little more securely into the crook of his arm. Gently, like we are lovers. “You, however, are twitching like someone shoved a hedgehog down your dress.”

I glare at him. “There might be one. I panicked and wore new shapewear.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Breathe, Jennie.”

“I can’t. You smell like cedarwood, lemons, and sin.”

“Thank you,” he says, completely deadpan.

We sit down near the front, but I regret it three seconds later. Whispers spark. One woman actually gasps. Another fumbles for her phone.

“Do people seriously recognize you this fast?” I hiss.

Dante tilts his head, and I swear his mouth twitches in the tiniest, most delicious smirk. “It’s the jawline. Very recognizable.”

I roll my eyes. “Ugh. You’re hot and you know it.”

He leans closer, that sexy voice a rumble in my ear. “So are you. You just don’t know it.”

Brain malfunction. Immediate shutdown. Please reboot and look away!

I stare at the altar, trying very hard not to melt into my seat like a discount candle. Dante leans back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s just discovered how fun it is to emotionally ruin me with words.

“You’re evil,” I mutter.

“I’m committed to being the best fake boyfriend that you’ve ever had,” he replies, still watching me like I’m far more interesting than the flower arrangements that look like they were taken from P*******t.

“You’re doing wonderful,” I mumble.

Dante smiles, but doesn’t get the time to answer. The ceremony is starting. I thank the heavens for that interruption, but the danger isn’t over yet. Dante is silent, but one muscular arm is stretched lazily behind my head. His fingers are playing with a strand of my brown hair, casually, like he’s not aware that it isn’t normal.

My body riots and I spend half the opening ceremony pretending to fan myself with the program and the other half trying not to look at him. He, of course, looks perfectly bored and effortlessly gorgeous. I swear I catch him suppressing a yawn. And then… he winks at me.

Just once.

I nearly fall out of my seat.

Then, just when I think I’ve survived the hardest part, the doors at the back of the church open.

My sister enters.

She is tall, unlike me, who looks like a dwarf. Blonde because her soon-to-be husband takes her to the expensive hair salon every week to cover her brown hair. Beautiful in the way society actively rewards. Her dress costs more than my yearly salary and she is gliding down the aisle like a smug Cinderella until…

She sees him.

Dante nods and her eyes dart to me.

Back to Dante.

Then back to me.

Her mouth falls open and she produces this Oscar’s worthy choking sound. Coughs, gasps, hand-to-her-neck while trying to breathe.

“Dante Evans,” my sister says. “Your boyfriend…is Dante Evans?!”

“Water!” someone hisses.

“She is dying!”

“Help the bride!”

“No, no, she’s fine,” I say sweetly. I’m loving this. My sister is having a mental collapse at the altar, and for once not looking at me like I’m the failure of the family. I’m dating a celebrity, witch. “My sister is just a little surprised, that’s all.”

Dante leans over and whispers in my ear, “Ten out of ten entrance. Would fake date again.”