The Fake Boyfriend – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Tags Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

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My coffee cup sits on the kitchen counter—black, no sugar—now cold and forgotten. I check my watch: Emmy should arrive in exactly eight minutes, assuming she's punctual. Something tells me punctuality isn't her strength.

Jesus Christ, what am I doing?

I wipe my palms on my slacks, annoyed at the physical reaction. This is a business meeting. Nothing more. And yet I'm acting like a teenage boy asking a girl out for the first time. Except I don't do that. Never did.

Violet's words echo: "She needs someone who won't give up on her when she's stubborn."

I argued against the clause for forty-five minutes. Violet had simply smiled—that same smile that reminded me so much of my mother, Caroline. The same quiet confidence. The warmth.

"Adrian," she said, smiling softly, "sometimes the most logical people make the most illogical decisions about love."

I stop before the windows, hands clasped behind my back. The objective remains clear: Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements. She needs the library—I saw it in her eyes when I read the clause, that flash of devastation. I've analyzed her reaction a dozen times this week.

The thing is…

I require something too.

Judith Morrison's words from yesterday's partner meeting replay in my mind: "Adrian, your work is impeccable, but managing partner requires balance. Yes, even though your father's name is in that logo outside. The partners need to see you're human, not just a legal machine."

Then there's my promise to Violet. Three separate visits to her estate, conversations in that remarkable library. Each time she'd look at me with those hazel eyes—so like Emmy's—and say, "You remind me of my granddaughter. Both brilliant, both hiding from life."

I disagreed. I wasn't hiding. I was focused.

Violet died two days after our last conversation. I'd promised to look after Emmy, without fully understanding what that entailed.

Now I do.

I straighten my tie again, then catch myself. Stop.

Emmy has occupied more of my thoughts this week than is appropriate. I've replayed our confrontation over and over: the fire in her eyes, the tremor in her voice when she realized what Violet had done. I noticed details I shouldn't have—how her hands shook with anger, the way she pressed her thumb against that vintage brooch.

My solution is unorthodox, maybe unethical by traditional standards. But I've analyzed it from every angle.

First, Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements or lose something irreplaceable.

Second, I need to demonstrate work-life balance to secure the managing partner position.

Third, I made a promise to Violet.

The doorbell rings. This is it. No backing out now.

I straighten my tie again, realize what I'm doing, and stop. This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial solution. Nothing more.

I cross to the door and open it.

The ground underneath me shifts.

Emmy stands in the hallway, looking exhausted. Dark circles underline her red-rimmed eyes. Has she been crying? Her hair escapes from a messy bun, framing her face. An oversized burgundy cardigan slips off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a black tank top beneath. Worn jeans, ankle boots, that messenger bag slung across her body.

For a second, my mind goes blank. This keeps happening around her, and it's both unusual and concerning.

I'm never the type to stutter or lose focus. Yet I find myself needing to concentrate fully just to form a coherent sentence in her presence.

Why does she affect me like this?

"This better be important, Adrian. I'm not in the mood for more bad news about Violet's estate."

Her voice sounds tired, defensive. She walks past me into the apartment, and when her shoulder brushes my chest, I stiffen. That brief contact has my blood rushing down south. Fuck, this is so not the time.

Struggling to keep my heartbeat within normal range, I close the door and turn to find her surveying my living space, her expression a barely concealed judgment.

I see my apartment through her eyes: too sterile, too cold, too much like me. The Italian leather sectional, untouched. The glass coffee table displaying nothing but her grandmother's will. The Eames chair, where I sometimes read legal briefs. The kitchen appliances that look unused, because they are. Well, I do use them sometimes, I console myself.

Something about her assessment bothers me. I ignore it.

"Would you like coffee?" I ask.

She looks surprised at the offer but nods. "Yes, thank you."

I move to the kitchen area. "Black with one sugar, right?"

Her eyebrows rise. Her head tilts. "You remember how I take my coffee?"

"You mentioned it. Once." I don't add that I've noticed it four separate times—twice during probate meetings, once at the funeral reception, once during the will reading.

I pull out a paper bag from Sip O'Clock, her regular coffee shop. I've seen her there twice, both times when she didn't notice me. She always ordered the same things.

Her phone rings as I prepare the coffee. She checks it, sighs. "I should take this. My agent. Do you mind?"


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