Fake Dating William Darcy
Description
Sophie Hollis is 33, single, and clinging to the hope that this is the year she finally gets her life together-or at least fits into that dress she bought two sizes too small. Her New Year's resolutions are simple: 1. Lose 10 pounds (obviously). 2. Stop thinking about her infuriatingly flirty boss, Alex Carrington. 3. Avoid ruining her career by punching the painfully handsome lawyer, William Darcy, in the face. But between her dad's ridiculously young girlfriend, her mom's relentless matchmaking, and two gorgeous, maddening men throwing her emotions into chaos, Sophie's diet is the least of her worries. Toss in a royal divorce, a missing pair of panties, and the most mortifying Valentine's Day of her life, and Sophie's starting to wonder if she should just give up and focus on what really matters-like how to eat cake without guilt.
Chapter 1
Mar 21, 2025
New Year's Day. One more year bites the dust. And I hate it already. It seems like everyone's having a happy ending, except me.
Also still carrying the same ten pounds I’ve been trying to lose since 2018, living in a shoebox flat that permanently smells of takeaway curry, and working a job that is 70% crisis management and 30% trying not to get fired. Surely this is the year everything changes.
Fast forward to January 2nd, and my New Year’s resolutions—lose weight, find a boyfriend, be less of a trainwreck—are already unraveling.
I’m late for work, obviously. Then my overpriced frappe explodes all over my new (read: cheap and white) blouse. I manage to make it halfway to the Tube before my heel gets stuck in a grate, forcing me to limp to work in one scuffed ballet flat I dug out of my bag.
I caught my reflection in the elevator doors as they slid closed. Same round cheeks, same full lips, same chestnut-brown hair that refused to stay in anything other than a messy bun, no matter how many bobby pins I sacrificed to the cause. My eyeliner was a little smudged, my shirt slightly wrinkled from a rushed morning commute, but I still looked… decent.
Not Vogue-cover stunning, but not “please don’t take my passport photo like that” either.
My curves were the kind that hovered somewhere between softly feminine and potentially needing to lay off the croissants. I wasn’t fat. Not exactly. But I was definitely the girl who got the, “You’ve got such a pretty face, though” comment from well-meaning relatives at Christmas.
And yet, despite not fitting the mold of the perfectly polished, rail-thin BBC type, here I was. An editor at one of the biggest news networks in the world. Not an intern. Not some low-level assistant fetching oat milk lattes for men in tailored suits. An editor!
I had clawed my way up with sheer intelligence, caffeine, and a stubborn refusal to be ignored.
Which was exactly what Alex reminded me of every chance he got.
Alex Carrington, my maddeningly attractive boss, is already waiting at my desk. Of course.
“Interesting look today, Hollis,” Alex drawls, leaning casually against my desk, exuding the kind of arrogance only a man in a tailored suit can pull off. “What’s the theme? Homeless chic?”
“Shut up, Alex,” I snap, brushing past him and trying not to cry. “Some of us had actual disasters this morning.”
“And some of us,” Alex quips, smirking, “are disasters every morning.”
I ignore him, but my cheeks burn, which only makes his grin widen. Smug bastard.
Lucy, my best friend and desk neighbor, swivels her chair toward me, scrolling Instagram like it’s her full-time job.
“You’re late again, Soph? What is it this time—Tube strike? Pigeon attack?” She grins knowingly. “Or were you just trying to get Alex’s attention? I hear he has a thing for frazzled women with mismatched shoes.”
I glare at her, but before I can retort, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Mum: “Any handsome coworkers you can bring to dinner on Saturday? xx Barbara.”
“Kill me,” I mutter under my breath.
My phone buzzed just as I was about to take a sip of my third coffee of the day. Dad’s name flashed on the screen, and I already knew—knew—this was not going to be good news.
“Soph! Just a heads-up—I’m bringing someone special to dinner,” Dad announced cheerfully, completely ignoring the fact that I hadn’t even said hello yet.
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Someone special?” I repeated, dreading the answer.
“Yes,” Dad said, completely oblivious to the mounting panic in my voice. “She’s really wonderful, and I think you’ll love her.”
Wonderful. Love her. The last time he said that, he introduced me to a woman who had a crystal collection and believed in “moon water therapy.”
“You’re bringing Melanie, aren’t you?” I said flatly.
“Well, yes,” Dad admitted, and I could hear the slightly guilty note in his voice. “She’s excited to meet everyone properly.”
I closed my eyes, willing myself to stay calm. “Dad. You do realize Mum is going to kill you, right? Like, full-blown murder. There will be no survivors.”
“Oh, your mother’s mature about these things,” he said with the kind of blind optimism only a man who has not seen Barbara in full rage mode could have.
“Right,” I said, rubbing my temples. “This is going to be an epic disaster.”
“Well, I just wanted to give you a heads-up!” Dad said brightly. “See you Sunday, sweetheart!”
I was still stewing in my impending family dinner doom when Alex strolled into my office like he had nowhere better to be. He tossed something onto my desk, and I blinked down at it. A neatly folded shirt.
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“A replacement,” Alex said, casually leaning against my desk. “You can’t exactly walk around the office in that sweaty, sticky, messed-up top.”
I scowled, glancing down at my shirt. Okay, so maybe spilling an entire venti caramel frappe on myself earlier wasn’t my best moment. But it had dried! Mostly. And I’d strategically positioned my hair over the worst of it.
“I was going for coffee-stained chic,” I said, snatching the shirt off my desk.
Alex smirked, arms crossed. “Sure, if by ‘chic’ you mean hot mess.”
I shot him a glare, but before I could fire back, his gaze flicked down briefly, then back up to my face, his smirk widening.
“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice just slightly, “you’ve got a couple of things poking through from that frappe spill.”
My brain short-circuited.
My hands flew to my chest as my face went nuclear. “Oh my God, Alex!”
I chucked the shirt at his head, but he dodged effortlessly, laughing as he walked out of the office.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
Fake Dating William Darcy
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