Deliciously Faked

By Ellie Clara

When love and confection collide, the mouthwatering results will leave you craving more.

Rhys Adler doesn't do love. Not unless it's love for his career.
He's only been the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation for a year, and he won't let anything tear him from his luxe roost at the top.
To secure an exclusive investment and his conquest of the corporate world, he concocts a plan. One fake, temporary engagement could be his permanent gateway to professional paradise. The beautiful, headstrong baker who dared refuse the billionaire's service might be just who Rhys is looking for.
Little does he know, fate has a sweeter surprise in store.

Violet Cohen has never had it easy.
After losing her mother and inheriting the family bakery, she's been up to her apron in bills and debt.
The last thing she wants is to accept a bogus proposal from the most arrogant, infuriating, utterly stunning man she's ever met in her life. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't have much of a choice. If she wants to keep her bakery afloat, she's going to have to accept that bride-to-be has a certain ring to it.

When their hearts become tangled in the web of their own creation, Violet and Rhys must confront their fears and confront the truth. Will they dare to unravel the charade and take a leap of faith into a love that defies all expectations? Or will the weight of their past and the pressures of their present keep them forever apart?

Indulge in a delectable romance that's as satisfying and sweet as freshly whipped buttercream.

Deliciously Faked is a slow burn, steamy romantic comedy set in a small city. In these pages, you'll find a smug hero who's deeper than meets the eye, a tenderhearted but stubborn heroine, and a happily ever after as the scrumptious cherry on top.

This is the first book in the Bellebay Billionaires series, where each story is interconnected yet can be enjoyed as a standalone. So grab a cupcake, settle in, and get ready to fall head over heels for this delightful tale of love, laughter, and baked goodness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleanor Dunn
• Release date: Jul 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215587935

Book preview

Chapter 1

Violet

The familiar, ivory shimmer of flying flour drifts through the air, caught in the golden rays of autumn's sun streaming through the windows of the bakery. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla mingles with the comforting aroma of freshly baked muffins and pumpkin bread, enveloping the cozy space in a spiced embrace.

I dance between warm ovens and whirring mixing bowls, quite literally balancing multiple plates. My apron, with its pink flowers along the hem and matching pink straps, flutters around my knees with each graceful movement.

"My apron," I repeat out loud.

The words linger in the air, echoing nowhere but between my ears.

The realization dawns upon me, freezing me in place between my special chocolate chunk cookie dough and freshly rolled apple croissants. The thought, seemingly insignificant yet profound, ripples through my consciousness.

My hands gently bunch the old fabric of the slightly frayed smock. When I blink, I can still see Mom tying the straps behind her neck, her blonde locks pinned into a meticulous spiral on the crown of her head. This apron is not merely a piece of fabric, but a symbol of a legacy passed down, a connection to my mother who lovingly wore it before me.

For the almost six years that I’d operated this bakery, I’d worn this apron hundreds of times, and never once had I thought of it as mine. It’s not a wrong belief. Just startling. I suppose the faded apron must truly belong to me, by now. Mom certainly can’t wear it anymore.

Thankfully, the sudden trill of my cell jolts me from the reflection before I can brood too much.

Releasing my apron, I scoop the ancient-looking device off the counter before blowing remnants of flour off it and wiping away a smudge of blue icing. There’s a reason I have such an old cell. A modern, flimsy one would never survive in my work environment. It’s not like I can afford a fancy phone anyway. Nope. This old, brick-like cell works wonders for me. All I need is for it to dutifully ring away with clients seeking new orders, a job the ancient mobile phone performs perfectly. I mean, hey! The thing even has a snazzy little calendar where I organize my pickups and drop-offs. What more could a poverty-stricken baker ask for?

Speaking of... I really need to gas up the delivery truck...

