How to Marry Your Frenemy (How To Rom Com Series Book 1) Read online

  How to Marry Your Frenemy

  London Casey

  Contents

  A quick note

  How to Marry Your Frenemy

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Hey! Hey!

  FREE STUFF

  How to Steal Your Best Friend’s Fiancé

  More from London!

  A quick note

  Thanks for joining me! It’s been a while! I’m so happy to be back, writing books for you. I’m not going to steal much time here so you can read this amazing book. From as long as I could remember, I dreamed of writing rom coms that had heart, and now I finally get to do just that.

  Welcome to Jackson and Callie’s wild story.

  To those who have been there from day one, YOU are the amazing ones, not me. I just write. YOU are the ones who bring the stories to life. THANK YOU.

  To those who have never read of a book of mine, THANK YOU for reading now. I cannot wait to hear from you! Seriously. I love chatting with readers. Find me on Facebook, through my site, or just email me directly.

  Now go enjoy this book!

  LC

  How to Marry Your Frenemy

  Callie

  I don’t care if every male in the office stares at my butt. They’ll be the ones kissing it when I land this deal and get the big promotion. The fancy new apartment. The corner office—where I’ll sit in my leather chair and wave two middle fingers at my nemesis. Jackson.

  Jackson of the dark chocolate eyes, the perfect hair, the bad-boy reputation, and family name on the company letterhead. I can’t wait to fire his perfect butt.

  Jackson

  With a twitch of her too-tight skirt, a flutter of her wild greenish eyes, Callie can cockblock me into next Tuesday. Otherwise, we’re good together. Just not that way. My uncle’s main form of entertainment is pitting us against each other to make the company millions.

  But my uncle must be bored, because he’s got a deal for us. Get married. If we stay married for half a year, we both get seven-figure payout. Legal? Probably. Ethical? Iffy. Tap out? Not in a million years.

  Prologue

  (a very young Callie - age 12)

  I’m twelve years old, and I have a lemonade stand.

  Don’t go aw on me about it just yet. This isn’t me trying to pave the path for entrepreneurship or anything like that. I’m selling lemonade by the glass so I can help Mom cover the rent. And I mean that literally.

  I did some research around the apartment building and found the busiest sidewalk. The more foot traffic, the more chances of selling a glass or two.

  It also didn’t hurt that I fit the whole beautiful young girl description.

  Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Big smile.

  I ran the numbers through my head a few times and to make it work, it was going to be tricky. But I had a plan in place.

  Down at the corner store, Mr. Enkly had no problem giving me free plastic cups. He asked me to return as many as I could.

  Deal.

  Even if I went back with none, he’d still give me more.

  His cost of lemonade mix was higher than the grocery store, but my bicycle had a bent front wheel - thanks to that asshole Barry next door.

  He’s the drunk in the building.

  And he ran over the front wheel of my bicycle and told me I shouldn’t have parked it on the sidewalk.

  I hate that guy.

  I hope for his sake he gets caught before he hurts someone.

  But anyway, without going to the grocery store, my margins were tough.

  So I offered to help Mr. Enkly at the shop in exchange for lemonade mix.

  He always says he can’t pay me, so I’ll take anything I can get.

  The point I’m making is that with a plan, there’s a chance to do anything in life.

  It’s Wednesday.

  There’s three days left in the month.

  Of course, a week ago was when Jett decided to… well, jet.

  I never liked that guy.

  Mom couldn’t see past his smile, earrings, and feathered hair a la Bon freaking Jovi. This guy looked like he walked off the set of a music video in freaking nineteen-eighty-six.

  Like, come on, dude, right?

  He was no good. Ever.

  When he lost his job, he just sat around the apartment and mooched off Mom.

  When they argued, he yelled until he got his way, always using me as some kind of bargaining chip.

  Mom never wanted me to hear the arguments. So she would cave to him.

  Jett wasn’t the first either.

  If you had the appeal of some loser dude with a motorcycle and a decent hairline, had dirty blonde hair and big promises, chances were Mom was going to fall for you.

  So it’s been up to me since day one to take care of her.

  I scooped her ice cream when she cried.

  Then frigging Frank showed up.

  Who’s Frank?

  The landlord.

  He smells like cigar smoke and meatballs, wears nice jewelry but crappy clothes.

