Page 1 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend (Curvy Girls of Whitetail Falls #3)

I'm going to murder my cousin Mia with her own wedding bouquet.

Actually, no. I love her too much for that. But I am going to spill pumpkin spice latte all over her pristine white dress if she adds one more task to my already overflowing maid-of-honor plate.

"Just a tiny favor," she'd said this morning. "Could you swing by Abigail's and double-check the table arrangements? Oh, and pick up my veil from Beatrice's Bridal? You're the best, Amber!"

I mutter to myself as I hustle down Foxglove Lane, my tote bag slapping against my hip with each step, threatening to spill its contents across the cobblestones.

Autumn in Whitetail Falls is usually my favorite time—crisp air, golden light filtering through flame-colored leaves, the scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon—but right now, I'm too frazzled to appreciate any of it.

My phone buzzes. Again. I juggle my extra-large latte (triple shot, because I'll need the caffeine to survive today) and dig it out.

Mia: Did you get the veil yet? And can you ask if they have any pearl hair pins? Forgot I wanted those!!

I take a deep breath, sucking in the scent of fallen leaves and distant apple cider. Count to ten. Text back a cheerful: On my way there now! Will ask about pins! followed by three heart emojis because I'm nothing if not supportive, even when I'm fantasizing about screaming into a decorative gourd.

The truth is, I'm glad to be busy.

Being Mia's wedding coordinator/therapist/personal assistant means I don't have time to think about the pitying looks I'll get tomorrow when I show up alone. Again. Six months since Cameron canceled our engagement with a text and the whole town still treats me like I'm made of spun sugar.

Poor Amber, left at the altar. (It wasn't actually the altar, but Whitetail Falls loves drama.)

I turn the corner onto Dewdrop Way, my mind spinning with wedding details, when a solid wall of man materializes directly in my path.

"Oh!"

My latte goes flying, my tote bag slips, and I stumble forward in my ankle boots. Strong hands catch my elbows, stabilizing me, but not before my drink explodes against what appears to be a very expensive brown leather jacket.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp, mortified as I stare at the spreading stain. "I didn't see you, and I was rushing, and—"

"Don't worry about it," a deep voice says, sounding more amused than annoyed. "Though I have to say, this is an interesting way to introduce yourself."

That voice. Smooth as aged whiskey with a hint of gravel. I look up into teasing green eyes belonging to quite possibly the most attractive man I've ever collided with. Tall and broad-shouldered with artfully messy brown hair, he looks like he just stepped out of a rugged outdoor photoshoot.

"I'm really sorry about your jacket," I manage, trying to ignore how my pulse quickens when his hands don't immediately release my arms.

"A small price to pay for meeting the prettiest woman in Whitetail Falls," he says with a grin that should come with a warning label. "I'm Tucker. Tucker Hughes."

The name clicks instantly. Tucker Hughes—owner of Riverbed Brewery and Whitetail Falls' most notorious heartbreaker. I've seen him around town and heard plenty of stories, though we've never actually met.

"Amber Hill," I reply, finally stepping back and breaking contact with his warm hands. "And flattery won't clean that stain."

His eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "No, but it might get me your number."

Heat rises to my cheeks. "It might get you my dry cleaning bill," I counter, attempting to gather my scattered dignity along with the items that have tumbled from my bag. A packet of wooden name cards, Mia's wedding emergency kit, and three sparkly hair clips lie scattered between us.

Tucker crouches down to help, his broad shoulders blocking the autumn sun. "Let me give you a hand." He picks up the name cards, examining them with genuine interest. "These are beautiful. Wedding stuff?"

"Yes," I say, surprised by his perceptiveness. "My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

"Ah." He hands me the cards, his fingers brushing mine. "That explains the determined look on your face. Bridesmaid duty?"

I accept the name cards, trying not to notice how the simple contact sends a little spark up my arm. "Maid of honor, actually. Is it that obvious?"

Tucker crouches slightly, picking up a stray hairpin, and smirks. “Only to someone who’s survived enough weddings to recognize the frantic energy.” He straightens, eyes glinting with mischief. “Speaking of which… I’ll be at that same wedding tomorrow.”

I blink. “You… will be?”

“Yep,” he says, brushing a crumb off his jacket with exaggerated care.

I can't help but laugh as I tuck the items back into my tote. "I'm on a million last-minute errands right now."

Tucker stands, offering me a hand up that I probably don't need but take anyway. His palm is warm and callused, his grip secure.

"Careful," he says, steadying me. "Though I wouldn't mind catching you again."

"I bet you wouldn't." I straighten my burgundy sweater dress, suddenly aware of how it hugs my curves. I'm not model-slim by any stretch, but something in his appreciative gaze makes me feel surprisingly confident.

"So," Tucker says, making a half-hearted attempt to wipe the latte from his jacket, "you own Autumn's Embrace, right? The boutique on Dewdrop Way?"

