The Fiancé: A Sexy Billionaire Romance

By S. J. Short

A fake engagement seems like the perfect solution for struggling teacher Ava Matthews and scandal-ridden CEO Daniel Moretti in USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London’s fourth Close Quarters story!

I may be a barely employed, soon-to-be-homeless teacher/waitress, but that doesn’t mean I’ll marry any creep my mum brings around. Some guys like short and curvy! And I haven’t given up on the dream—the love of a man who makes me hotter than a Melbourne summer night.

Getting caught in a supply closet with CEO Daniel Moretti is the cherry on top of my day from hell…until the heat in his dark eyes makes me want to rip off my spaghetti-sauce-stained catering uniform. Daniel can’t risk more salacious rumors, so he proposes a deal—I agree to be his fake fiancée and he’ll help me get back on my feet.

Moving in to Daniel’s luxurious loft puts us in close quarters. And it’s not long before we’re saying yes all night long! But Daniel wants nothing to do with passionate love, and I won’t settle for anything less. Could a fake engagement lead to true love…or am I only fooling myself?

Take control. Feel the rush. Explore your fantasies—Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha males and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Close Quarters

Book 1: Faking It

Book 2: The Fling

Book 3: The Rebound

Book 4: The Fiancé

Book 5: The Player

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369702319

S. J. Short

Stefanie London is a USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary romance. Her books have been called "genuinely entertaining and memorable" by Booklist, and her writing praised as "elegant, descriptive and delectable" by RT Magazine. Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges her passions for lipstick, good coffee, books and anything zombie related.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Ava

I DON’T OFTEN use dramatic, sweeping statements—which is a miracle given my family are gold medalists in making mountains out of molehills. But I’m going to use one now:

Today is, without a doubt, the worst day of my life.

I sit across the dining room table from my mother, matching her determined stare with one of my own. Seriously, if I could turn the woman into a stone gargoyle and stick her on top of a Gothic mansion for the rest of eternity, I totally would. At least then she could torture someone else.

No. I say the word with a conviction that drills right down into my bones.

Ava. My mother stretches my name on for several beats, doing her best to infuse it with that guilt-inducing tone she does so well. You haven’t heard me out. This could be such a good thing—

No, I repeat. I’m not sure how I can be any clearer.

I glance toward the lounge room where a man is chatting with my grandmother. I catch a glimpse of him through the frosted-glass sliding door. He’s little more than a shadowy figure, but my brain sketches in all the details: receding hairline, puffy lips, sausage fingers and a smile that makes me shiver for all the wrong reasons. His mother and mine are best friends, which means he’s been coming around this house for as long as I can remember.

In my head, I call him Anthony McCreeperson.

My mother huffs. But—

"I am not marrying him. Why do I have to stand my ground on this? I don’t care what you promised him...or his family. I don’t care how much livestock they offered you."

My mother frowns, the lines in her forehead deepening. Livestock, Ava? What are you talking about?

Isn’t that how brides were bartered back in the day? With goats...or cows or something? I know I’m not making any sense. I was in a bad mood when I arrived and now, I’m...livid. And I guess you’ll have to let them know I’m not a virgin.

Barely. I was a late bloomer, but she doesn’t need to know that.

You’re being ridiculous, my mother snaps, keeping her voice low. He’s a good man with a good job and he comes from a good family. Why is it crazy to think you would make a positive marital match?

Correction: Anthony McCreeperson is a fedora-wearing sleaze ball with a job at an electronics store owned by his equally creepy uncle. He’s thirty-four and still lives with his mother. He once told me he had no plans to leave because his mum still does all his washing, ironing and cooking.

Yeah, he’s a real catch. Not.

Unfortunately, when it comes to who would make an acceptable husband for me, my mother sets the bar so low that even Anthony McCreeperson can stumble over it. Employed? Check. Legally able to marry? Check. Penis? Unconfirmed, but for the sake of this argument...check.

End of checklist.

Because he’s... I shake my head. I’m not attracted to him at all.

Don’t be so superficial. She frowns and gives me a pointed look. None of us are perfect.

I let out an annoyed puff of air. Okay, fine. I’m not exactly a Victoria’s Secret model. I’m not skinny or tall and I don’t have Barbie proportions. I’ve got athletic thighs from years of playing netball and my hips like to bump into things. But I’m okay with all that.

No, scratch that. I like my body. Some days I even love it.

Being plus size doesn’t mean I’m automatically denied a relationship built on mutual attraction. Some guys like a vertically challenged woman with a curvy figure. I don’t have to settle for the first warm body who shows interest.

"Wanting chemistry is not being superficial. It’s a bare minimum. I roll my eyes. Besides, how do you know I’m not seeing someone already?"

The scoffing sound she makes cuts me deep. Does she really think I’m that un-datable? Well, you haven’t brought anyone around. You haven’t even mentioned a name.

