All Chapters of Fake Dating The Billionaire Actor: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

PrologueAITAH (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’v

JennieLet me just start by saying Dante Evans should come with a damn warning label.Because even when he’s not doing anything—just standing there with a glass of champagne, his shirt clinging to muscles that definitely weren’t photoshopped—he’s still causing problems.For my brain. For my ovaries. For society.And now? Now he’s casually stealing the mic from the DJ like he’s hosting the Oscars.I mouth, “What the fuck are you doing?” from the other side of the lawn, but Dante? He just gives me a trust me look.He’s lucky he’s beautiful.The crowd hushes instantly. My sister, who was two seconds away from roasting me in her wedding speech, looks like she’s been personally offended by the audacity of someone hotter than her speaking first.“To the happy couple,” Dante says in his charming voice. The entire female population at the wedding swoons, and Dante continues, “I wasn’t planning to be here today. I actually received a last-minute invitation, and let me just tell you that someti

JennieI wake up to a message from Dante Evans.Which is not something I ever thought I’d say unless I hit my head, hallucinated, or fell into a coma where my brain built an alternate reality just to mess with me.But it’s real. Sitting there on my cracked screen.You still owe me cake, Chaos. Want to fix that?I drop the phone.Straight up fumble it like it’s covered in lava.“OHMYGOD.”Muffin, my cat, blinks at me from the foot of the bed like I’ve lost it.“Don’t judge me, you nap-gremlin. The man from my literal DREAMS just texted me.”Muffin gives me a judgmental, “Mauw…” while I reread the message three times.Then a fourth for science.He wants to see me again.Why?I mean, I’m not awful, but I’m also not a walking thirst trap. My idea of sexy is wearing my one good bra and remembering to shave both legs. I’m average. Small boobs. Stubborn hips. No money. Student loans. An unhealthy obsession with lemon bars. And yet… he called me Chaos like it was his favorite dessert.Cue men

JennieHoly shit panties. If Dante Evans keeps smiling at me like that, I’m going to need someone to physically restrain me from doing something dumb. Like licking his jaw. Or climbing him like a tree.Gosh, this date is so not normal for a broke white girl like me. The restaurant he chose is the kind with cloth napkins folded like origami and handmade candles on the table that I’m still considering to steal to sell on Etsy. Ugh!I shouldn’t be here.I know that in my soul and bones. And yet, here I am. Sharing a table with the most beautiful man alive, trying not to stare at the cut of his jaw when he reads the wine list. I focus on everything else instead. Like how his sleeves are rolled up to reveal his ridiculous forearms. I swear one flex from his muscles and that button-down will break under the pressure.But that’s not all that’s beautiful.His fingers are long and calloused in a way that says he works out and doesn’t talk about it. When he lifts the water glass to his lips

Dante She is everywhere. My phone is blowing up. Mentions, tags, texts from people I haven’t spoken to since film school. The tabloids use every humiliating screengrab of Jennie with mascara running, lips trembling, face wet with real fucking tears—the kind that hit you somewhere stupid inside, even if you spent your whole life pretending nothing hurts. I don’t turn on the TV. I don’t need to. The internet needles me every three seconds with a new headline: “Playboy Evans Dumped By Quirky Girl!” “Who Is The Ordinary Girl Who Ghosted Hollywood’s Favorite Bad Boy?” “Is This His First Real Heartbreak?” Christ. Kendra is the first to show up, as always. She knocks, ignores the unlocked door, and storms in with a plastic smile and a schedule in her hand. “Damage control, Evans.” She drops into my kitchen chair, already tapping her phone. “Your heartbroken puppy act is trending with single women, but to really capitalize, you need to look devastated. Maybe skip shaving for a few days.