Never been tamed, p.1
Never Been Tamed, page 1
NEVER BEEN TAMED
J. S. COOPER
For Sandra, I still remember our adventure at Steak N Shake…
CONTENTS
Blurb
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
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
CONTENTS
Blurb
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
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
BLURB
I just announced my engagement to a hot billionaire.
Yes, you read that right. A billionaire.
And it was announced in the New York Frigging Times.
My family is ecstatic and already celebrating.
Only they don’t know the truth.
My engagement is faker than my Chanel handbag.
My fake fiancé, Jackson Pruitt, is paying me to pretend to be in love with him so he can inherit his family’s company.
How cliché!
My parents are planning free trips to Fiji.
I’m counting down the days to end this thing.
They don’t know he’s the same man I had a one-night stand with.
Or the man who was super annoyed when Lenny at the bodega gave me his number.
And promptly left me tied up to a bed for five hours.
How rude!
Now Jackson and I are headed to the Hamptons to convince his family our love is for real.
Only I want to gag.
If the hallway bathroom incident is anything to go by, he’s not going to make this easy on me.
I’m still blushing redder than a beetroot at the sounds all one hundred guests heard.
But believe you me, I’m going to have the last laugh.
Jackson Pruitt and I may not be in love, but will make him go down.
PROLOGUE
Zara
March 13th
“We are pleased to announce the engagement of Zara Hathaway and Jackson Pruitt. The wedding will be held on July seventh at four o’clock in the afternoon at the Botanical Garden. Reception to follow.”
I stare at the announcement in the New York Times and try not to groan. What a farce. This should be the happiest moment of my life. I should be planning the wedding of my dreams. But I’m not. Because this is all fake. However, the sparkling two-carat diamond on my finger is all too real. I was there when Jackson bought it. Fifty thousand dollars. I could pawn the ring and make a run for it, but fifty thousand dollars won’t get me far enough away from my beloved.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The mere thought of the man makes my stomach churn.
I can’t stand him and his teasing, taunting green eyes, or the way he always smirks around me like he’s the cat that got the cream. I can find a better use for his lips. Which I already have.
The thought makes me blush. I am not going to think about what Jackson Pruitt does with his lips or tongue.
I am not going to think about it for one more moment.
It’s crazy to think that I am one of the most envied women in New York City at this moment, and it is all an illusion.
There will be no wedding at the Botanical Garden.
There will be no wedding of the year.
We will not be riding off into the sunset together.
I won’t be riding anywhere unless I get a bike. Or one more night with Jackson.
Which I certainly do not want.
I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next few months as his fake fiancée without giving it all away, especially if he keeps sending me presents like the lingerie currently sitting on my bed—the lingerie that I opened in front of all our friends and family. My face is still burning with shame, but I have an idea how to get him back.
A smile crosses my face at my plan. I will drive this man as crazy as he’s already driven me.
I’m almost guaranteed it would work.
I’m going to bring Jackson Pruitt to his knees. I can picture his puppy dog eyes staring up at me, and I am counting down the minutes until I can put it into action. And then, when I’m done, I’ll ride away on a milk-white steed into the law school of my dreams because by then, he will have pulled some strings to help me get in, and I’ll be well on my way to becoming Zara Hathaway, attorney at law.
I look at the letter in my other hand.
Dear Sandra,
Do you think I should send the following to the admissions committees of the schools I am applying to?
I am writing to alert you to the fact that Jackson Pruitt, the heir to the Pruitt fortune and the man I had a one-night stand with, is not actually my fiancé.
I mean, he is technically my fiancé.
But the relationship is fake. It’s faker than the Chanel handbag I got on Canal Street last week.
We are not in love. Just the thought makes me nauseous.
Okay, so yes, we did hook up the first night we met, but trust me when I say he proceeded to get on my nerves the very next day.
I hate to say it, but he’s a grumpy, chauvinistic pig.
Yes, technically, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen, but looks and chiseled muscles aren’t everything.
And yes, technically, I did apply for a job where I’d be working with him as my boss.
But I didn’t know he worked there.
And sure, you may think I’m bitter because he didn’t hire me, but I’m not.
I hate to admit it, but the rumor is true. He did find me working at a strip club the following week. Times are hard.
I understand why many may say he did me a favor by hiring me to pretend to be his fake fiancé.
But he only did it to fulfill the requirements of his trust, which is pretty self-serving in my eyes.
No, it wasn’t self-serving for him to recommend me for admission to your esteemed law school, but I only feel it right to let you know.
I hope this doesn’t affect my chances for admission.