On impulse, my eyes flit toward the bakery window. The crimson and golden leaves of a large oak cast a dappled shade over my pride and joy, a beat-up van with pink stripes and only slightly chipped white paint. It sits there, parked proudly, emblazoned with the swirly insignia that matches the sign hanging above the entrance of the shop: MAY'S SWEETS & TREATS. The name may be old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t dream of changing it.

Hopefully, some of my clients’ payments will come through so I have enough cash to fill up Old Faithful out there on the curb. My sister won’t ever shut up about how criminally low our prices are compared to other bakeries around Bellebay, but what Gemma doesn’t understand is that if I raise the prices, I risk alienating all of our regular patrons who’ve been frequenting the bakery since before I was even born. Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to revamp our fees, but for now, skimming by on thin margins is its own peculiar kind of safety net.

As beautiful as it is when the leaves of our northeastern coastal city crisp orange and the breeze turns brisk, autumn is always our business’s slowest season. The lavish BBQs and pool parties of summer have passed, and the winter holidays are still weeks away. All I have to depend on during these gilded months are corporate events. Whether it's a grand affair or a cozy gathering, I eagerly deliver an assortment of cakes, cookies, and decadent desserts to satisfy every sweet tooth. It's enough to carry us through the fall slump. Usually. The Christmas season will gift a generous bump in sales, but by the time the snow melts and wildflowers peek through the sidewalks again, things will have slowed back down to a grinding halt. That’s been the cycle for the past six years. Or, as Gem says, that’s been the slow and perilous dance around the drain of our finances. It’s true, I’ve struggled to attract new clientele that will give us solid fiscal footing. The old regulars remain steadfastly loyal to May’s, but my bills and my rent keep getting more expensive by the year.

If things don’t change...

Hello! I chirp, clutching hard at the phone. Thanks for calling May’s Sweets & Treats! I’m-

A cake, a deep, masculine voice interrupts on the other end. Despite his gruff tone, there's an air of command in his voice that demands attention, even if it comes with a hint of superiority. It's annoyingly intriguing. Birthday cake, specifically. I need one.

My eyebrow twitches upward. This kind of terse greeting isn’t exactly unusual. Not everyone can be as warm and bubbly as myself. Though most callers at least bother to say hello before diving into their requests. But hey, business is business.

Sure thing. I take a breath to continue and in that second’s worth of a pause, the man leaps in again.

Money isn’t an issue so don’t worry about that. Use orange frosting. Like the color of a warm hearth crackling. Actually, can you do that technique with the icing where it starts a rusty kind of orange at the base and then lightens toward the top of the cake? I’m sure you can figure that out. The cake itself should be caramel apple flavored with... eh, let’s say four or five tiers to keep it simple. The decorations can be minimal as well. Some glitter and sprinkles will do. Perhaps some sugar pumpkins or chocolate flowers. Easy enough. When can I pick it up?

My jaw grows slack with each demand that this ridiculous man adds with painful indifference. Since when is a five-tiered ombre-frosted cake with multiple decorations simple? Some people really have some nerve. Baking isn’t all luster dust and rainbow icing, buster.

Long lashes dust the tops of my cheeks and then lift again as I try to gather my thoughts. Green eyes scan my bakery, taking in the trays of cookies waiting to be popped into the heated ovens. I have a large order due tomorrow afternoon that I’m in the midst of putting the finishing touches on, not to mention the displays I need to keep filled for customers who happen to wander into the bakery.

Even though business is slow, I’m still a very busy woman.

Still, this very busy woman could use a fatter paycheck.

I clear my throat and plaster on a smile even though Mr. Infuriating Cake-Demander can’t see it.

I can certainly handle that, I answer as sweetly as possible, despite the irritation taut in my chest. It’ll be ready for you by next weekend.

The man sputters. Next weekend!? As in over a whole week from now? Is this a joke? It has to be ready by Friday evening.

His assumption was clearly not a question, and that makes my brow knit tighter.

Friday is the day after tomorrow, sir! I retort, my tone dripping with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. It's like he expects me to perform some magical baking alchemy to whip up a masterpiece in the blink of an eye.