  I hate him too.

  I have a lot of hate for men, considering my age, and I’m well aware this could end up being an issue later in life.

  But I tell myself by then I’ll have a good career, tons of money, and a therapist to help patch up these mental wounds.

  For now, I just want to have a bedroom come the first of the month.

  My lemonade stand is in full swing and it’s working.

  I’m selling cup after cup.

  Even that asshole Barry buys a cup from me.

  Of course he looks down at me and smiles with his yellow teeth and says, “Hey, kid, got any vodka to put in this?” then laughs his way to his car.

  I wait until he’s out of sight before I lifted my middle finger like a sword.

  I feel powerful waving that finger around.

  Mom hates that finger. And she hates that I curse.

  So I keep that stuff cool.

  To me, what does it matter? I’ve seen a lot, been through a lot, and I’ve already gotten my period. They all tell me I’m becoming a woman, so what’s the difference if I call someone acting like an asshole an asshole?

  I’m keeping my money safe.

  I’m tracking every penny.

  Then I hear a voice behind me.

  I looked back and there’s Mom out on the stoop of the building with Frank in her face.

  He’s smac
king the back of his left hand to the palm of his right hand.

  He wants money.

  It’s not even the first of the month, you goddamn fool… leave my mother alone.

  I get pissed easily.

  That’s something else I’ll work on in therapy years from now.

  After the asshole Barry’s sale, my lemonade stand runs dry.

  I have plenty of lemonade but no customers.

  I need a new location.

  This is going to be a pain to move.

  I hear Mom’s voice yell at Frank.

  Frank laughs and wishes her good luck sleeping in a box by next Wednesday.

  I look back just in time to see him coming toward me.

  He curls his lip.

  I curl my lip back.

  He pauses at my stand and swipes a cup.

  He takes a drink and smacks his lips together.

  “Not bad,” he says. “Now get out of here with this. No selling stuff on my property.”

  “I’m trying to-”

  “I said out!” Frank yells.

  He starts to walk away.

  “That’s coming out of our rent!” I yell to him.

  “What? This?” He waves the cup of lemonade. He laughs. “Sure thing, Callie. I’ll take the fifty cents off the rent. That’ll save you and your mother.”

  He waddles off for good.

  I look back and see Mom crying into her hands.

  Yeah, this is pretty bad.

  And it’s also why I’ll always take care of myself first.

  No man is ever going to mess with my money, my heart, or my life… ever.

  (a younger Jackson - age 19)

  I find the shittiest bar and walk in to find it mostly empty.

  Two guys at the bar look at me.

  A second later, I’m invisible to them.

  To my right, some guy is sleeping at a table.

  Behind him are two women, sitting, looking like they’ve had a really long night.

  This is home for a little while now.

  I settle up to the bar and order two shots. Three fingers for each.

  The bartender asks what that means and I show him three fingers.

  In other words, fill the fucking shot glasses up.

  For good measure, I take out a fifty-dollar bill and put it on the bar.

  Suddenly the bartender is my best friend.

  I throw the shots back like ice cold water on a hot day.

  Every muscle in my body flexes.

  The other guys at the bar look at me again.

  I put my hands to the bar and stand up.

  They both show their hands in defeat.

  Am I that big, strong, and intimidating?

  Yes, I am.

  “Look, buddy, no trouble,” the bartender says to me. “Over there? That’s Gabe and Bill. They’re in here all the time. They let me know if anything’s off.”

  “Am I off to you?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve never been in here before.”

  I reach into my pocket and take out the ring and put it on the bar.

  The bartender looks at it.

  Then me.

  He nods.

  “Next drink is on me,” he says.

  I make fists and stare down at the bar.

  Hey, Nelle, remember that time your parents got all financially fucked up and you wanted to go to Paris so bad? And I went out of my way to give up my dream car to surprise you with two tickets? It was me and you, babe. That entire flight you were wired, bouncing like a kid on Christmas morning. Remember when we met in the bathroom and not only joined the mile-high club, but shattered its one-time record? By the time we landed, my balls were sore. And you said you couldn’t walk straight. But that didn’t stop us from getting to the hotel and going at it again.

  Do you remember that?

  Do you remember that it was no expense spared?

  I do.