Yours Sincerely,
Zara Hathaway
“Don’t be stupid, Zara,” I whisper to myself as I shift in the bed. A loud groan emanates from beside me, and I freeze. I look over to my left and see a bemused Jackson staring at me. A very naked Jackson.
Okay, so maybe I’m a bit stupid to write the letter while still in bed with Jackson. And maybe what we have isn’t just a one-night stand, but one thing I know for sure is that the engagement will end.
“Stupid doing what?” he asks as he grabs my wrist and pulls me down on top of him. “Because if the answer is riding me and then making my breakfast, I don’t think that’s stupid at all.” I groan at his bad joke and drop the invitation and letter to the side of the bed. It’s hard for me to resist this man, even though I can’t stand him.
However, one thing I know to be eternally true is that we will never get married because Jackson Pruitt is a man who can never be tamed.
1
Zara
Three Weeks Earlier
Dear Sandra,
I am too nice. I know you already told me that, but I now actually understand what you mean. When I told my sister, Elise that she and her two kids could visit, I didn’t mean they could stay for six months. Although, she did say that they would be out by the end of the summer. I won’t be holding my breath because that’s predicated on her making it as a reality TV star, and I don’t see that coming true for her anytime soon.
Just like I don’t see myself getting into NYU or Columbia Law School anytime soon. My college GPA was okay, my LSAT test scores are weak, and I have no good letters of recommendation. Save for an old professor who thinks my name is Lara and that I grew up in Spain. Which wouldn’t be a problem if my name wasn’t Zara and the fact that I’ve never been to Spain before in my life.
Lila, my best friend and roommate, thinks I need to kick Elise out and find myself a man. To her credit, Elise also thinks I should find myself a man. She thinks a good night of loving will make me less tense. I think winning fifty grand in the lottery will do the same
Miss you,
Zara
It’s one of those Wednesday nights that feels like the week will never end. I’m counting down the hours until I can crawl into my soft, cream linen-sheeted bed and feast on strawberry ice cream while watching Royal Pains on TV. The very thought of it fills me with bliss.
“Stay awake, Zara,” I mumble to myself, trying to ignore the ache in my back from the uncomfortable hard metal seat and the mildewy smell that permeates the small room in the Flatiron District that serves as the venue for the play I find myself watching. My eyelids feel heavy, and my stomach is empty enough that I’m just waiting for it to start growling.
“Wow, he’s a hottie,” my slightly obnoxious, fashionista wanna-be younger sister Elise whispers-shouts as she points at the tall blond man sitting on the other side of me. My stomach churns as I cringe, hoping the hottie has not heard what she’s said. I’m feeling slightly sick at how obnoxious she’s being, but I’m not sure if the two Snickers bars I ate during intermission are to blame.
I do not answer Elise and instead force myself to keep staring straight ahead. Even though my neck is stiff, my shoulders are tight, and my face is burning, I will not acknowledge her. I know if I do, she won’t stop.
It doesn’t help that something is tickling my left ear, and I want to scratch it. The seats in this theater are so close together that if I move an inch, I’ll practically be on Mr. Hottie’s lap. I can already feel his thigh pressed against mine, and while it’s warm and solid, it feels slightly uncomfortable to be so close to a stranger.
“I wonder if he’s single,” Elise continues even louder this time, and I cannot stop myself from turning to glare at her while simultaneously pressing my finger to my lips. “Hot, hot, hot.” She giggles, and I roll my eyes as I look back toward the stage. I don’t ask her how she can tell what he looks like because I don’t want to encourage her.
The room is dark and musty, and I’m struggling not to fall asleep. I suppress a yawn as I stare at the small stage filled with three actors dressed in garbage bags with leaves on their heads. Elise and I are in the audience of an off-off-Broadway play in which my best friend Lila has a starring role. I’m happy she got the role, but the play is awful. It’s opening night, and I can feel the hope that this play will be around for many years, seeping from my veins.
I pinch my arm to stay awake; this has been the longest hour and a half of my life.
“The vortex sucks…” a tall skinny guy with blue polka dots on his face tells the audience as he paints a black circle on a white canvas board. I have no idea what or who he is supposed to be. He turns to look at the audience dramatically, his face contorted, and I wonder if he needs the toilet. He’s holding himself in such an awkward position that I fear he might relieve himself onstage. “And the vortex sucks and sucks,” he shouts into the small room and starts stomping his feet. I press my lips together to stop from laughing. “It sucks…” he shouts again.
“And so does this play.” Elise doesn’t bother to whisper this time, and I see a few people in front of us, looking around and glaring. “Am I lying?” Her face is defiant and I try not to groan as she shrugs and stares down an older lady in front of us. She’s utterly unbothered that she’s being a disturbance in the audience. “Yes, Karen?” she asks the older lady, who turns back around and I let out a deep breath to stop myself from telling her off.
