Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Gina: You are not a morning person, RJ.
Liz: At all!
Jessica: Remember the last book signing? Like, if it hadn’t been for Renee, you wouldn't have been set up in time. You overslept by an hour!
T he Naughty Girl’s Book Club members aren’t being encouraging this morning. To be fair, they aren’t wrong. I’m not a morning person. Which is why, when KC texted, letting me know something was up at work and requested we go on a coffee date today instead, I’d groaned. I am not and never will be a morning person. There isn’t enough coffee on this planet to make me want to get up before the sun rises. At the sound of the knock on the door, I let the girls know I’m signing off for the morning and rush over to open it.
“Where’s your coat?” He grunts out when I open the door.
“Hey there, handsome. Nice to see you, too.” I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me.
“Where’s your coat?” He demands again.
“It’s a balmy forty-degrees out. Who needs a coat?” Forty in Colorado felt warm and spring-like.
I’m met with a glare.
“Seriously, it’s almost spring. You know Colorado is cold in the morning and warm in the afternoon. I’m good. This sweater is more than warm enough.” I bite back my desire to make a flippant response about my weight and how I have plenty of blubber to keep me warm. Somehow, I know it won’t go over well.
“Layers are necessary in Colorado. I’d feel better if you had a coat.”
Wow. Bossy much? I can’t help but notice how much like one of my made-up book Daddy Doms he is.
“I don’t like coats. They are bulky and feel odd. Besides, it’ll be warm in your truck. Shall we get our first date in the books?”
“So, you aren’t going to go get your coat?”
“Nope.” His response is a half-smirk, half-grimace; a cocktail of amusement and mild exasperation before he concedes and nods towards his truck.
As we walk down the sidewalk, I swear I hear him mumble something under his breath about me needing a damn good spanking. Was it wishful thinking? My imagination working overtime? Before he closes the truck door, he pulls my seatbelt across my lap and snaps it.
“In case you don’t like seatbelts, either,” he says.
“Nah. Seatbelts are great. I don’t mind being restrained.” Did I just say that out loud? Oh, my God! I did. “I mean, safely restrained…I mean they aren’t bulky and —” I better stop while I’m ahead. My mouth gets ahead of my brain entirely too often.
KC breaks the silence a minute later. “I’m sorry about last night,” he apologizes as we head towards the local coffee shop a couple of blocks from our duplex. It’s one I’m intimately familiar with, as I spend hours a week there writing.
“It’s okay,” I answer. “I imagine things come up all the time at work.”
“Not like this. We were training a unit in the field and a sensitive item came up missing. We had to wait around until the private who misplaced his spare barrel found it. Turns out, he never took it to the range to begin with. It was in the arms room the entire time.”
The man might as well be speaking to me in another language. I have zero idea what he is talking about.
“So, someone lost something, and everyone had to stay until the item was found?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“Got to love group punishment.” I say. I hate group punishment about as much as I do group projects. One person does all the work or one person’s behavior gets the entire class into trouble. Not exactly fair.
“It’s not group punishment, it's accountability. Can’t let people go who might have it or know where it’s at until we find it.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” It doesn’t make any sense at all.
“The best way I can explain it is like this; police lock down a crime scene because the perpetrator may still be in the building or a witness who has vital information. They don’t let everyone go until they’ve cleared them. That’s what we were doing. Luckily for the soldier, the item was found, and we were able to go on about our business.”
“What would have happened if you never found it? Would you still be there?”
“That’s the whole point. We will find it.” The way he emphasized will has the hair on my arms standing up. “Anyway, I’m glad you were able to rearrange your schedule for this morning.”
“About that…” The text I sent him yesterday was tongue in cheek. “I didn’t have a schedule to rearrange. The only thing I’m doing at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning is sleeping.”
“Not a morning person?”
“Not at all. You?” I reply honestly.
“Very much so. I’ve been trained to be. PE is at zero dark thirty in the morning. We wake before the sun rises.”
“Well, like they say, opposites attract.”
“They do say that.” He responded with a small smile as he parks his truck.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingles its own cheerful greeting as we enter. We weave through clusters of tables, most occupied by patrons lost in their laptops or deep into intimate conversations. I lead KC towards the small booth in the very back corner. I know it well, it’s my favorite spot to write.
I catch the eye of Linda, my favorite barista, and gesture towards her arm. The artful tattoo sleeve she’s been working on has fresh ink. I give her a thumbs up. She smiles wildly and I know she’ll be over in a minute to talk to me all about the new addition and spill the tattoo parlor drama. As an author, I’m a people watcher and I live for these conversations.
“Want your normal?” she asks loudly, and I nod.
“What about you?” She asks KC.
“Americano, no room,” he says. “And one of your breakfast burritos.”
“Your normal?” He asks after we settle into the seats.
“Yeah, I’m a regular. I write here several times a week. I normally come in after their morning rush and stay until about three or so. That’s when the schools let out and the moms come in to grab coffee before pickup.”
“I see,” he said. “I’ve been a few times but normally right when they open. Their espresso is the best in town. It’s smooth. What do you get?” He inquires.
“An iced brown sugar oat milk latte with an extra shot and cinnamon.”
“Oat milk? How do you get milk from oats?”
“I don’t know but however they do it, it’s delicious.” I keep the details about my body’s reaction to milk to myself. It’s never a good time to talk about the effects of lactose intolerance. “I used to bring my own cup for them to fill, but it had an unfortunate accident last week.”
Linda grins as she places our coffee in front of us, aware of the story.
“How exactly does a cup have an accident?”
“It got run over by a garbage truck.”
“Wait, what?”
