What you need to know: A Desperate Solution
Looking for something fun, flirty, and hotter than it has any right to be? Husband for Hire is here to deliver. This five-part blog-exclusive story kicks off with a desperate PR consultant, a fake husband hired through a not-quite-escort agency, and the kind of instant heat that can’t be faked—even if their marriage is.
What you need to know:
Delaney Masters doesn’t need a real husband—just one who can smile for the cameras, charm her clients, and keep his hands to himself. (Hopefully.) When a major contract demands she appear more “family-oriented,” she finds herself turning to Men for Hire—a discreet service that offers professional partners for high-stakes events.
Enter Beau Carter: older, broader, inked in places she should not be noticing, and infuriatingly confident. He’s supposed to be a temporary solution. But the way he looks at her? Feels her out like he already knows her? That’s the kind of trouble no contract can contain.
And the longer they fake it… the harder it is to remember where the lines ever were.
Husband for Hire – Part 1: A Desperate Solution
Delaney Masters
The glow of my laptop reflects off the wine glass I definitely didn’t need to refill. Again.
“This is so stupid,” I mutter, shoving a strand of hair out of my face as I pace between my couch and coffee table for the sixth time in ten minutes. “He wants me to look married. Married.” I gesture dramatically at no one. “Because single women are apparently a liability to his brand.”
I collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh and take a gulp of wine that’s more desperate than delicate.
Robert Keller, sleazeball CEO of one of the largest startup PR firms in the northeast, isn’t just hiring me to clean up his image. He wants me to represent stability. Maturity. Family values.
Because apparently being a thirty-year-old woman with her own company and zero scandals isn’t enough. I need a ring on my finger. A husband in tow. Preferably one who won’t embarrass him by showing up in a Henley and making inappropriate jokes about cucumber water.
I glance down at my bare hand and flip it off just for good measure. “There. Married as hell.”
My phone buzzes on the table beside me. It’s my best friend, Tasha.
Tasha: Just tell him you’re in a throuple with a priest and a mechanic. He’ll either die or stop asking.
I snort and text back.
Me: Tempting. Or I could hire someone.
Tasha: Like… an escort?
I freeze mid-sip.
Not exactly what I meant. But…
My fingers fly across the keyboard before I can talk myself out of it.
temporary fake husband service professional companion discreet classy
Search. Click. Click again.
Oh.
Hello, Men for Hire.
Sleek site. Clean design. No nudity. But the implication is… unmistakable.
Professional male companions for upscale events. Background checked. Well-reviewed. Some with very interesting resumes. I click on a few profiles out of pure curiosity, strictly business research, obviously, and pause on one that says “experience with roleplay, public affection, and custom scenarios.”
Custom scenarios. I swear my thighs clench on instinct.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper. “I cannot… I mean, this is basically prostitution with better fonts.”
Still. The idea sticks. Grows roots. I have a client event next week, a two-day retreat at a luxury resort, and no date. The entire thing is crawling with potential clients, and if I show up alone, Keller’s going to “jokingly” ask if my vibrator brought a plus one.
I sigh, draining the last of my wine. “Fine. One little submission. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I scroll back up, click the Request a Consultation button, and type:
Hi. I’m looking for a husband. For a weekend. Possibly longer if he’s really hot.
Delete that last part.
Professional only. Preferably someone who can pretend to love me without making it weird.
Better.
I hit submit.
Then lean back against the cushions and mutter, “This better come with a refund policy.”
By the time Thursday rolls around, I’ve almost convinced myself it was a joke. A wine-fueled, late-night spiral that should’ve stayed in my drafts. But at exactly two o’clock, my assistant knocks once and says, “Your…husband’s here?” with enough judgment to pickle a small country.
Which is how I end up standing behind my desk, heels too high and expectations far too low, waiting for a stranger I paid to pretend to love me.
I’m expecting someone bland.
Clean-shaven, probably in khakis. Polite in that I’m-here-for-your-money kind of way. A clipboard, maybe. A polite smile and firm handshake. Some guy named Preston who thinks mimicking a husband just means asking how my day was and not getting caught staring at my chest.
Instead—
The man who steps into my office looks like sin in business casual.
He’s tall. Like, stupid tall. Six-three if I’m guessing right, and I am, because I immediately start imagining what it would feel like to climb him. Salt-and-pepper stubble dusts his jaw, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, just enough to flash hints of tattoos under the crisp white cotton. He’s wearing black slacks, dark boots, and a navy shirt that hugs his arms a little too well to be accidental.