Elise is twenty-five and one of the rudest and most unaware women I know. Not that I don’t love her. She’s my sister, and I would do anything for her, but her self-obsession can be taxing. She lives as if she were a contestant on a reality TV show, which makes sense because her dream is to be a reality star. Which is a pretty low goal if you ask me, but I try not to be too judgmental.
I’m all about her living out her dreams, aside from the fact that she has two kids, whom I think she should be setting a better example for. But then again, I suppose that’s why I let them move in with Lila and me. At least we were good examples, okay, goodish examples, to two young impressionable minds. Or at least better than Elise would have been by herself.
I try to suppress a sigh at what a mistake that had been. Even though moving in with Lila and me had been the best move for them, my life turned into a hot mess upon their arrival.
“Elise, stop.” I reach over, grab her hand, and squeeze tightly. I do not care if it hurts. Sometimes, being the bigger sister comes with perks. “Do not ruin Lila’s moment.”
“Pretty hard to ruin something this bad,” she mumbles, but she’s quieter now. She nods and sits back in her chair, and I let out a small sigh of relief. Elise can be a bitch, but she tries to be better around people she loves. Those people are: me, Lila, and her kids, Luke and Charlotte, who are only six and four, respectively.
I stare back at the stage, grateful that Lila is now singing her song about meeting a man on the moon while doing cartwheels. Not because this is a better part of the play, but because I know this song comes toward the end. I’ve spent the last month helping Lila practice her lines and know the play well. I hoped the production would somehow turn around the bad script, but it hasn’t. Everything about the production is a failure, but at least it means a weekly paycheck for Lila. We need the money, especially after the week I’ve had.
“I’m curious. Do you think I’m a hottie?” The tall blond man to my left whispers in my ear as soon as the play ends and the brief applause is done. There are also a couple of loud boos as well that make me feel bad for Lila, but they don’t last too long. And that’s because the audience is rushing out in droves. People are practically pushing past each other to leave like they’ve been told there’s a snake or alligator in the theater.
Not a good sign.
I look over at the man in surprise; his bright blue eyes are mischievous, and I’m able to see him better now that the lights are back on. He’s handsome in that frat boy, I can chug five beers while telling you how great and accomplished I am way.
“Sorry, what?” I issue him a small smile, enough to be friendly but not friendly enough to show interest. I am not interested in bros. Not because I don’t find them attractive. Most of them are super hot, but more because I don’t need the drama they bring into my life. And trust me when I say they bring drama that’s akin to a daytime soap. At least Matt, my ex, who was the president of his frat in college, definitely made my life young and restless.
“I heard your friend saying I was hot.” Frat bro brushes back his floppy blond hair and gives me his most dazzling smile. He has perfect, even white teeth, and I wonder if they are real. “I was wondering if you agree.”
I hate that he has asked me that question. I don’t want to hurt his feelings and tell him never in a million years and not for a billion dollars would I even look in his direction. Men like him should come with a caution warning: Beware: touching this item may lead to months of drama and heartache.
I’ve been there and quite literally already done that. I still have the scars from the many battles I’ve been a part of, and I’m not interested in returning to war.
“That’s my sister.” I turn to her and touch her on the arm. “Elise, he heard you.” I watch as she turns to me, her dazzling hazel eyes looking more green with the subtle golden eye shadow she’s wearing. Her hair hangs long, straight, and black down her back, with streaks of red. She looks gorgeous, and she knows it. I turn back to frat bro and see that he feels the same way as he takes her in. Elise is a stunner, and he’s mesmerized. She also always dresses to emphasize what she’s got. Which is the complete opposite of me. She wants attention. I shy away from it.
For example, I’m wearing mom jeans with a plaid shirt and oxford boots. My curly, slightly frizzy black hair is in a ponytail, and my brown eyes look tired with no mascara or eye shadow. I think I look fine for a late-night play. Conversely, Elise is wearing stiletto heels, a tank top with no bra, and tight leather pants. The outfit is totally inappropriate for the occasion, but it gets her admiring looks from men, so that’s all she cares about.
“Wow, you’re gorgeous.” Frat bro no longer cares about me as he brushes past me without even a polite “excuse me,” and I can see his tongue hanging out as he gapes at Elise. She’s beaming now, no longer annoyed that I dragged her to this play. Even though I was the one who convinced our neighbor to babysit the kids so she could have a night off. However, I know a night off to Elise includes partying and drinking until all hours of the night, not sitting through a boring-ass play that never should have found its way to the stage.