  You don’t know this part, but I had to call Vince for money two times.

  Two fucking times I had to call him and ask for money.

  But it was anything for you.

  And I waited.

  I watched you come to life in a way I never thought possible.

  You teased me and said you wanted to move to Paris and write poetry. You wanted to sip coffee, eat croissants and laugh.

  Do you remember me staying up late, making a business plan to show Vince? I wanted to expand the company to Paris. I wanted to set up right in Paris. For you and me.

  I couldn’t speak a word of French but for you… anything.

  Do you fucking remember that, Nelle?

  I do.

  Do you remember when I proposed to you.

  At the Eiffel Tower.

  The most cliché way to do it.

  But for you…

  I grab the shot glass and down it.

  The bartender is right back with two more.

  “On the house?” I ask.

  “No. Gabe and Bill.”

  I take one of the shot glasses and lift it so they can see.

  I nod.

  They both nod back and wave a couple fingers at me quick.

  The bartender points to the ring. “Not the answer you wanted?”

  “Oh, I got the answer I wanted,” I say.

  “She’s not wearing the ring.”

  “I know,” I say. “Anything else you want to know about me? My address? My high school mascot? The size of my cock?”

  The bartender backs off and only serves me drinks.

  No mindless chatter.

  I’m here to drink her away.

  I hooked my pinky through the diamond ring and lift it up.

  I could get a nice penny for the ring.

  My buddies - Liam, Cole, and Lincoln - all tell me to pawn the engagement ring and head to Vegas. Blow it all on pussy and gambling. And maybe even a little bit of drugs too.

  It’s not the worst idea.

  Even Vince says the same.

  He says I can have the time off.

  I don’t want to do that.

  I stand up and walk out of the bar.

  The fifty is the bartender’s - minus whatever my drinks were.

  The ring?

  I don’t give a fuck about the ring.

  All I know right now is this…

  I will never fall for that same bullshit trap again… ever.

  Chapter One

  Jackson

  From across the dimly lit bar, with its overpriced drinks, no attempt at any decent music, and the busy vibe of another long workday coming to its finale, I saw her looking at me.

  She was dressed to have a night.

  Whatever she did for a living, she was good at it.

  Not just because she was drinking in this bar.

  I could just read it across her face.

  The way her hair rested only on her right shoulder. The subtle hint of highlights in her hair - wanting everything to be perfect but not stick out too much like some fangirl for a teenybopper band back in high school - dying her hair, crying during a concert, thinking that it was the greatest moment of her life when one of the guys in the band looked at her and winked.

  See, that was kind of my thing.

  Reading people well in advanc of saying hello.

  Going into the game with all the plays figured out.

  I knew her every move, phrase, want, need, and fear.

  She was the type that worried about my reaction to her birthmark. Which was probably somewhere visible and distracting. Let’s say it was under her left breast.

  To me, why would I care?

  To her, it was this glaring thing.

  So how would I play it?

  Simple.

  My tongue would swirl around her left nipple like her tit was a chocolate-vanilla soft serve ice cream cone and the weather was triple digits. That would leave her tingling, maybe a little ticklish, but still worried about her birthmark.

  Then I’d go down to that spot… where her greate
st self-conscious feeling awaited, and I would simply nuzzle my nose against the mark. Up and down, softly touching, breathing heavily, my left hand then sliding up her body, cupping her right breast.

  I’d kiss her birthmark and tell her she was fucking beautiful.

  And that… well, that’s just how you do it.

  “You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

  I realized I was standing.

  I looked down at my best friend, for as long as I could remember - Liam - and I nodded.

  “Heard it all,” I said.

  “What did I just say, asshole?”

  I leaned against the bar and looked at the blonde beauty with the birthmark and winked.

  She twirled her finger into her hair.

  Ah… another subtle sign…

  She was coming out of a relationship that had been going on for a while.

  She was nervous about some new guy fucking her.

  For that, I was the guy to handle it.

  I could make her a nice breakfast in the morning and subtly leave with one last kiss, and just look at her with eyes that would tell her I’d never see her again.

  “You were, uh, talking,” I said to Liam.

  He snapped his fingers at me. “Seriously, Jackson? I can’t even…” He looked where I was looking. Then he laughed. “Of course. Always a woman.”