And that grin?
Lazy. Cocky. Filthy without saying a word.
I stand so fast I nearly knock over my laptop. “Can I help you?”
He closes the door behind him without breaking eye contact. “Delaney Masters?”
“Yes.”
“Beau Carter. You requested a consultation.”
I blink. “You’re… Beau Carter?”
“Did you expect someone else?” His voice is warm gravel. Low. Teasing. The kind of voice that belongs in dark rooms and bad decisions.
“I—” I shake myself. “I just figured you’d be… less.”
“Less?”
“Less… this.”
He laughs, and it’s not fair how much I like the sound of it. “You mean you thought I’d be boring.”
“I thought you’d be professional.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, sliding into the chair across from my desk without asking, “I’m the most professional fake husband you’ll ever meet.”
Oh, for the love of overpriced escort agencies.
I sit again, crossing my legs and pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes drop briefly before meeting mine again, completely unrepentant. “Let’s get something straight. This is strictly business.”
He sits down, then leans back in his chair like he owns it. “Of course.”
“No blurred lines.”
He smirks. “I never blur unless I’m told to.”
“No innuendos.”
“That wasn’t innuendo. That was a statement of fact.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
He shrugs. “You hired a fake husband. I just happen to come with a little personality.”
“More like a God complex and a smug smile.”
“Guilty,” he says, completely unbothered. “But I’m damn good at what I do. You need someone who can charm a room, look at you like you hung the moon, and maybe kiss you like I mean it if the situation calls for it.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Can you handle that, Delaney?”
My throat goes dry. I hate him.
And I still kind of want to climb him like a tree.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “I don’t like you.”
His grin sharpens, eyes darkening just enough to make my stomach flip.
“You don’t have to,” he says, rising to his feet. “You just have to trust me to fake it.”
I pull up the calendar invite on my screen, refusing to make eye contact with the 6’3” heatwave currently lounging in my office like he’s the one conducting this interview.
“Friday through Sunday,” I say briskly. “Two-night work retreat at Blackwood Ridge. It’s part corporate conference, part PR showcase, and a giant pain in my ass.”
Beau leans back in the chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Sounds romantic.”
“It’s not.”
He tilts his head. “And yet you’re bringing your husband.”
“Fake husband,” I snap. “Emphasis on fake.”
His grin spreads. “You’re really gonna have to work on your delivery if you want anyone to believe you’re in love with me.”
I shoot him a look that would terrify most men. He just looks amused.
“Here are the terms,” I say, tapping the document open and scrolling as I speak. “You’ll be introduced as my husband. We’ve been married for… what? Three years?”
He shrugs. “Depends. You want newlywed energy or five-years-deep comfort sex and synchronized eye rolls? If so, make it five,” he says without missing a beat. “Long enough to have inside jokes. Shared trauma. Muscle memory.”
My pulse skips. “Why do you say that like sex is a sport?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you’re doing it right.”
I glare at him. “There will be no sex.”
“Shame.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re imagining what my moans sound like.”
He doesn’t even blink. “I wasn’t. But thanks for the visual.”
Sweet. Merciful. God.
I slam my laptop shut. “Boundaries. Clear ones. No touching unless absolutely necessary. No innuendos in front of others. No sleeping in the same bed.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“I don’t need fun. I need believable.”
His eyes sharpen, not in a threatening way. In a focused way. And that’s worse somehow.
“You want believable?” he says, standing slowly. “Then you’ll need to look at me like you’re in love.”
That shuts me up.
Just for a beat.
Because my first reaction is absolutely not. And my second is how the hell do I fake that when every part of my body is reacting like this isn’t pretend at all?
I clear my throat, ignoring the burn in my cheeks. “I’ll manage.”
He steps around the chair, casual and calm, like he doesn’t know the power he’s wielding. Or maybe he does, and he just enjoys watching me squirm.
Hand on the door, he glances back over his shoulder.
“Last chance to back out.”
I lift my chin. “I don’t scare easy.”
He grins. “Good. Because you’re gonna need a strong stomach to survive the weekend.”
And then he drops it—like it’s nothing, like it’s not going to haunt me all damn night:
“You want boring? Hire an accountant. You want believable? You’ve got me.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I sit there, staring at the spot he just vacated, every cell in my body buzzing.
This is a terrible idea.
And I just signed up for it anyway.
To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two
Copyright © by LS Phoenix
No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Published by LS Phoenix
New Hampshire, USA
https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix
First Edition: September 2025
Cover Design by LS Phoenix
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