One Hot Fake: An Accidental Fake Marriage Romance by Sarah Brooks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

tested it before calling you.” He stands and reaches for a brown nondescript bag on a side table. He hands it to me.

I pull out a pizza box. Ours. With all our colors. Definitely ours.

“Open it,” Stewart says.

Inside is one of our specialty pizzas. The most expensive one that we sell for twenty-six dollars.

“They bought it here all right, but guess how much it’s listed for?” Stewart says. “Twenty dollars.”

“So they are operating at a loss?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around it. “What sort of business model is that?”

“An unsustainable one, but it’s probably to make a name for themselves before upping their prices,” Stewart says.

“Did they reach out to ask if they could do this? List us as one of their partners?” I ask even though I know the answer to that question. It’s a big thing, and Stewart would let me know immediately.

“No, they didn’t.”

I look down at the pizza. It’s unsightly because it’s cold, and the brown bag does nothing to the presentation.

“That was how the pizza was delivered,” Stewart says. “I dashed home to get it. It was cold, and it came with that bag.”

“Is this legal?” I ask.

“It is. They’re doing nothing wrong. They are paying us the full price and delivering to their customers,” Stewart says.

“Except that they’re delivering a poor product and conditioning our customers to buy our pizzas cheaply,” I say, my blood beginning to boil.

These guys are preparing to earn money off our backs. No way. “It’s crazy the things people think they can get away with.”

“Yes, but luckily, it hasn’t gone on for long,” Stewart says. “Maybe a week or so. We realized because of the avalanche of customer complaints, both by email and in person.”

“We need a strategy,” I say, my mind busy at work coming up with ideas and discarding them.

Stewart and I brainstorm, and at the end of an hour, we have a way forward. As much as I’ve resisted doing deliveries, it looks like the way to go. That and a marketing campaign. We’ve even come up with a byline:

If it isn’t in our bag, it isn’t from us.

“We can utilize Zoe to set up a social media campaign as well,” Stewart says.

I have to spend the day and night in Santa Monica. We have a lot of work to do if we’re to get the delivery service going in a few weeks. We had done most of the groundwork a year ago when we’d been considering it.

The rest of the afternoon is spent making calls and researching. Nearly five in the evening, my cell phone vibrates with a text message. It’s from Marian.

Hey. I won’t make it home today. Lots to do. See you tomorrow.

I frown at the message that has no explanation or information. There’s no time to think about it, and I shoot off a message telling her to be safe.

Stewart and I sit down again to go over what we need to do in the coming weeks. We’ll need to upgrade our point of sale system, connect with the app developer we had spoken with the previous year, train drivers, buy motorbikes … the list is endless.

Rather than feel overwhelmed, my energy levels skyrocket. I’m made for a crisis, and I go into work mode. We get a lot done in the next few hours. The only other interruption is from my mother, and when I tell her that I’m in Santa Monica, she invites me for dinner.

I notice that she doesn’t ask about Marian or extend the invitation. Maybe over time, she’ll come around. The shop officially closes at nine. I leave at seven, knowing that I’ll be late for dinner at my mother’s, but she’ll have to understand.

On the way, I call Marian, but the phone goes unanswered. A text comes in later, and she says she’ll call me the following day. She’s already in bed. I’m puzzled by the vibe that she’s throwing. What is going on down there? If I weren’t so swamped with work, I’d have driven there myself.

I’m surprised to find an unfamiliar car parked outside my parents’ driveway. A pink Hyundai, clearly belonging to a female. I have no idea whom it belongs to. I’m a little put out at having to make polite conversation with a stranger when I’m dead tired.

As soon as I walk through the front door, I hear a familiar voice, but I can’t pinpoint it. I follow the voices to the living room, and that’s when I see the red hair. That shade can only belong to one person. Ruby Shaw. The hot pink car outside makes sense.

But what is Ruby Shaw doing in my parents’ living room? My mother notices me first, and she quickly stands up and meets me halfway in the room. We hug briefly, and I kiss both her cheeks.

Ruby follows, and she ignores my hands, which are limp by my sides, and kisses my cheek. Her perfume is too strong, and it makes me feel momentarily nauseous.

“Oh my God, Declan, you haven’t changed a bit,” she exclaims.

“Neither have you,” I reluctantly say. It’s the truth. She’s still pretty with high cheekbones and features that were made for the runway.

Ruby’s attraction ends with her physical features. It hadn’t taken me long to know that she and I did not have a future. We’d been friends all our lives, and our parents had constantly pushed us to date. Eventually, the pressure got to us, and we started dating. However, the traits I’d liked about her when we were friends became a turn-off. A serious turn-off. Ruby was aggressive. About everything. And she was loud and boisterous. I’m rarely embarrassed, but Ruby embarrassed me whenever we went out in public together. She was loud and confrontational. A chilled-out romantic dinner in a restaurant ended up in a shouting match between Ruby and the waitress.

“What are you doing around these parts?” I ask her. “Last I heard, you were in Europe.”

That was another reason why she