Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
JulietI was a struggling barista in a small coffee shop in the Big Apple. One day a woman dressed from head to toe in designer gear came in with a job offer for me. A very unusual job offer.
I thought about saying no.
I really did. But how could I refuse such an offer?
To start with I didn’t have a hope in hell of ever earning that kind of money, not even if I worked my butt off for years. Three months of my life was all I had to give up, and the best part was, it wasn’t even illegal.
All I had to do was pretend to be some rich dude’s wife.
In exchange, I would be paid an insane amount of money and step into a fabulous life of luxury. I'd get a brand-new designer wardrobe, have access to a black American Express credit card, and be able to take my friends out to lunch in the most exclusive restaurants and gorgeous spas. And the best part… I wouldn’t even have to sleep with the rich dude.
It was the most amazing, most incredible thing that had ever happened to me.
So, I said yes. I’d have been mad not to.
But like everything in life, there was a catch.
And the catch involved the rich dude…
The Imposter & I is a steamy, dual-point-of-view, standalone romance with fiery passion, unforgettable love, and a well-deserved happily-ever-after ending
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
JULIET
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hj3uXzAjmeI
-Mercedes Benz-
It’s nearly closing time at Yellow Cup, the tiny coffeeshop, tucked away in the heart of Manhattan on Mulberry Street, Nolita. I work here. It’s an odd little place with mismatched wooden tables painted a sunny yellow and higgledy-piggledy shelves lined with rusty old coffee tins repurposed as pots for lavender plants, but in my opinion, it’s a hidden gem.
We serve the finest slow-roasted coffee and pastries in all of New York.
The espresso machine hisses softly behind me, filling the air with the rich, nutty aroma of freshly ground beans. The sky beyond the glass windows is already a deep golden-orange, and the streetlights are starting to glow on the sidewalk, however, if the weather app on my phone is correct, the summer temperature is still hovering around 88 degrees Fahrenheit. Even the ceiling fans spinning overhead are no match for this balmy heat.
My uniform feels sticky against my skin, and my lower back aches slightly from hauling trays of muffins and croissants from the back kitchen. I've been on my feet since this morning, and my strawberry-blonde hair tied back into a ponytail is starting to frizz from the humidity.
Tips were slim today. The tourists rushing past our door seemed too busy to stop in for a latte. I’ll have to think of more ways to be extra nice to my regulars. I seriously need the money. My wages on their own barely cover the rent on my cramped apartment in the East Village. I dream of something more than a life of endless grind. I need a break. Just a little break. Sighing, I wipe down the counter with a damp cloth and glance at the clock.
Only five minutes more, thank God.
But at that precise moment, the bell above the door tinkles. A gust of warm evening air sneaks in, making the napkins on the counter flutter. It carries with it the sound of honking taxis and the scent of the city’s baking-hot pavements. I glance toward the door, expecting a tourist. My regulars know better than to come in at closing time.
"Sorry, but we're closing in five minutes. I can only do take-outs," I call, my voice is laced with that New York directness I've picked up after five years in the Big Apple.
But the woman pushes the door shut behind her with a decisive click and walks toward the counter. Her heels click sharply against the worn hardwood floor. She is expensively dressed in an ivory silk blouse and a pair of elegant, tailored black slacks. Her belt carries the Gucci logo, and the purse slung over her shoulder is the latest Chanel quilted flap in black. I recognize it from my Instagram feed.
I straighten, my eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion. She is no tourist. And a woman like her wouldn’t be seen dead in such an unglamorous establishment as this. Also, why is she keeping her face slightly tilted away from me? Then, as she approaches the counter, she slowly turns her head and faces me. The low-hanging pendant lights catch her features, and I freeze. The dishcloth slips from my nerveless fingers onto the counter.
Good God!
Under her expertly applied makeup—flawless foundation that evens her skin to porcelain perfection, smoky eyeshadow that accentuates her blue eyes, and red painted lips—she looks... like me.
Exactly like me!
The resemblance is startling. Uncanny, really. I stare at her in astonishment.
She has the same high cheekbones, the same slight dimple in her chin. She is blonde too, but I suspect it is from a bottle, and her hair is sleeker and cut in a chic, asymmetrical style that swings just above her shoulders. The only small difference I can see is her nose, which seems more refined at the tip, and she is slimmer than me. Clearly, she's never indulged in a leftover pastry. I sneak one at the end of every shift. Even so, if I had her haircut and makeup, we could pass as identical twins.
Looking at her is more eerie than I can put into words. Like staring into a mirror, only my reflection has been polished and upgraded. A mix of shock and unease ripples through me. Is this some kind of prank? Or am I hallucinating from too many double espressos?
She comes to a stop at the counter and rests her hands lightly on the edge. A smile curves her lips. She is not just pleased, she’s triumphant, like she's won something important. Her eyes, a shade of blue similar to mine, but perhaps a fraction deeper, sparkle as she assesses me from head to toe. My mind races like crazy. Who is she? And why does she look so... happy about this chance encounter with her doppelganger?
"I'm Carolyn Bessant," she says, her voice smooth and polished. It has a hint of an upper-crust accent that conjures up images of private schools and summer homes by lakes. She extends a hand, revealing manicured nails in a neutral polish.