The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society #1) Read Online Roxie Noir

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Wildwood Society Series by Roxie Noir
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Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

(Wildwood Society #1) The One Month Boyfriend

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Roxie Noir

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B09V7CTBTG
Book Information:

It’s a simple agreement: for one month, Silas is my boyfriend of convenience. Once this is over, we’ll go our separate ways. It’s fake, after all.
I need some arm candy to prove to my ex-fiancé that I’ve moved on. He needs his old-fashioned boss to think he’s ready to settle down.
Perfect, right? Except for one minor detail: we can’t stand each other.
Silas thinks I’m a stuck-up ice queen. I think he’s a cocky, obnoxious jerk who’s always trying to charm his way out of trouble – and succeeding.
He’s the beloved golden boy. I’m the awkward new girl in town.
It would be the worst idea ever, except… everyone falls for it. That’s the thing about pretending to date someone: it looks just like real dating.
And the other thing about pretending to date someone? It feels like real dating.
The heated kisses in my office: fake. The possessive way he touches me: fake.
The night we spend together in a hotel bed: …maybe not so fake.
One month. Then this charade is over.
Books in Series:

Wildwood Society Series by Roxie Noir

Books by Author:

Roxie Noir



Chapter One

Silas

It’s late afternoon, the first Friday of August, and I’m making a vow.

I, Silas Flynn, hereby vow to always ask about stairs before agreeing to lift anything heavy. I vow to say no to things once in a while. I vow to use any of a plethora of excuses—busy at work, existing plans, bad back—next time Javier needs help moving his sculpture collection.

Right now I could be anywhere, doing anything, but I’m sweating myself to death in a downtown parking lot, trying to get a seven-foot-tall Mothman up a set of narrow concrete steps.

“Higher,” Gideon grunts from below. “I don’t want to—”

Clang. Mothman’s flank hits the metal banister and something falls off.

“Fuck,” Gideon swears under his breath as I switch my grip, managing to get it about two inches higher. “Hope he didn’t need that part.”

“He can come get it himself,” I mutter. “Okay, I think we need to tilt—yeah.”

The two of us haul Mothman up the stairs, one precarious step at a time. It’s like moving a couch, only the couch has sharp edges you can’t see, pokes you every time you move the wrong way, and is three times as heavy as any couch has ever been. By the time I get to the top step I’m sweating even harder, Gideon’s swearing under his breath nonstop, and my back feels like I’ll regret this tomorrow.

And the door’s shut. The wooden stopper we’d stuck in there is gone, so I balance the statue on one hand and one knee, pray, and turn the knob.

It’s locked.

I swear and re-balance Mothman. Something sharp digs into my thigh, and three steps below Gideon makes a noise of weary-yet-inevitable irritation, shifting his stance.

I skip knocking and pound on the door with the side of my fist as hard as I can, the dull thud swallowed by the humid August air.

“Hey!” I shout, already out of breath. “Javi, where the—where are you?”

It’s fucking heroic, but I don’t scream curse words in the middle of a family-friendly event. Gideon makes up for it by muttering a few more.

There’s no response. I wait about five seconds, then pound again, because this thing is heavy and if no one answers this door soon, it’ll be broken.

“That fucking idiot slacker,” Gideon growls. “The fuck did he go?”

Swearing is pretty much Gideon’s love language.

“Probably found the snack table and forgot he was having an art show,” I say between my teeth, then take a deep breath. “HEY, SOMEONE COME OPEN THE DOOR!”

“I swear to God, if he shows up with a bag of fucking Doritos in one hand—”

“This is the fire door!” a voice shouts from the other side of the door. “Go around!”

My blood pressure spikes. I swear to God I can feel my veins constricting at the voice on the other side of the door, the very last person I want to deal with while carrying this son of a bitch and sweating my balls off.

“No!” I shout back, Mothman slipping a little against a slick palm. “We’ve got one of the sculptures for—”

“If I open it, I’ll set off the—”

“It’s fine!” I roar. “Just open it!”

“What the fuck,” growls Gideon from below.

“IT’S A FIRE DOOR,” she shouts back, enunciating each word at top volume as though I’m a mentally deficient sea cucumber. “IF I OPEN IT, THE ALARMS WILL—”

“FUCK THE ALARMS!” I shout back, forgetting not to swear because Kat Fucking Nakamura sends me from zero to ten in half a second. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR BEFORE WE DROP THIS THING AND—”

The door shoves open and hits me in the shoulder.

“Shit, sorry,” Javier’s already saying as I swear, Mothman wobbling dangerously. “Sorry, I got hung up with Linda, she wanted to make sure she’d spelled my name right on the plaque and next thing I know she’s telling me how excited everyone is to meet your girlfriend tomorrow and asking whether I think it’ll be a spring wedding.”

I’m only half paying attention as he holds the door open and I carry Mothman past him, into the slightly cooler dark of backstage, doing my damnedest not to run into a wall or let my sweaty palms slip on the metal. I blink, willing my eyes to adjust faster as the door swings shut again behind Gideon.

God, I love air conditioning. The pinnacle of human achievement.

“Where’d you want this?” I hear him ask Javier as faces coalesce from the darkness.

Then I realize I’m staring at her.

She’s just inside the door, a glasses-wearing oval with dark eyes and dark hair in side-swept bangs. She’s glaring at me, exasperated, arms crossed, like I’m a cat who can’t decide whether he wants to be inside or outside. Her entire stance—her entire being—gives off I can’t believe I have to deal with this jackass energy.

My attention snags on her like a loose shirt on a thorn. I can’t seem to pull it away.


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