Fake Fiancée Goals: Romance Goals, #1

By Barbi Cox

I had simple goals. Move to a small town don't date women that hate my guts. Unless she's sexy, has curves in all the right places and needs a fake fiancee too. Easy Right? Wrong!

My usual type. Blonde with commitment issues and a little crazy.

The new neighbor that hates me and my loud parties?

She's not my type. But my body says that's a lie.

I want to see more of those sexy curves and I can use a fake fiancée to get out of trouble with the team.

Will she take me up on my offer to fake it?

Will she let me convince her she's the only woman for me?

A Steamy Enemies to Lovers Curvy Girl Fake Fiancée Small Town Professional Soccer Playboy Romance with a HEA and of course no cheating!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbi Cox
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224632756

Barbi Cox

Barbi Cox is an international bestselling author of steamy contemporary romance. Barbi writes about, sexy Alpha daddies, bad boys with squishy hearts, hot billionaires, age gap romance, steamy ménages, dark mafia hotties, and reverse harems that will make you squirm. Barbi lives in Oregon with her husband and two dogs. Her guilty pleasure is Bravo TV, espresso with cashew milk, and a good bottle of red wine. 
Between books, you will find her at the beach taking in the sun and enjoying nature.

Book preview

VALERIE

Ihate him! My new neighbor is a cocky a-hole who can’t keep his private life private and shows it off every chance he gets. As if he’s a gift from God himself. Loud, disruptive, and distracting, he’s impossible. Impossible for me to escape. Even at three in the morning, I can’t get away from all his late-night orgies and blaring rap music.

I should be asleep! But I’m not. Because of him.

Through my small camo binoculars, I see a party that puts those in teen movies to shame. There he is, Max, giving some poor girl the kiss of her life. His body moves like a dream, rolling and grinding against her as his hands claim every inch of her curves. He could practically wrap himself around her twice, she’s so thin. Or maybe it’s that he’s so huge.

Not that I want to know anything more about his size—muscles or otherwise. Because I hate him. Even if watching him feast on the girl like she’s his last meal and he’s starving makes me squirm, it’s just because…

I put the binoculars down. A guy can be sexy as hell and a prick all at once. It’s not my fault that my body thinks of his muscled body against mine, his dangerous smile as his fingers slip between my legs. It’s his fault for constantly showing off. It’s like he wants the world to know how much ass he can get.

We haven’t officially met yet, but we don’t need to meet or speak for me to know that he’s the biggest dick that ever lived. I rub my eyes, trying to remind myself to grab some Tylenol P.M., some noise-canceling headphones, and get my butt to sleep like I planned.

Work won’t wait just because I don’t get enough sleep. And looking exhausted will only put my makeup artist in a bad mood. Better to ignore Max every way I can. And that means ignoring the heat and dampness between my legs as well as the fury in my head.

Just go to bed, Val, I tell myself. Or make a noise complaint and be done with it.

Finally, my feet carry me to the bathroom to collect my list of items, then to bed. I close my eyes, focus on counting sheep, and do everything to avoid thinking about what’s going on next door.

Easier said than done.

Especially when I wake up unsatisfied and horny after dreaming of him. But I don’t let myself linger on those thoughts. I’m not going to dive down the rabbit hole of insanity. I’m not going to let him twist me in circles. He’s just another neighbor, no different than any other successful entertainer who lives in the area.

No different. No better.

Which means not worth my time.

I get ready for shooting today and focus on my own life. Once I shower, eat breakfast, and down a delicious vanilla caramel coffee, work descends. My home is a flurry of cameras, PAs, women like me, and the producing staff shouting orders.

My makeup artist, Janine, approaches and tsks at the bags under my eyes. Do you want to look thirty today?

Had trouble sleeping, I grumble.

She puts an antiaging collagen mask on my face and lets it sit for ten minutes before doing a cucumber and aloe lotion. She taps her foot as she waits for her potion to kick in. Janine is a real miracle worker. She has been in the business for thirty-five years. She’s in her fifties, but it’s nearly impossible to tell. She looks thirty, max. Her rich mocha skin, knowing dark eyes, and thick afro all scream youth. Sometimes I think she must be a witch with special, magical potions. She never has labels on any of her products, and people never seem too concerned to ask what’s in them, considering how she makes them glow.

