Rooming With The CEO
Author
Brittany Carter
Reads
3.9M
Chapters
42
When Lilly’s art gallery closes during the recession, she’s grateful to stay at her brother’s seaside rental—until she finds out she’s sharing the place with Luther Whittington, her brother’s incredibly handsome, incredibly famous best friend. Luther’s hiding from the media, and what starts as irritation quickly turns into undeniable attraction. Things really heat up when Lilly is offered a contract to “fake date” Luther, plunging them into a whirlwind of mixed signals, hidden feelings, and sparks that refuse to stay buried. Will their fake romance turn into something real, or will the truth be too much for either to handle?
Chapter 1
LILLY
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I warned myself.
But I did. I looked. The sad, deserted building on the corner glared back at me.
Ever since junior high, when I’d discovered my passion for watercolors, I had dreamed of owning an art gallery—a place to display my work alongside pieces by other local artists.
So, three years ago, right after graduating from art school, I’d put all my savings into a down payment on a space in downtown Wilmington and opened the doors. Then the recession hit.
Suddenly nobody had any disposable income to spend on art, let alone art from a newbie artist without an established brand.
Just a week ago, I’d closed those doors for good. Now, I was penniless, with an art degree and no job prospects, heading out of the city with my tail between my legs to stay in one of my brother Chad’s rental properties until I figured out my next move.
I picked up my phone from the cup holder. “Hey. I’m almost there.”
I could hear him moving around on the other end. “I left the key under the mat. I can’t make it out to meet you. Emergency meeting with a client. There’s a list of rules on the counter—”
“Seriously, Chad?” I interrupted. “I’m not one of your tenants.”
He laughed without humor, and I pictured him running his fingers through his dirty-blond hair. “Right, you’re living there for free. So follow the rules, Stubby.”
I rolled my eyes at the old nickname. “Don’t call me that. We’re not kids anymore.”
“Which makes it even funnier that you’re still so short. Call me if you need anything. I gotta go.”
I tossed my cell phone into my oversized leather purse and focused on the road. The scent of the ocean grew stronger as I neared Beach Street.
I hadn’t visited Carolina Beach in years, and I could feel a bit of excitement stirring in my gut as I pulled into the driveway of my temporary home, the wind tousling my golden hair as I stepped out of my car.
The quaint villa had a cobblestone driveway and a wraparound porch. The windows spanned the entire house, letting in natural light and offering a stunning view of the ocean.
The bright-teal house screamed “vacation rental,” and a porch swing swayed invitingly in the corner.
Grabbing my purse and suitcase, I walked around the side of the house to the private beach. The waves lapped against the shore, beckoning me closer. A smile spread across my face.
This will be good for me.
Inside, I set my bag of cheap takeout Chinese on the kitchen counter and took my suitcase to the master bedroom. I also had a small bag of paintbrushes and a blank canvas.
I had told myself I wouldn’t paint for a while, giving myself space to build back my confidence. But I knew I couldn’t stop forever. Painting calmed me; it gave me the peace I so desperately needed.
I was just finishing up with lunch when I heard it—the sound of the shower running. Could Chad have dropped by after all?
But no…Chad would have said hello rather than jumping straight into the shower.
A shiver of unease skittered down my back. I snatched a pan from the closest drawer and tiptoed to the master bathroom, ready to take down the intruder.
LUTHER
THREE HOURS EARLIER
Celebrity PR Firm Under Fire, read the headline. Front page of the Entertainment section of the Wilmington Star-News. This story just wouldn’t die.
I scanned through the first few paragraphs of the story.
After last week’s revelation that the 49ers’ star quarterback Scotty Brown had carried out an illicit relationship with his cousin…
All eyes are on Whittington-Harrod, the PR firm representing Mr. Brown. Brown alleges that Whittington-Harrod intentionally revealed his private information to the press…
Luther Whittington, the firm’s wunderkind CEO, has repeatedly declined to make a statement as to the source of the leak, or whether the firm’s other high-profile clients are safe…
Whittington himself has never confirmed a romantic relationship in the time that he has been at the helm of Whittington-Harrod. Speculation abounds that Whittington may be hiding his own sexual scandal…
I huffed and looked up at my business partner, Henry Harrod. “Why do reporters keep trying to make this mess about me? Scotty was the one who knocked up his cousin.”
