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  PRETENDING HE’S MINE

  A Caught Up In Us novella

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Lauren Blakely

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright & Permissions

  PRETENDING HE’S MINE

  Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by Josyan McGregor

  PUBLISHED ON SMASHWORDS BY:

  Lauren Blakely

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  eab:20130224.01

  This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever fallen in like…and then some.

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance

  (NOT appropriate for younger readers)

  Once upon a time in New York City, there was a down-on-his-luck actor named Reeve, who was talented and gorgeous in that dreamy, broody sort of way that makes all the women swoon. But show biz is a rough biz—he lost out on a part in a big film, and now his day job hours have been cut too. What’s a handsome young thing in need of a role to do? Enter Sutton Brenner. She’s sexy and shrewd and the most top-notch casting director there is. She’s this close to landing a coveted gig casting a film based on a best-selling mega-romance novel, but there’s a catch. After one too many transgressions with lovely single ladies, the film’s philandering producer has been put on a short leash by his wife, who’s forbidden him from working with anyone unattached. So the happily single Sutton strikes a pact with Reeve—play the role of her fiancé until she closes the deal, and he’s guaranteed to get an audition for the starring role in the film. But as the two play pretend, the lines between make-believe and matters of the heart start to blur. Especially after that hot night in the balcony of the Broadway theater. And that scorching afternoon in the stacks of the New York Public Library. Who’s playing who? Or is someone else really the director in the secret affair of their lives?

  Pretending He’s Mine is a 30,000-word companion novella in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Caught Up In Us series. It’s not necessary to have read Caught Up In Us to enjoy Pretending He’s Mine. This is not a sequel. However, Caught Up In Us fans should be pleased to know that Jill has several scenes and that both Kat and Bryan appear in a key scene in this novella! There are also two bonus/additional scenes from Caught Up In Us exclusively in this novella! And a sneak peek at the first chapter of USA Today Bestselling author Monica Murphy’s upcoming novel Second Chance Boyfriend, as well as an excerpt from the upcoming young adult novel Hell’s Hollow by Summer Stone.

  Caught Up In Us is available from many fine e-tailers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Kobo, and iBooks soon!

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Bonus Scenes from Caught Up In Us

  Acknowledgements

  Contact

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sneak Peek of Monica Murphy’s Second Chance Boyfriend

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sneak Peek of Summer Stone’s Hell’s Hollow

  Prologue

  Present Day

  The metal dug into his wrists. As Reeve watched the red indentation forming on his skin, he never thought he’d be the one in this position. Even in his wildest hopes, he never imagined he’d be wearing only boxer briefs and cowboy boots while handcuffed to a bedpost.

  But if he were to really analyze the situation, with complete and total honesty, the boots were probably the strangest part of the whole scenario. He’d never been a cowboy boots kind of guy. Combat boots, maybe, worn and tattered. Jeans and tee-shirts, for sure.

  But genuine cowboy boots?

  So not Reeve.

  “Tell me when it hurts.”

  “Doesn’t hurt,” he said.

  A pair of hands wrapped around him, tugging on each end of the handcuffs, tightening them. He felt another pair of hands slide up his back. He sucked in a breath. Damn, why did it have to feel so good? Why wasn’t he the one doing the cuffing, and calling the shots? But then, the deal with Sutton Brenner had never started with him calling the shots. It had always started with her, with her glorious legs, ice-blue eyes, curtains of brown, silky hair, and the body that would put a Victoria’s Secret model to shame. He was pretty sure Sutton’s hands were the ones tracing long, lingering lines up his back.

  The two women weren’t the only ones in the room, but Reeve did his best to keep his head down, his eyes off of anyone else.

  “How about a cowboy hat before I take you for a ride?”

  He heard the sound of a whip cracking against a palm, and then a wide-brimmed hat came down on his head, pushing his dark hair into his eyes. Sutton stepped back. Her role was done.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sutton Brenner had seen a lot of young men with their shirts off. A fair amount with jeans off too. Yes, she definitely considered herself a top-tier appraiser of the finest specimens of toned, muscled, and eminently lickable male flesh. Not that she went around sampling the produce. Rather, she was known for being able to pick ‘em. She could identify a thoroughbred with one sharp-eyed stare. Reeve wasn’t the typical buffed, oiled and flexed 200-pounds of muscle you’d see in a fireman’s calendar, nor was he your standard-order bachelorette-party beefcake with a bowtie and a big smile. There was something a bit more refined about him. Not just in his face—those cheekbones had been sculpted by Renaissance Masters, she was sure—but also in his body. He was longer, lankier, with the tightly toned frame of a cyclist, but filled out in all the right places. Trim waist, cut abs, arms with just the right amount of delicious definition. And that hair, so soft and inviting.

