The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

do mean a lot of fun. You’re too much woman for me, babe.”

Andrew extracts himself from her arms, stalking the length of locker room.

Picking a discarded cardigan from off the floor, he places it over her shoulders, planting a quick kiss to her cheek.

Through the grate, I see Sheena’s long legs tremble, lust still getting the best of her as she wobbles out of the room.

And as for Andrew…

Well, he chose to stick around, opening a nearby locker and partly disappearing behind the elongated metal that did nothing to cover his tall form.

Raising a thin, V-necked t-shirt over his muscular shoulders, he sent it sailing, the fabric flying into the open locker.

His shoes are the next to go, and he turns, revealing a better look at dark boxer briefs on his muscular frame, and within seconds, he’s stepping out of those too.

But he doesn’t get dressed right away.

No, that would be too easy.

He stands there, proudly naked for a second or two, his prized prick still half-hard, as he spins away from his locker revealing everything.

Every line. Every muscle.

Every sexy inch.

He rotates back towards the locker, offering up a view of an ass muscular enough to bounce quarters from, and he chuckles, a dark sound that fills the room with sound.

Familiar blue eyes singe with a subdued fire when he turns around, and this time, there’s no mistaking who the man is.

Not that I wouldn’t have recognized that voice anywhere…

It was as if the universe had to prove a point—show me enough to make it hard to deny that I was spying on Andrew Fletcher, a man I commonly equated to foot fungus.

Every single bit of the flame in those pale blue irises is on the grate located just over the little closet, and my heart, what’s left of it, sinks into my stomach as he tilts his head…and smiles, his full lips curving on his scruffy face.

“I’m guessing by your silence now means you enjoyed the show?” He places his hands on either side of the bench, his tattooed shoulders starting to shrug. “It’s okay. You can come out now, Whoever-You-Are. I won’t bite…unless you’re into that.”

Chapter 4

ANDREW

The mystery closet person never shows himself.

And though I’m sure it’s probably fellow bar-back Kevin O’Malley, stroking his Scottish stick underneath one of his homemade kilts, I must admit I’m a little disappointed not to bust his chops.

Though, I don’t have time for goddamned disappointment.

Not when I need to secure my fake wife.

Minutes after Sheena leaves the locker room, I wipe her lipstick off my cock, get dressed and head to the back of the bar.

Tonight, The Alchemist is teeming, filled up with people contributing to the night’s fundraiser for foster kids, Lending-a-Hand.

Rich assholes from every corner of Manhattan crowd the hardwood floors, and as I slink to the corners, clad in a denim button-up, leather jacket and jeans that set me apart from every Tom, Dick and Rockefeller, I remind myself of how fucking good it feels—how right—to not have to be a part of this scene anymore.

I walked away from taking over my grandfather’s financial empire over seven years ago. And haven’t had one regret.

The only part of the billionaire lifestyle I missed was the money. And if I followed through with Frank Levins’s plan, I could live the life I really wanted to.

The life I needed.

A life that was mine.

Unfortunately, that life can’t survive without securing a fake-fiancée, and for the second time tonight, I text Sophia, worry working its way under my skin as my potential weekend wife continues to ghost me.

I’d growl out loud if I could, I’m so fucking frustrated.

Contrary to Sheena’s sexy little show back there, I’m no more at ease—no more relaxed than I’d been when I first entered this bar, my pulse hammering all the way here.

I sit in the back at a booth, slipping a red lollipop from my pocket, unwrapping it quickly and wrapping my lips around its sweet edge, my sweet tooth craving something sugary.

I check my texts again for the fourth time in as many minutes, but there’s nothing.

Nothing but agitation, and to my surprise, Kevin O’Malley to keep me company.

The bearded bartender, showing up out of nowhere, takes a seat right across from me.

He slides into the leather-bound booth, jolly voice booming.

“Whowe,” he bellows in an overly affected Scottish accent, “it’s drumlie in here, isna?”

“Kev,” I warn, removing the lollipop from my lips. “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying when you’re in one of these Ye Ole Scottish moods, so for the love of God and all things American, please…dumb it down for me. I’m trying not to use too many brain cells tonight.”

The bear of a man grins, lips spreading wide. “It’s crowded in here, lad. Really crowded. It’s a good turnout.”

“Turnout’s one thing.” I look around. “This is a bunch of rich people, pretending to give a shit.”

He cocks a brow. “Angry much, lad?”

“More like annoyed. But what’s new?”

“Aye, makes sense. Heard you were on the schedule tonight and didn’t show, so that means Nancy’s going to be on the warpath.”

“When is she not? The woman was born in armor when it comes to me. She’s always ready for a fight.” I eye him. “You’ve been working a lot, I see.”

“Yup. Just so much to do around here. You know how it is, Drew.”

I nod. “I sure do. Well, I'm glad you found the time to come say hello. I've been thinking a lot about you lately.”

“Oh yeah? Why's that?” Kevin asks, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

“Well, for one thing… If you’re going to see my cock, the least you can do is pay me money for the show. I usually don’t give free performances.”

Kevin gapes. “Clerty clerty,” he starts, that thick accent coming back with a vengeance. “Yer talkin’ mince withoot a tattie in sight. Unbelievable.”

“In English. Remember my brain cells? Have mercy on ‘em.”

The hefty man leans forward, eyes wide as saucers. “Yer out of yer mind, Drew.