The man on the other end seems blissfully unaware of the intricacies and time required for quality baking. Clearly, he believes cakes materialize out of thin air, fully frosted and decorated. Ha! The cake needs time to cool and rest between steps in the frosting and decorating process, not to mention my other orders that have already been scheduled well in advance.

I’m glad you know the days of the week, he snipes. I’ll need to pick it up by five o'clock that evening. That will do, correct?

A chilly edge creeps into my voice, despite my attempts to remain sweeter than the sugar on my shelves. "Oh, no. It most certainly will not do.

I can practically hear his indignant huff through the phone. The nerve of this man! But I won't back down. I'm not just a baker, I'm a cake artist!

Time to lay down the frosting-covered law.

I try my best to treat every single potential and current client with respect and kindness, but something about this particular man’s smug and condescending attitude rubs me the wrong way despite the velvet depth of his tenor

This is unacceptable, he snaps. His voice drips with impatience.

Irritation rises up the back of my throat and lifts my hair on edge. Unacceptable? Sir, you’re the one who called me and started going off about how the cake needs this and that by which date. You never even asked what my availability was or how long it takes to bake such a dessert! This isn't a microwave mug cake that magically appears in sixty seconds!

He brushes off my concerns, his impatience unwavering. I said I would pay whatever you wanted. Charge double, triple, or quadruple your usual rate. I don't care. I just need it by Friday at five. Are we settled here?

The absolute gall of this man to demand that I whip something up for him at the last minute. He doesn't care at all about what else I might have on my cake plate.

Sure. We’re settled. As for when you can pick it up, how about when the moon aligns perfectly with the pumpkin patch and the squirrels bake acorn pies? Does that work for you? I hiss impetuously before hanging up the phone.

Before he can respond, I slam the phone down, reveling in the satisfaction of my impulsive hang-up. I’m only one girl working this bakery, though technically there are two current employees, and I can’t work myself to the bone for any amount...

Then again... if I had charged that insufferable man quadruple my usual rate... it would’ve been a nice autumn bonus... and the shop could use new curtains....

With a grunt, I shake my head.

Nope. No way.

I am not calling phone-man back to grovel and beg for a payday. Instead, I block his number with a quick tap of my thumb. If he was that demanding before my work even began, I can’t imagine how difficult he’d be as an actual customer. In the end, he’d probably refuse to pay because the apple cake had too much fresh apple flavor, or the orange frosting wasn’t a perfect ombre, or the glitter wasn’t glittery enough. I can tell by the way he spoke that he wouldn’t be worth the trouble of trying to please him.

Returning to my waiting cookies, I push the memory of his demands aside. A bakery should be a place of sweetness and joy, not stress and demanding customers. That jerk won't be bothering me again.

With a newfound determination, I immerse myself in the comforting aroma of freshly baked goods after propping open a window to let in the fall breeze. Taking a deep breath, I smile. That rude dude won’t be bothering me again. The world outside may be chaotic, and customers may be demanding, but in this bakery, there's only room for sweetness, laughter, and the rustling of colorful leaves.

Chapter 2

Rhys

What the hell? I spit out, deeply offended by the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

It isn’t every day that Rhys Adler the VI is hung up on. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever happened.

Could it have been a mistake? That’s the only rational explanation.

Frowning, I dial the bakery’s number a second time, but it goes straight to a beeping dial tone.

Did that insolent baker girl block me!?

I toss down my cell and fold my arms with a huff. On the glossy screen of my state-of-the-art PC, my glowering face stares back at me against a sea of positive reviews I’d been scrolling through minutes ago.

‘I’m never disappointed with these desserts.’ ‘Best cookies in Bellebay!’ ‘I’ve been ordering my birthday cake from this bakery for years.’ ‘You’ll never regret a visit to May’s. Such a sweet treat run by such a sweetheart!’