I blink in surprise. "How did you know that?"

"Small town." He shrugs. "Plus, my brewery's just a few doors down from you. I've walked by your window displays enough to be impressed. Never worked up the courage to go in, though."

"Afraid of a few cozy sweaters?" I tease.

"Terrified," he confirms with mock seriousness. "I might look terrible in burnt orange."

I find myself smiling again. "I don't know about that. With your coloring, you could probably pull it off."

"Is that professional fashion advice?" His eyes twinkle. "Maybe I'll have to stop in sometime."

"You'd be welcome," I say, then glance at my watch and wince. "Oh no. I'm running really behind."

"More wedding missions?"

I nod, adjusting my tote bag. "I need to pick up the veil, confirm the flowers, check on the table settings, and somehow squeeze in time to pick up my own dress from the cleaner's before they close."

"Sounds like you need backup," Tucker says. He seems to hesitate for a moment, then gestures to his stained jacket. "I owe you a coffee, and you owe me... well, a cleaner jacket. Want to combine forces? I've got my truck parked just over there. I could be your wedding errand chauffeur for an hour."

My first instinct is to politely decline. I barely know this man, despite his local reputation. But something in his expression seems genuine, and the thought of walking all over town with my heavy tote is less than appealing.

"That's... actually really nice of you to offer. But I'm sure you have better things to do than shuttle me around for wedding errands."

He looks at his watch. "I was heading to check on a delivery at the brewery, but it can wait an hour. Consider it my good deed for the day."

I narrow my eyes. "Is this how Tucker Hughes usually picks up women? Offering chauffeur services?"

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "First time trying this particular technique, I promise. How am I doing?"

"I haven't decided yet." I tap my chin thoughtfully. "But I am desperate and running late..."

"That's the spirit. Lead with desperation—it's very flattering."

I roll my eyes but find myself smiling again. "Fine. But just the veil shop and maybe the florist. I wouldn't want to take advantage of your generosity."

"Take all the advantage you want," he says with a wink that somehow manages to be both outrageous and charming. "My truck's this way."

As we walk toward Acorn Circle, I sneak a glance at him. "So, Tucker Hughes. I've heard stories about you."

"All true, especially the good ones." He grins. "And what have you heard, exactly?"

"That you brew the best craft beer in three counties. That you once won a charity bachelor auction for an obscene amount of money. And that you've broken more hearts in Whitetail Falls than anyone else under fourty."

"Hmm." He pretends to consider this. "The beer part is accurate, the bachelor auction was for my nephew's medical bills, and the heartbreaker reputation is..." He pauses. "Let's just say small towns love their labels."

Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully.

"Speaking of the wedding," he says, smoothly changing the subject as we reach a vintage blue pickup truck that's been lovingly restored, "anyone special accompanying you to this shindig tomorrow?"

The question catches me off guard. "Um, no. Just me."

"No date? I find that hard to believe." He opens the passenger door for me, an old-fashioned gesture that shouldn't make my heart flutter but somehow does.

I debate how much to share with this virtual stranger, then decide on the simplified truth. "Recent breakup. Not really looking to jump back into dating."

Tucker nods, something like understanding passing across his face. "Classic small-town nightmare."

"Exactly." I slide into the passenger seat, surprised at how easy it is to talk to him. "I'm not looking forward to the pity looks."

He closes my door and walks around to the driver's side, sliding in beside me. The cab smells like leather and cedar with a hint of coffee. "You know what stops pity in its tracks?" he asks as he starts the engine.

"What's that?"

"Showing up with someone new." His eyes meet mine, a mixture of mischief and something I can't quite read. "Preferably someone who makes everyone wonder how you traded up so spectacularly."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Tucker pulls out onto Foxglove Lane, the truck rumbling pleasantly beneath us. "I might be. Coincidentally, I also need a date for a wedding tomorrow."

"What a strange coincidence," I say, my pulse quickening despite my better judgment. "And why does the notorious Tucker Hughes need a wedding date? I thought you had women lining up around the block."

His smile dims slightly. "Let's just say there's someone who'll be there that I'd rather not deal with alone."

"An ex?" I venture.

"The ex," he confirms, his knuckles whitening slightly on the steering wheel. "She's back in town and seems to think we have unfinished business."

"And you disagree?"

"Strongly." He glances at me. "So what do you say, Amber Hill? Want to be my fake date for the wedding? I'll be your arm candy, you'll be my shield, and we'll give the Whitetail Falls gossip mill something new to talk about."

I should say no. This is a terrible idea. I barely know him, despite his local fame.

But as the golden autumn light filters through the truck windows and the smell of fallen leaves drifts in through the vents, I find myself considering it. No more pitying looks. No more awkward questions about Cameron. Just one day of pretending with a ridiculously attractive man.

"I'd need to know the ground rules," I hear myself saying.

Tucker's slow smile is dangerously appealing. "I'm all about rules."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" I murmur.