Today is a three-hour shoot, or at least it should be. Just lunch and some gossip, she says as she begins on makeup. Then you and I can switch topics—once they leave—and focus on Beach Bunny pics and ads.

Thanks, Janine. I really appreciate you, I tell her, smiling.

She rolls her eyes. Don’t smile while I do your makeup, Val. It changes your whole face.

But I catch the answering grin in her eyes and the softness of her hands as she brings out the best in my face. She glances through one of my huge windows. Who’s the neighbor?

Some athlete, I think, I say like I didn’t know. Even though I’ve spent hours researching him on the internet.

Max Jäger is more than an athlete. He has more than ten million followers on TikTok and Instagram, each. Not to mention, he is plastered all over the place in underwear ads and magazine articles. It’s almost easy to forget he’s a soccer player for the LA Stars with his clothes on.

Janine doesn’t follow social media, or sports for that matter, and doesn’t recognize my neighbor—the bane of my existence. She stares at him a moment longer, then shrugs. Seems like he’d be good for your stress relief.

I balk at her. No! He’s the reason I’m stressed. All his wild parties and ridiculously loud music. I huff. If anything, he’s making more work for you.

Then I might have to have a word with him before we wrap up today.

I try not to smile. Janine and I met my very first day of shooting and I’ve done everything I can to stay in her good graces and keep her close. In this world of reality TV, there are only so many authentic people. Janine is a gem and having her prepare me for each shoot is the best way for me to prepare for a bunch of bullshit.

Following the director’s orders, we bring up gossip, the other women talk about their husbands, and we go through what the audience expects is a normal day. Tanya and Jessica snap at each other, teasing about cheating husbands and debt. Morgan rolls her eyes and dives deep into her bottomless mimosa breakfast. I try to keep the attention focused on them, getting jabs in to heighten the tension and drive Tanya and Jessica closer to blows.

It’s pretty easy until the second half of the day. Jessica, a bitch in real life and in front of the camera, confronts me on the patio. I thought we were on break, so I snuck out to clear my head with ocean air. She walks up behind me and catches a glimpse of Max.

Because he’s everywhere and impossible to ignore.

Jessica giggles. Which view are you here for again, Val?

The ocean, Jess. I sigh. I’m not interested in neighbors when the sand and surf are calling my name.

I can’t imagine this big house is comfortable since your husband left you and moved out. She pouts dramatically, her pink lips match her platinum-blonde hair.

I level her with a glare. I’ve kept the reasons for the divorce close and quiet. Much to my producer’s fury, my ex-husband has as well. So, I shrug and motion to my own gorgeous backyard—complete with a pool, a tiki-bar setup, a little waterfall, and a life-size Zen garden with cacti, succulents, and beach plants all mixed together.

It’s better than living with someone you can’t stand just for the sake of money. I smile knowingly.

She just smirks and motions to Max again. Well, if you need company, that one looks like he can do some heavy lifting, which might be more fun than being on your back all the time, right?

Her barb hits the mark. She then saunters away—she had to go because her daughter had gotten cramps and had to be taken to the nurse’s office, again. Jessica’s daughter is just like her—dramatic, narcissistic, and eager to find any excuse to avoid actual work.

And according to the reality show I’m on, we’re friends.

At one point we were. This show brought me out of the boredom of my marriage into something fun—drinking, gossiping, going out—with other married women in the area. Women, who, like me, didn’t get out of the house other than to attend events.

It was only when my weight became the joke, and my marriage problems fodder for gossip, that I saw these women for who they really are: the popular girls that never outgrew high school and are happy to appear on TV and in the tabloids for whatever reason, no matter how bad or catty.

Even thinking about them is exhausting.

But soon enough, everyone from work files out. Some of the cameramen give me a wave. Dave, the regular mic guy, lingers for a second, waiting for me to un-mic. You know Jessica is just aiming to hurt you.

She can try all she wants. I shrug.