Sweetheart, eh? I grunt under my breath. That was certainly not the impression I got.

Rubbing my forehead, I sink back into my chair. I’d spent an entire hour combing through reviews for local bakeries instead of focusing on much more pressing business matters. An hour might not seem like much, but when you’re the CEO of a massive, generations-old corporation, your minutes add up. After all that, I simply can’t take no for an answer. I absolutely will not have wasted that time for nothing. I’ve only been in charge of Adler Innovations for a year, and if it’s found out that I’ve been perusing cupcake ads instead of authorizing expense reports, I probably won’t remain in this position for another two weeks. Father would certainly see to that.

There’s only one way to handle this.

My coat flies through the air before slinging over my broad shoulders. I step out into the bright hallway, wincing under the glare of the fluorescent lights. Most of my employees have already headed home for the day, but I frequently stay late to make sure I’m on top of everything.

At the desk in front of my door, an elderly woman with thin, hunched shoulders beams at me. I can barely see her gray eyes behind the reflection on her huge, wire-rimmed glasses.

Hello, dear! she gushes like she’s forgotten I’m twenty-eight and she’s gazing instead at the cherubic face of a toddler. Knowing Mrs. Edith Gerard, she really might have forgotten my age. She’d forgotten to take care of my little sister’s birthday cake, after all, and that was only her latest offense.

Mrs. Edith, I state with a bob of my chin. I have to leave early today. I’m going to pick up Melody’s cake.

The old woman gasps and her short, white hair dances against her wrinkled cheek. It’s hardly early, dear. Everyone else is gone already. Oh my. Is Melody’s big day coming up? How old is she now? Five? Six?

Ten.

Edith shakes her head slowly back and forth. My, my, my. How time flies. I remember when that pretty little thing was born. Curls that would make Shirley Temple jealous... She pauses and then frowns. Why didn’t you tell me to order the cake? I could’ve had it picked up for you, dear.

I bite my tongue, neglecting to inform the old lady that I’d requested she do exactly that weeks ago, and also had reminded her quite a few times since. Instead, I shrug and nod toward the hall.

It’s fine, but I do need to go. You can see yourself out?

Only the same way I see myself in every morning. She titters as if she doesn't call me half the time to ask how the keycard entry works at the front door.

Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Edith. Have a good night.

Bye, dear! she calls.

I grimace at her sugary affection, relieved that everyone else in the office is gone and no one is here to witness it.

While the rest of my staff addresses me much more formally, there’s no convincing a woman who changed my diapers to call me anything but what she desires. Once my nanny, Mrs. Edith is now my personal assistant... though I can’t say she does much assisting these days. Hiring my former caretaker was one of my initial acts as CEO here at the family’s business, and I can never admit that move was potentially a wrong one. Father would never let me hear the end of it. He’d been outspoken about his opinion on the matter when I first offered employment to the recent widow, but I simply couldn’t imagine Mrs. Edith sitting at home with nothing to do or no one to see all day. She’d never had children of her own and has no other living kin that I know of. Mrs. Edith had devoted herself to the Adler family for decades before retiring to tend to her ailing husband. It made sense to continue to offer her a steady paycheck now that she was on her own.

As I head into the elevator, my phone rings again. I quickly answer with the hope that it’s the irritating bakery girl calling to apologize. However, it’s a husky, familiar voice that greets me instead.

Rhys, Jaxon Chambers mutters in his usual ice-cold greeting.

My frat brother from college, Jax and I have kept in touch here and there throughout the years. He runs a huge publishing house in Bellebay these days, so he’s as busy as I am. He’s not what anyone would describe as chatty, so random calls are unusual.

What's up? I ask curiously.

Melody’s birthday is this weekend, isn’t it?

My jaw unconsciously clenches at the mention of the upcoming birthday. Ugh. I have to get this cake situation sorted.

That’s right.

Well... what does she want? Jax presses, unable to hide the slight discomfort in his voice.