  Sutton bit her lip just thinking of all the days and nights she’d spent with him. Sure, he might be the one chained to a bedpost now. But she was an equal opportunity objectifier and she grinned privately as she rewound through all the times he’d had his way with her. But this moment wasn’t about her. It was about him. The spotlight was definitely on him.

  Chapter One

  Four Months Ago

  Callback.

  The word itself was alluring. It whispered of promises and hope and possibility. It was the thing an actor wanted most to hear after an audition, but hell if callback wasn’t the big tease. It was the carrot you chased and rarely caught.

  Reeve longed to hear those words on his voice mail, to see them in his email. They came in fits and starts, and he hadn’t gotten a callback since he finished the run of an off-Broadway production of Les Mis. The producers had modernized the show so Reeve had gotten to sing like a
rock star, and he felt like one too, earning comparisons by critics to the lead singer of Arcade Fire in one review, and Coldplay in another. The show closed a few weeks ago, and Reeve found himself where young actors in New York often find themselves. Looking for a job. It was a constant state as a thespian. You had to live your life on the edge of want every single day. If there was anything else he remotely wanted to do with his life—be a cop like his dad, or a high school English teacher, like his mom, he’d have signed up for the police academy or a teaching degree a few years ago. But acting was his passion, the thing he couldn’t live without, and so, at age twenty-four, he’d amassed a couple decent credits, and a few nice gigs, but not a ton of dough. Despite the reviews for Les Mis, he’d only made a few thousand bucks from the show.

  That was the problem with theater. It barely satisfied the beast of New York City rent.

  Sure, there were commercials, and Reeve had snagged a couple of spots, pimping whitening toothpaste in one, and flashing his bright, perfect smile. Hey, he wasn’t bragging. He just had straight teeth, thanks to years in braces as a kid. But he needed a bigger payday. Nab a meaty role in a film, or land a part in a TV show that makes it, and you’re on your way to no longer having to strap a messenger bag across your back, and zip through traffic like you’ve got a deathwish. Bike messengers were still in demand by law offices and financial firms, but the clients could be douchebags, and Reeve got tired of the dirty looks he’d get from the pinstriped-suited men in elevators. As if they’d never seen a guy with bike grease on his cheeks before.

  Today was one of those days. A snooty lady in an office building had made him take the stairs fifteen flights rather than the elevator, then he’d been nearly clipped by a cab making an illegal turn on Third Avenue, and to top it off he’d almost gotten sideswiped by a bus when the driver didn’t bother to look whether the lane was clear. Was it so much to ask for drivers to pay attention?

  Now, he was racing against the clock to deliver documents for a deal closing.

  “Hold the door,” he called out as the brass elevator doors of a swank Park Avenue office building started to shut. The whole place was gold-plated and marble-floored and reeked of insanely high hourly billing rates, the likes of which Reeve could barely even imagine.

  He ran over to the lift, messenger bag smacking the back of his tee-shirt, and raced inside. The gray-haired man who’d held the door gave him a quick once-over and then snorted a “harumph” and shook his head.

  “Need a tissue? Some cough drops, maybe?” Reeve said, because he knew the blue blood was dissing him in his street wear, with his bike helmet still on, and fingerless gloves on his hands, and the attitude ticked him off.

  “Shouldn’t you be taking the service elevator, young man?”

  “Oh, right. I should,” Reeve muttered under his breath while staring at the elevator buttons. “Because I might infect the people in here with my low-paying, grubby, barely-covers-the-rent job.”

  Evidently, the man had good hearing. “I could call building security on you.”

  Crap. The guy probably owned the building. Reeve should have known better. He should have shut his mouth. He should have said, “Yes sir, I will take that elevator next time.” But honestly, the whole bike-messenger-in-the-service-elevator was supposed to be a thing of the past.

  “Sorry,” Reeve said.

  They stepped out at the same floor and walked into a glass-paneled office suite.

  “Hello, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” the receptionist said and Reeve cringed as he handed her the package. “For Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Reeve said in a low voice.

  He turned tail, ready to get the hell out of the office, when Mr. Fitzpatrick called out to the receptionist. “Sally, dear. Would you please look into a new messenger service for our documents?”

  Fuck. His boss was going to skewer him. Why did he have to make a snide comment? Reeve didn’t usually let pointed remarks get the better of him. But, it wasn’t even the richie-rich dude in the suit that he was pissed at. Reeve was still pissed at himself over blowing a callback a few weeks ago.

  It had been a plum role. A supporting part in a new Joss Whedon flick. He’d nailed the first audition, then he’d prepped and practiced his lines over and over before the callback. That was the problem. He’d wrung all the feelings from the words after one too many solo rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror. By the time he opened his mouth for the camera that was rolling on his callback, he was on auto-pilot. He knew from the way the producer had said “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” that he’d flubbed it and Reeve only had himself to blame.