I sigh dramatically. “So, this one time…”
“At band camp?”
I moan. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”
“What? No. You’d know if I had kids, we’re neighbors, remember?” He says, clearly confused by my change of topic.
“Just making sure, since you have so many dad jokes at the ready.”
He chokes on his sip of coffee and shakes his head at me. “Your cup?” He brings the conversation back around.
“Oh, it happened here actually. I accidentally drove off with the cup on top of my car. I noticed when the garbage truck behind me honked. Unfortunately, by then, it’d been squashed. It was really too bad. Not only did it keep my drinks at the perfect temperature, but it also had a built-in straw I loved.”
“That is too bad.”
“Yep. So, rest in peace, my perfect cup.” Linda places a warmed-up blueberry muffin before me and a large meaty breakfast burrito in front of KC. I give her a smile before changing the topic. “Okay, so remind me again why we are pretending to be in a relationship? Because honestly, you've got the stoic hero down pat, but I have a hard time imagining you as the romantic type.”
KC's response is the half-smirk, half-grimace that's becoming his signature look around me. “Well for one, to get my mom off my back. We’re going to have to be very good at this, because she's got a sixth sense for insincerity. She knew we were lying before we opened our mouths as children. I’m not an actor and I am definitely not the creative type, like you are. We can’t have any theatrics; she’ll see right through it. We have to come across as natural."
"Ah, but there's where you're wrong," I counter, leaning back in my seat. "Love is all about theatrics. And if we're going to sell this story, you’ll need to embrace a little drama, soldier."
"Embrace drama," he repeats, as if the words are foreign concepts that require translation. I follow his gaze to the nearby couple sharing a quiet laugh, their hands casually entwined on the table. He studies them and then turns back to me. "Let’s focus on getting our cover story straight first."
"Cover story, right." I flash him a grin that's all mischief. "So, how did we meet? Skydiving? Tango class? Or during a covert op where I saved you with my wicked pen-wielding skills?"
"Let's stick to something simple. Something believable." His eyes roll, but there's a lightness in his tone.
"Believable can still be fun," I argue, enjoying the way this whole charade pulls him out of his comfort zone, if only by an inch. "How about we met at a military gala? You, the decorated hero, and me, the mysterious writer with a knack for uncovering people's secrets."
"Sounds like a spy novel," KC mutters, though the corners of his lips twitch upward ever so slightly. “We could tell the truth, we are neighbors, after all. The thing about the truth is, it’s much easier to remember than a lie.”
The truth? I’ll never forget the day I met him. He was moving in on a cold, icy day and I went to get the mail, hoping to find the test print of my newest release. As I was walking down the sidewalk, I stepped to the side to let him pass and slipped. I’d just about hit the ground when he caught me in his arms. I’d brought him cookies the next day to thank him for not letting me break my tailbone. Cookies I’d bought from a local bakery and put into a Tupperware container, but cookies nevertheless.
"We could tell the truth," I say before we continue the conversation. The banter feels natural, easy—like it's just another scene from one of my books.
"And," KC says, "We should probably outline some ground rules for public displays of affection. Can't have you mentally undressing me every time I flex." The wink he gives me lets me know he’s joking.
"Please, like your biceps have that kind of power over me," I scoff, but my heart thumps a traitorous beat in my chest. Who knew fake-dating a man carved from military-grade discipline could be such a thrill?
"Keep telling yourself that," KC teases, flexing his pecs, and I realize with a start, that maybe he's better at this game than I gave him credit for.
“I wouldn’t worry about public displays of affection. You're about as cuddly as a cactus."
His dark eyes glint with the challenge I’ve thrown down. "You'd be surprised," he says, the corners of his lips quirking up in a way that suggests he's not entirely out of his depth.
"Show me then," I tease, expecting him to maybe reach out across the table for my hand. Instead, he gets up from his seat and slides in next to me. His arm loops around my waist, and he pulls me into his side with ease. He reaches over and grasps my chin in his hand and raises it so I’m staring into his eyes and brings his face down until it’s almost touching mine.
“Like this?”
I'm momentarily frozen. A shiver runs down my spine. In the romance novels I write, this is where the heroine melts into the hero's embrace, her heart pounding, her body softening. But this isn't one of my books, and I'm not some swooning damsel—I'm Rebekah Johnson, who keeps both feet planted firmly in reality.
Except, reality just got a little hazy. There's something disarmingly real about the solid presence of KC beside me. He's nothing like the dominant alpha males I create in my stories—men whose every action is crafted for maximum seduction. KC is just...KC. Disciplined, stoic, and now, apparently, capable of throwing me off balance with a simple touch.
“What were you saying about a cactus?” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice vibrating through me.
“Okay, maybe you aren’t super prickly," I manage to reply, though my heartbeat seems to have forgotten the steady rhythm it's supposed to maintain. It's bizarre; here I am, a woman who writes chapters filled with passion daily, yet the authenticity of this single, unfabricated moment has my insides doing somersaults.
"Good," he says, dropping my chin and removing his arm from around my waist, leaving a curious sense of loss in its wake. I straighten up, mentally shaking off the surprise attack on my composure.
"Very convincing," I concede with a grin that I hope looks more self-assured than I feel. "Who knew Mr. Military had a secret arsenal of charm?"
"Only for special occasions," he replies, returning to his side of the table and settling back into his chair with the same fluid motion that always seems to accompany his movements.
"Special occasions, huh? Well, I’m honored," I say, still grinning but silently contemplating the chemistry sparking between us. It's uncharted territory, and I'm intrigued. Maybe pretending to be KC’s fake girlfriend won’t be half bad.