Maybe because you and Grandma are like a pack of hyenas with this stuff. It takes a while to figure out whether a person is long-term material, and I’m not going to bring a guy home unless I think it’s going somewhere.

You shouldn’t even be considering short term, Ava. Do you think you’ll be able to waltz into your thirties and pluck a great guy off a shelf at the husband store? It doesn’t work like that. Trust me, I know.

And this is the crux of her argument. She waited too long, rejected a suitable proposal, only to fall for a guy later on who turned out to be a scumbag. He got her pregnant and left her to raise a baby—a.k.a. me—on her own. She ended up a single mother with trust issues who’d wasted her youth. By the time she was ready to date again, nobody was interested in a woman with baggage.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I appreciate the sacrifices she made to raise me. I really do.

But I think her still being single in her fifties has more to do with her attitude than the life she’s lived. Unfortunately for me, she’s become fixated with marrying me off before I turn thirty so I don’t follow in her footsteps.

I’m not you, Mum. I shake my head. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.

I never thought I would make those mistakes, either.

Every so often I glimpse the woman she used to be—the woman I’ve seen in old photos. Shiny brown hair, a wide smile, hazel eyes with unusual hints of orange-gold...an image eerily similar to what I see in the mirror. She was vivacious and loved to throw parties and go to rock concerts and write achingly beautiful poetry. She was full of life.

Some days I wish I’d met that version of her.

We’re not having this discussion, I say, pushing back on the dining chair so it scrapes against the tiled floor. I’m not marrying Anthony and I don’t need your help finding a man.

Because you already have one? The hope in her voice is like nails on a blackboard.

"Whether I do or not is none of your business until I decide it’s time to make an introduction. Like in the year twenty-never. I love you, Mum. But you drive me bananas."

Think about it, she cajoles. He’s a good boy.

"Yes, exactly. He’s a boy. I pick up my bag and sling it over one shoulder. Time to make an exit. And if I ever get married, it will be to a man."

I pull my mum in for a hug. Despite our differences, I won’t ever leave without telling her I love her. Even if I want to shake her. Even if I think she’s got her priorities all messed up. Even if she meddles more than the town gossip in a Hallmark movie.

We’re close...but we’re fundamentally different.

You aren’t going to say goodbye to him? she asks, incredulous. Her bony, unadorned hand flicks toward the frosted doors sealing off the living room.

"He’s your guest, Mum. You invited him over. I plant a peck on her cheek and head for the front door, already digging my phone out of my bag because I need to call my best friend and vent. I’ll see you next week."

Before she can get another protest out of her mouth, I slip outside and glare at Anthony McCreeperson’s secondhand BMW with the gaudy personalised plates as I walk down the driveway.

B1GM2N.

I think the 2 is supposed to be an A, but obviously someone else got to that number plate first. It takes everything in me not to vomit in my mouth. I would rather die than marry him. I would rather be tied to a post and have one million hungry rats set on me than marry him.

I would rather—

My phone vibrates in my hand, interrupting the slide of gruesome thoughts. Emery. It’s like she knew I needed her. I slide my thumb across the screen.

Hey, I say with a sigh. You have no idea how much I need to talk to you right now. I’ve had the day from hell.

Spill, she replies in that short-and-to-the-point way of hers.

For a minute, I’m totally overwhelmed. You see, my mother the wannabe matchmaker isn’t my only issue right now. It’s simply the gleaming cherry on top of a giant shit sundae.

I... I shut my eyes for a moment. Shit.

Take it slow, girl. Tell me everything.

I head toward where I’ve parked my car on the street. The footpath is littered with fluffy, yellow wattle blossoms that look like tiny polka dots against the grey concrete.

I heard back about the teaching job at that school in Epping. I suck on the inside of my cheek. They found a candidate with more experience.

After they dragged you through three rounds of interviews? Bastards. She makes a noise of irritation. I’m sorry. I know you had your hopes up for this one.

One more rejection letter for the growing collection. I’ve been surviving on a mix of casual relief teaching shifts, supplementing the inconsistency of that work with catering shifts in the evening. It’s been enough for me to make rent, but now... And I ran into Mr. James today.

Mr. James is my landlord. He’s a kindly old man of eighty-three and he owns three apartments in the 21 Love Street complex. He’s been giving me the deal of the century on rent because I taught his granddaughter for a term and she loved me to bits.

How is he?

He’s selling the apartment.

Silence stretches on the other end of the line and for a second I think the call has cut out. But then I hear something in the background, like a cupboard door closing. He’s selling?

"Well, he’s signing all the apartments he owns over to his children and they’re selling, apparently. Honestly, my brain stopped working for a minute so I didn’t take in all the details."

How long?

