Insta-Hubby Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Also by Lauren Milson

  Want a Free Book?

  Insta-Hubby

  Anna

  Liam

  Skin

  Avery

  Gabe

  All the Way

  Jess

  Chris

  Mr. December - PREVIEW

  Lizzie

  Calvin

  Insta-Hubby

  A Billionaire Fake Relationship Romance

  Lauren Milson

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Milson

  Want a Free Book?

  Insta-Hubby

  Prologue

  1. Anna

  2. Liam

  3. Anna

  4. Liam

  5. Anna

  6. Liam

  7. Anna

  8. Liam

  9. Anna

  10. Liam

  11. Anna

  12. Liam

  13. Anna

  14. Liam

  15. Anna

  16. Liam

  17. Anna

  18. Liam

  Epilogue

  Skin

  1. Avery

  2. Gabe

  3. Avery

  4. Gabe

  5. Avery

  6. Gabe

  7. Avery

  8. Gabe

  9. Avery

  10. Gabe

  11. Avery

  12. Gabe

  13. Avery

  14. Gabe

  Epilogue

  All the Way

  Prologue

  1. Jess

  2. Chris

  3. Jess

  4. Chris

  5. Jess

  6. Chris

  7. Jess

  8. Chris

  9. Jess

  10. Chris

  11. Jess

  12. Chris

  13. Jess

  14. Chris

  Epilogue

  Mr. December - PREVIEW

  1. Lizzie

  2. Calvin

  Want a Free Book?

  Also by Lauren Milson

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Milson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Designed by Cormar Covers

  Created with Vellum

  Also by Lauren Milson

  Jack Frost (A Steamy Holiday Short)

  Private Client (A Billionaire Romance)

  Touch (An Older Man Younger Woman Romance)

  Mountain Man’s Valentine

  Be Mine (A Billionaire Fake Relationship Romance)

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  Insta-Hubby

  A Billionaire Fake Relationship Romance

  The girl I wanna whisper filthy things to is wearing a perfect white wedding dress.

  The gorgeous little curvy brunette appears to already be spoken for.

  No harm in congratulating her on the big day though, right?

  Turns out she’s not getting married at all. The girl in the big white gown is a wedding dress model.

  White’s perfect for her, because I can tell she’s very inexperienced.

  And that hoard of women chasing me down the street?

  Yeah, that’s not real either. It’s for a photo shoot.

  See, I’m a blogger with a following almost as big as my...you know.

  My father doesn’t approve. He doesn’t like blogs, or the fact that I haven’t settled down yet.

  That means I have to find a proper, presentable, good little wife, or he’ll give control of our family’s newspaper conglomerate to my jerk brother.

  The angel in front of me might be perfect to play the part.

  After all, she’s already wearing the right dress.

  And by the time I’m done with her she’ll be screaming my name. Begging for more. She will be anything but good.

  I’ll make that pristine white dress all dirty.

  It will be anything but fake.

  And she will be all mine.

  Candy sweet. Scorching hot. No cheating. HEA.

  Prologue

  Anna

  “Why have you fought it? Why have you said no over and over, when it was what you really wanted?”

  Liam’s words come to me like I’m in a dream. It’s like he already knows what I want. I barely know him, but I feel like he knows me better than anyone ever has.

  He knows what I want.

  I’m lying in a bed in the most opulent hotel in New York, overlooking Battery Park City. This bed might be the most luxurious in the world damn world.

  And Liam knows what I want.

  He knows what I need.

  “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to wear white to a wedding?” he says, smiling up at me, his chin nuzzling my bent knees apart.

  “It’s only my bra and panties that are white. It’s not like anyone could see what I was wearing under my dress,” I say, his breath coming hot over my inner thighs and making my skin prickle with a hint of goosebumps. “It’s not like anyone was going to see me in my bra and panties.”

  I can’t believe I’m talking like this to him. When what he says back to me is always so filthy.

  “I’m the only one who’s going to see you in that strappy white lace, baby. I’m the only one who’s gonna kiss you where it feel so fucking good. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, moaning, my head falling back slowly as he kisses me, his hands and lips moving up my body. “That’s right.”

  “Say it, baby. Tell me who you belong to. Who’s your big man now.”

  “You are, Liam.”

  It was all supposed to be fake. It was all supposed to be so he could position himself as the new President of his family’s media conglomerate.

  We both knew we liked each other, knew there was an undeniable spark between us from the very first moment, but nothing like this.

  It’s all going off the rails.

  Because his tongue wrapping me up and making my body heat and shake and get so wet -

  That’s real.

