Cleaning floors in Branson Couture was never part of my career plans. Neither was almost decapitating the CEO with a mop. Of course, I didn’t know he was the CEO—my mind only registered “intruder” and “hot”. Maybe not in that order. Meet James Branson: infuriatingly hot, obscenely wealthy, and as charming as a door slammed in your face. He’s the king of high fashion. And, apparently, of ruining my day. The thing is, he wants to do more than just ruin my day. In my hasty retreat from the mop-attack I left my design journal behind. James discovers my designs and offers me truly insane money to work beside him. Every cell in my body is screaming: “Run, girl!” James is a master of the boardroom with a heart encased in steel. This Snarlmaster General has a scowl that could out-thunder a hurricane. He also holds the key to my dreams in his giant mitts. But I can’t think about his giant… anything. In the fashion world, it’s not just designs that get ripped apart at the seams. Hearts do as well. But if James thinks I’ll let him unravel mine, he's in for the fight of his billionaire life. So I have a plan: Show up. Do my job. Don’t think about my boss naked. Piece of cake, right?

They say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend. But the guy that sells those diamonds? My worst enemy. It took me precisely 0.1 seconds to start hating Cameron O’Connor. I’m late to a job interview and it seems like kismet when a cab stops outside my apartment. Until the grumpiest, grouchiest, and most outrageously handsome suit-hole steals it. Of course, I get to my interview and who is behind the desk? “You’re late. Couldn’t find a cab?” This infuriatingly beautiful man makes my blood boil. So I’m completely justified when I tell him all the ways his company is messing up their current PR disaster. I wouldn’t touch this job—or the brutally chiseled bossbeast—with a ten-foot pole. Until he offers me a number with more zeros than a box of donuts. Now I’m working alongside the bosszilla. Trying to keep the snark level to somewhere between brazen defiancé and outright mutiny. If only he hadn’t hired that influencer to promote the company’s engagement rings. And if only she hadn’t announced that Cameron and I were hiding a secret romance. Now suddenly, our relationship is all anyone can talk about. Except there’s zero romance—we hate each other. To sell the story, we have to go on fake dates and fake being in love. Only at some point, I don’t have to pretend anymore. And I start thinking Cameron isn’t faking either. But are we falling, or just faking?