Two months. I can’t even bear the thought of it. I love that apartment. I’ve filled it with personal things. I’ve made memories there. Friends, too. I won’t be able to find anything in the city for what he was charging me, either.

Not to mention that without a permanent teaching role, my ability to save has been somewhat hamstrung. Casual work pays well, but there have been weeks where I’ve had little more than a single shift to live on.

You can stay with me, Emery offers.

Oh yeah, and sleep on your couch forever? I appreciate the offer, but that’s not a solution.

What are you going to do?

I glance back at my mother’s house as I unlock my car. The thought of moving in with her, especially after what happened today, is not ideal. I honestly don’t know.

What a shit day! We’ll figure something out, whatever you—

That’s not everything. I slide into the driver’s seat and pull the door closed behind me. For a minute I sit there, staring out through the windshield and counting the leaves that have fallen from the big tree hanging overhead. They’ve gotten caught in the windscreen wipers and they flutter as the wind picks up. My mother is trying to convince me to marry Anthony.

Creepy Anthony?

See, even Emery knows it. Yep.

You’re kidding me.

I’m not. I press my head back against the headrest. If she was any more old-school there would have been a dowry and everything.

I can’t... I don’t know what to say to that.

"There’s nothing to say, Em. I just want today to be over."

This is messed up. She sighs. Come over. I’ll order pizza and we’ll crack open a bottle of wine. Or something stronger.

I glance at my watch. I can’t. I’ve got a catering shift tonight and it turns out I need the money more than ever.

Emery makes me promise to come by in the morning so she can treat me to brunch. Honestly, the thought of food turns my stomach. I’m barely employable, soon-to-be homeless and my own mother thinks I need to marry a loser so I don’t get left on the shelf. It’s like the universe is telling me that I should settle for whatever I can get.

But I can’t.

I refuse to become like my mother, a broken woman who thinks the bare minimum is something to aim for. A woman who’s too afraid to aim for anything at all. I have big goals and dreams. I want to find a teaching job where I can really impact the development and growth of young people. I want to buy my own home and be proud of what I’ve accomplished. I want to find a love that makes my heart flutter and my soul shine.

I want it all.

And while I have exactly zero ideas on how to make that all happen, I’m not about to lay down my sword. I will find a solution...somehow.

CHAPTER TWO

Daniel

I’M THE KIND of guy who’s always got a plan, who’s prepared for anything. Yet when it comes to my family... I’m stumped. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly they can make my day go from bad to shitstorm. Or, in this case, whatever the hell comes after shitstorm.

I white-knuckle a tumbler containing two fingers of Scotch, resisting the urge to hurl it at my brother as he storms away.

But we grew up in the spotlight and I know better. Every moment, including this one, is a chance for the public to feast. I’ve seen too many people felled by pointless Twitter arguments and unflattering Instagram rants. Too many promising careers dashed because people didn’t have the discipline to hold themselves in check.

I won’t give the masses any ammunition. Well...any more ammunition.

Around me, the party swells with sounds of conversation, laughter and clinking glasses as if reminding me that I’m not alone. Two women in sparkling cocktail dresses brush past, eyes lingering before they sweep into the bar. I should be enjoying myself—top-shelf drinks, beautiful women, the glittering skyline of Melbourne stretched out like a gift from heaven.

My company, Moretti Enterprises, has officially opened the tallest tower in the Southern Hemisphere. The Cielo is a 394-metre high, 108-storey luxury apartment building—a massive accomplishment for my family’s property development company. And for me as the newly minted CEO.

I should be floating on a cloud.

Instead, I’m seething with anger at being accused of the one thing I would never do.

Did you hear that? I suck a breath in between my teeth, gripping on to my composure though it feels like water sliding through my fingers. Tell me I’ve entered a parallel dimension.

Leo sips his champagne. He’s my head of operations and is the buffer between my brother’s fiery temper and my icy resolve.

You can hardly blame him for being pissed off with the gossip, Leo points out. And maybe it wasn’t a smart move to fire your own flesh and blood in the middle of launch night.

Marc has made it across the room, drawing curious glances and whispers as he’s stopped by his wife, Lily. She attempts to calm him down, but there’s no mistaking Marc’s furious expression and clenched jaw. Beneath his bespoke suit, my brother is tightly coiled like a tiger.

And just as bad-tempered as one.

This morning I’d awoken to my phone exploding with messages. Photos from a gossip site proclaimed that we, the Moretti brothers, are at war over Australia’s top model—a.k.a. Marc’s wife.

The headline doesn’t hold even a grain of truth—not a microscopic speck. But the media can’t get enough of a love triangle, even if it’s a complete fabrication.

I didn’t fire him, I say through gritted teeth. I simply asked him why he was letting himself be manipulated.

"You told him to let it go, Leo corrects. You know that’s a red flag to a bull, right?"

"It shouldn’t be difficult for him to let it