  I’ve never felt anything more real.

  Anna

  “This is a gorgeous choice. As you can see, this dress features a low back, perfect for showing off some skin. But not too much, because it is your wedding day. Now, I see lots of brides, and some of them are going for a more simple, subdued look. Lots of them want a more subtle elegance.”

  I turn slightly to the left and then to the right, regarding my reflection in the mirror. The supple fabric of the low back arches in slightly, conforming to my hips, and I instinctively put my hand on my waist, letting my fingers settle into my curves.

  “And this is not the dress for them,” I say, catching my manager’s eyes in the mirror.

  “No, not at all. This is not what you want when you look for subtle. The lace on the front is a double-overlay, just adding to what would have already been a rich, opulent look.”

  “Very rich,” I say, arching an eyebrow at her as I turn to face the mirror.

  “The four-layer skirt is fabricated from raw silk. The dress is available in bone and champagne colors.”

  “Four layers, huh? Champagne? And it’s pretty enough to eat.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Anna. Not with that red lipstick o
n.”

  Maggie steps up onto the small platform where I’m standing, settling next to me and crossing her arms in front of her chest, flashing me a little smirk in the mirror.

  I should say mirrors. Because where I’m standing in the front room of the small bridal boutique on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I’m surrounded by mirrors. It’s like one of those carnival fun houses. It’s fun, but it can be a little wacky and wild sometimes. Especially when the brides are out in full force.

  “Hm, well,” I say, puckering up for my boss, “remember you chose this lipstick for me. You’re the one who said the brides like to see how a red lip would look with the white dresses.”

  “Not white,” she corrects me with a little hidden sarcasm in her voice, the kind she uses with customers when they’re annoying her, “champagne.”

  “I have to ask, Mag. What’s something like this gonna set you back?”

  “Me?” she says, craning her neck forward slightly. “Um, it’s not gonna set me back anything. I’m not exactly in the market for something like this.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say, glancing up at her. “What’s the price on this delicious dress?”

  “Oh, you mean what’s it gonna set back the person who’s gonna buy it,” she says, stepping off the platform and picking up her appointment binder from one of the couches off to the side of the mirrors. “Just a cool twenty grand.”

  That’s a lot of money. Or maybe it isn’t. I really don’t know. All I know is that the price of this dress is somewhere around half of the money I make in a year, which really, really makes it out of my price range, even with credit cards.

  But then, the girls who waltz through the doors of this shop aren’t exactly the kind of people who would look to me for an opinion on how much is too much to spend on a dress.

  One dress. One day of your life. One magical day where you get to slip on the dress of your dreams and get to marry your very own real-life prince charming.

  I shake my head, smiling and turning around in the mirror again to get a look at myself from the back. I’m only half being sarcastic when I say you have that one special day to get married. Because with divorce statistics the way they are, and the amount of sheer dollars that the median wedding costs these days, it’s a little hard to romanticise the whole thing.

  But then again, this dress looks freaking awesome on me.

  And it makes my body look pretty banging.

  I hop off the little champagne-colored carpeted platform and go over to a table where we have a few bouquets of fresh flowers, selecting one with a pretty mix of white and pink roses. I step back up onto the platform and spin around again, and it does feel really good.

  “Don’t get too attached,” Maggie says, flipping the pages in her binder. “Our bride-to-be has a lot more choices she had me pull for her. I’m gonna push this one, though. I think this one is the prettiest, I really do. And it’s one of the more expensive, which of course makes me want to sell it as soon as humanly possible.”

  So there will be more dresses for me to try on, which I’m used to. It does get a little annoying putting all these dresses on just have to take them off again, but that’s my job.

  I’m a model. I’ve had people literally laugh at me when I say that (and then they apologize), because I decidedly do not look like what you picture when you imagine a model. I am not tall, I am not thin, and I have an ass and boobs. You would never call me fat, but you’d never call me skinny, either. And you’d definitely never call me a model.

  Except that I am.

  I do some modeling for the boutique’s website. I do some modeling to ensure that the fit of the dresses is correct. I try the dresses on for the lucky brides-to-be who come into the boutique and want to get an idea of whether they’ll like a dress without having to try on every single one they’re interested in. And it’s for that reason that I have to make sure I’m always the same size.

  You ever get sick of eating carbs? Sounds crazy, right? Well, what if your job required you to stay on the curvy side, even when sometimes all you want is one of those fatty salads with extra Caesar dressing and no croutons, maybe because you want your stomach to be a bit flatter, or maybe because that’s just what you’re in the mood for? Yeah, you can’t, because then it turns into a whole thing, and part of my job is making sure that my measurements are predictable.