  Now, he’d lost a client for Swift as Light.

  He left the Park Avenue building, spotting the flashing red light on his phone. His boss had probably called to ream him out. There was a text message too. What the hell did you do??? Reeve ignored it, unlocked his bike, and hopped into the saddle, speed-demoning it down the traffic-infested streets of New York, spewing a stream of curse words as he gripped the handlebars. Now he’d have to give his best mea culpa to his boss at the Swift as Light offices in the East Village. When he arrived, he wheeled his bike inside, parked it in the cluttered hallway, and found Dave waiting for him. Hands on hips. Face lined with anger.

  Reeve pulled the messenger bag over his head and dropped it on the floor.

  “Sorry.”

  “Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t fucking talk to people. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “Sorry. I almost got killed out there. I’m having a shit day.”

  “Welcome to being an adult. Every day can be a shit day. You don’t have to be a dick to the clients.”

  “I didn’t know he was a client,” Reeve said, then instantly hated himself for sounding whiny.

  “Assume everyone is. Got that? Assume everyone is a client and shut your mouth. You’re not in a Tarantino film. You’re in a job. So act like it.”

  “Okay. Got the message.” Reeve held up his hands, as if surrendering.

  “And go take a week off to cool down.”

  “What?” Reeve’s jaw dropped.

  “I gotta spend the day trying to triage this and figure out if I can save a client. If I see you around, it’ll piss me off. So get out of here, and come back in a week. We’ll see if I no longer want to strangle you with one of your dumbass tee-shirts with their stupid sayings,” Dave said, and walked back into his office.

  Reeve glanced down at his well-worn blue tee-shirt. What was wrong with his tee-shirts now? This one had the words “Beehives are not piñatas” in a cool font across the front. The shirt looked good on him. Some chick at the corner bodega where he got his morning coffee had even said “cool shirt.” He could rock a worn tee-shirt like nobody’s business thanks to his lean and muscly frame.

  Reeve snagged his bike, left the office and called Jill. They’d been friends for a while, but became even tighter during Les Mis, when she played Eponine. Tight in the close friends kind of way. Tight in the way a dude can be buddies with a chick.

  “Come on over tonight and we’ll drown your sorrows,” she said. “My roommate’s in Paris for a business trip so we can be as loud and obnoxious as we want.”

  “Because if she were here, you’d be quiet and considerate?” Reeve teased.

  “As if I’m capable of that.”

  “I’ll be over after seven. I’m going to the gym. I have to blow off some steam.”

  “Good. Because you are not permitted to come over angry. It would totally ruin my feng shui crystal healing energy vibe.”

  He laughed. “Since when are you into new age stuff?”

  “Since never. But I got something nice from a marathon mommy and it’s got your name written all over it.”

  “Can’t wait to see what it is. See you later, babe.”

  After a stint at the gym, and a quick shower, Reeve walked across town to Jill’s apartment in Chelsea and she buzzed him up.

  “I have beer and I have vodka. Pick your poison.” Jill waggled a lon
g-neck bottle in one hand, and a short glass with ice cubes and clear liquid in the other.

  “Vodka,” he said, and took a long swallow of the liquor, downing most of the drink.

  “Whoa, Tiger. Slow it down.”

  Reeve just shrugged, thrust the glass at Jill, and affixed his best commercial toothpaste smile. “May I have another, pretty please?”

  “Fine,” she said, pouring more into the glass.

  “Since when do you buy Belvedere?”

  “This is the something nice I got. It was a gift from one of the ladies in my running club who finished the New York City marathon.”

  “She gave you vodka for finishing a marathon?”

  “Yes. And I genuflected, because I love my Belvedere almost as much as my beer. Now, come to my couch, and tell me all your problems,” she said, pointing to the mustard-colored couch, well-worn from many late-night talk sessions.

  “So your roomie’s in Paris?”

  “She’s on a mission to find new designs for her necklaces. That, and trying to stay away from the guy she’s been jonesing for.”

  “You know she blew me off for a nightcap after opening night when we played at the Soho Club.”

  Jill waved a hand in the air. “She’d have blown off David Gandy, my dear. She only has eyes for this guy. She’s been a done deal for a long time.”

  “Anyway,” Reeve said as he stretched out on the couch, resting his head in Jill’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, but not in a romantic way. They were past that, but actors are naturally touchy people. They are used to having hands on each other, whether on stage or in rehearsals, so it becomes a natural state of affairs when hanging out.

  “Let’s see. Well, I totally fucked up my audition for the Joss Whedon film, as you know. Second, I haven’t booked a commercial in weeks. Third, I’m pretty sure the residuals from my last toothpaste spot are going to dry up soon. Fourth, my boss at the messenger service is forcing me to take a week off without pay because I was rude—“ Reeve said, sketching air quotes around the word “—to one of his customers.”