Still living on spite alone? he teases, looking me over, his eyes lingering on my thighs.

Not many people in our world appreciate my size. I don’t. My husband didn’t. Dave smiles at me as I hand back the mic pack. Spite gets me where I need to go on my terms. Don’t knock it until you try it.

He chuckles and gives me a wink before heading out the door. Every time they leave, a part of me wishes they’d stay gone, even for just a week. I need a break from the whirlwind of people around me. But it’s an easy job with a guaranteed paycheck and I know better than to complain, especially given the position I was in before I was married.

Janine sticks around, then completely redoes my makeup for a Beach Bunny shoot. Today is a swimsuit day, not a lingerie day and it will all be earth tones, so she makes sure that my makeup matches. She checks it in the sun and in my backyard before the photographer arrives.

As she curses him out over the phone for getting stuck in traffic, I take the chance to check Instagram. Immediately, Max pops up. His dashing smile, the bad-boy glint to his eyes, and his ridiculously toned body flood my senses. I’m only looking at a picture of him and I feel hot and bothered.

It’s really kind of pathetic. Especially when I look over and see him posing and flexing. He makes life look easy and it makes me jealous as hell. I bite my lip as I look him over. I shouldn’t ogle him like this when he can see me. I don’t want to add to his already big head.

Hell, it would be easier if he did have a giant head, if he weren’t attractive, if there were any flaw that someone else could see, other than his disgusting man-whoring ways. I take a deep breath and sit on the edge of my Zen garden, running my fingers through the sand.

I just need to breathe through it and move on. He doesn’t deserve to take up any of my mental space, and he definitely doesn’t deserve a single minute of my time. So, he won’t get it. Simple, easy.

And as soon as I glance at my phone and see another notification from his TikTok, I know it’s a lie. Because I’m just as wrapped up in his presence as the people who go to his parties. Even hating him means I’m thinking about him.

I just can’t escape.

MAX

S ee ya! I wave to the photographer and stretch.

Modeling is easier than soccer. Hands down. No one is coming to trip me up. There’s no emphasis on actual labor or effort. It’s just holding poses and staring at the camera like it would be the best fuck and something is keeping you from it. Simple.

Not to mention, no one can hear my accent through a photo, so I don’t get the whispered insults of Nazi like I do on the field. Coach says they do it to fuck with my head, but I’m sure at least some of them believe it.

That’s their problem, though. I make five mil a year running up and down the field and five times that with underwear ads and other sponsorships. None of that seems to be enough for my fans. They want to pay me to expand my internet presence into more sultry areas. Not that I’m not interested, but it’s more fun in my personal life if the women don’t already know the package I’m working with.

I smirk at the memory of the woman last night. She was angling to give a blow job but I distracted her with some of my fancy tongue work. I don’t let girls blow me. Not that I don’t enjoy it, I just find it such a vulnerable position to be in, and if anyone’s going to be in charge, it’s me. I’m in control, always. That’s how I make sure my life stays on track.

But no one would say I leave women unsatisfied. That’s for damn sure. I may have a different one each night, but they leave with a big smile on their face and an eagerness for more.

Not that they get any more. I’m strictly a one-and-done type of guy. One fuck, then they go on their way happy to be a notch on my bedpost. No repeats, no feelings. No attachments. The next group of photographers comes in, and I drag my swim trunks off.

GQ is as risqué as I get…for now. They love taking photos of me in my underwear or less. Really, I think they enjoy how easy I am to work with. I do what I’m told, wear what they say, give them what they need, and then we move on.

I don’t nitpick. I don’t argue. I just do it so I can get on with my day. After all, what’s the point of drawing something out when you can wrap it up faster, then get to spending the money you earn?

My eyes flick over the low fence to my neighbor. Seems like I’m not the only one making the most of a sunny day. Sure, she’s not my cup of tea—a few too many curves for my taste, but she definitely knows how to rock a bikini for big girls.

Her tits are hot as fuck, and for a moment, I can picture myself fucking them. But that thought slips away as quickly as it comes, and I focus instead on the shoot. We wrap up and I wave the guys away.

My neighbor is still not done with her shoot.