Henry shrugged. “You’re young. Hot. A multimillionaire CEO in an industry that involves a lot of schmoozing. They’ve always wanted you on those ‘Most Eligible Bachelors’ lists, and you’ve never played ball. This is their revenge.”
“Because it’s none of the press’s business who I sleep with!” I argued.
“It was none of their business who Scotty slept with either. Someone at this firm made it their business. Personally, I’d rather they drag your name through the mud than go after more of our clients. Heck, if you do have a secret sex slave, now’s the time to bring her out.”
“I don’t have a secret sex slave,” I confirmed. I hadn’t even dated anyone since my ex, Savannah, and that was back in my early twenties.
“Maybe you should fake something, then?” he suggested. “A big Luther Whittington relationship reveal would keep reporters busy for a week or two; it might buy us enough time to find our leak and silence them before we lose more clients.”
I jammed my hands into my pants pockets. “Actually, Benny, my lawyer, thinks it’s best if I lay low for a while. No booze. No wild parties. Definitely no fake girlfriend. I’ll just disappear from the public eye till the news cycle moves on.”
Henry closed his laptop, a stray lock of hair falling onto his furrowed brow. “And how do you plan on doing that when paparazzi are staking out your house twenty-four seven?”
“I’m getting out of the city. I’ve arranged to stay at a friend’s place for a few weeks. I’ll work remotely and come into the office only when necessary.”
Henry sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll respond to my urgent emails?”
I knew there would be plenty of “urgent” emails. Henry was almost comically unsavvy when it came to tech. Once, he sent me seventeen emails in one day just trying to get his printer to work.
I rapped my knuckles on his desk. “Yes. And remember, IT is just downstairs, Henry.”
He sighed. “Okay. But remember, the press is ruthless unless you give them what they want. Think seriously about showing them a nice, respectable girlfriend—and soon. Otherwise, who knows what they’ll make up about you next?”
***
As I pulled out of the office’s parking garage, cameras flashed. I had no idea what the paparazzi thought they would get from a picture of my sedan’s tinted windows, but whatever. I was so glad to leave the media circus behind for a while.
I dialed Chad on my Bluetooth, listening as one ring turned into another. Finally, his annoying voicemail picked up.
“Call me back,” I said. “I’m on my way to the villa. I’m sure you left the key under the mat because you’re predictable, but I’ll call if I can’t get in.”
I hung up, cranked up the radio, and drove out of the city.
The scent of the ocean hit me twenty minutes later. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been to the beach. Maybe this would be good for me. Shifting gears, I navigated the narrow roads leading to the villa.
There was an old car parked in the driveway, and several lights were on inside. Chad must have hired a cleaner to tidy up the place.
Turning off the engine, I got out, grabbed my luggage, and headed toward the front porch. The door was unlocked since the housekeeper was still cleaning.
Not wanting to disturb her, I tiptoed down the hallway, noticing she’d left her shoes in the hallway.
Unprofessional, but who was I to judge?
I tossed my bag onto the bed, peeled off my shirt, and headed into the bathroom. The cool, white marble greeted me along with the scent of pine. All I wanted was to wash off the day’s grime, order a pizza, and relax on the terrace by the ocean.
All the day’s emails could wait.
I kicked off my pants, catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.
My dark hair had fallen out of place, landing on my forehead. The strong lines of my jaw twitched from the day’s stress. Dark circles hung under my eyes. This scandal was exhausting, and I wore it on my face.
Leaning on the counter, I stared at the man I’d become and wished, for a fleeting moment, that I could just disappear for real. I loved owning my own company; I loved PR, but I’d been so focused on work for so long that I had nothing else in my life.
Pushing off the counter, I slid open the glass shower door, turned on the water, and stepped under it.
As the glass fogged up, my muscles relaxed. I grabbed the shampoo, squirted some into my palm, and massaged it into my hair, relishing the rare self-care time.
Then I heard the bathroom door open.
What kind of housekeeper would walk in while I was showering? I waited for a few seconds but heard nothing else. Was she just standing there? This was creepy.
I quickly rinsed the remaining shampoo out of my hair and turned off the water.
The glass and mirror were foggy as I stepped out onto the bathroom rug and searched for a towel.
“Take that!” a woman’s voice shouted.
A moment later, something hit me square in the forehead.
