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Hate, collaborate, and maybe...date?
When it comes to billionaire scientist Gabriel Stryker, the headlines agree on three things: one—he’s brilliant, two—he’s gorgeous, three—there’s something critically wrong with him.
Some call it a mechanical malfunction, because the dude has all the personality of a faulty fax machine. Some call it an encoding error, because only a lizard person parading in human skin could fail so thoroughly at portraying emotion.
But I know better.
Behind the cool facade, he’s sporting spite for days. His gaze is as sharp as his tongue. It’s hate at first sight.
He smells blood in the water—mine. I’m desperate for cash. I’m even more desperate for the inspiration to write, and I can only seem to find it when I’m near him.
He strikes with an offer—a fake relationship, a false friendship we’ll post online for the world to see. He needs an image revamp.
The problem is, if I can tolerate him long enough to complete both of our missions, the consequences could be dire. I might find I don’t despise him as much as I thought.
And this fake connection suddenly feels way too real.
