Faking It with the Billionaire Next Door

Billionaire. Next-door neighbor. Mortal enemy.

I knew it was a bad idea to get on the elevator.
Because now, I have three problems.
#1 I'm stuck in the elevator.
#2 I'm soaking wet from the rain.
#3 HE got in before the doors closed.

Miles Humphries.
My neighbor. The one I HATE.
Cocky. Tall. Infuriatingly hot. The biggest jerk I've ever met.
I live next to him on the 17th floor —
​​​​​​​and he lives to annoy me.

Imagine my jaw drop when he asks me to be his fake fiancée.
And move in with him.
Together with my cat.
Complete insanity, right?
Wrong.
Because I agreed.

Did I say he's torturously sexy? Sinfully tattooed?
Not that it matters.
I pay no attention to his stormy kiss. (It's fake.)
I ignore his deliciously naughty rumblings in my ear. (Fake!)
I disregard the hundred tickly explosions in my belly. (Fake, kinda, sorta.)
I shut my eyes to the toe-curling nights. (Okay, not so fake, but you get the idea.)

But, there's one thing I can't ignore.
I've got a few weeks to get my act together,
And only one chance to keep my heart intact.