  You want to go for a jog, you want to be maybe a tiny bit slimmer? Then you’ve got to sit down and have a chat with the owner of the boutique about your future here. They can start slotting you to work with clients one size down, of course they can, sweetie, but then you’ve got to be careful not to gain the weight back.

  “If I ever got married,” I say, delicately grabbing the soft fabric of the skirt between my fingers, “this is the kind of dress I’d like.”

  “Then you’d better get a higher paying job or get a husband who has one,” Maggie says, snapping her binder shut. “Now, enough playing around. This is serious business. Let’s get to work.”

  “Of course,” I say, standing up straight and holding the bouquet of flowers right in front of my belly-button like I’m supposed to. I look like a perfect porcelain doll, the perfect bride on the most wonderful day of her life.

  Except it isn’t. And I’m not. Because I might be in this fabulous gown, with the perfect makeup and the white lace Manolos, and I even might pass for one of these rich uptown chicks, except that I am very much not. And I might look like I am dressed up for my wedding day, but I’m not. I’m dressed up for someone else’s wedding. And at the end of the day, I won’t be snuggling up with my new hubby in some fantastic hotel suite or hopping on a plane for our honeymoon. I’ll be putting on my regular PJs and watching some TV alone, which is fine. But it doesn’t match up with the costume I’m wearing right now. It just doesn’t.

  And that dissonance is starting to get to me. Just a little.

  I’m the girl who gets poked and prodded and has accessories clipped to her hair and diamond tennis bracelets draped around her wrists, and at the end of the day I have to take it all off and give it all back.

  It’s getting tiring, all the pretending. It’s getting old, all the congratulations I hear directed toward other people.

  It’s always about other people.

  “You really do look beautiful,” Maggie says, settling onto one of the champagne-tufted couches. “You do.”

  “Thanks,” I say, putting a smile on my face. That’s something else I’m good at. Putting a smile on my face. And it’s not fake.

  Not exactly.

  Liam

  I’m like a rock star, or so I’ve been told.

  I’ve never seen it, but there is apparently a movie where the members of a certain very famous rock band are accosted by a group of fans, racing through the streets of London, running away from the group of shrieking women who just want…

  I don’t know what they wanted. An autograph, a photograph? And I know the whole thing was staged for the movie - I mean, of course it was - but what were the filmmakers trying to portray there, exactly? Were those girls going to rip the band’s clothes to shreds and jump all over them?

  What exactly was happening there?

  So it was staged. As is what I’m doing right now. And I’m no stranger to things that are staged, arranged. Not fake, though you could call it fake.

  Because every persona is fake, isn’t it? Is anything we show to the outside world really real?

  So when my publicist thought it would be a good idea for me to recreated that iconic scene from that iconic movie I’ve never seen, I said sure. Sounds good. Because even though it doesn’t sound too realistic for a bunch of girls getting their wet little panties into a twist over me and chasing me through Central Park, what does sound realistic is the idea of panties coming off. Very realistic.

  So I’m jogging through the park, but I’m in a tuxedo. I check over my shoulder and there’s no fewer than twenty gorgeous young women chasing after me, some of them
in little short black cocktail dresses and high heels, and I really do wonder how it is they’re able to run in those, and some of them are in jeans and t-shirts or sweaters, or a t-shirt of the college they went to. Some went to community colleges, some went to Ivy league universities. The girls running after me are of every ethnicity and some of them are a bit older than the others.

  And what do they all have in common? They’re all chasing me, and they all know this is going right onto the internet.

  I jog more steadily, my feet pounding onto the pavement with my black leather Converse, trying to keep up with Evan, my best friend and manager, riding a little Vespa and steering with one hand while he takes video on his phone of me and the girls.

  When this goes live on my blog, will anyone think this was a real, candid situation that just happened to be caught on camera by someone who pulled up on a zippy little pink Vespa and just happened to be in the right place at the right time?

  No such thing as being in the right place at the right time, I say. You’ve got to make shit happen, grab the day by the shoulders and shake it and if that doesn’t work, you’ve got to reason it into submission. Make it work for you. Because just waiting to be in the right place at the right time is something the lucky bastards of the world just fall into, and if you allow yourself to just fall into the right thing, you might be waiting around your whole life to be in the right place at the right time.

  Set the stage yourself. Make the moment happen.

  That’s what I’m doing right now.

  I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks now. My manager thought it’d be a cute thing for me to do, and I absolutely agreed, even though I’d never seen - and still haven’t seen - the source material.