Chapter Four
“Well,you’re alive, so I’m assuming she’s not a serial killer?” Ryder asks through the line.
It’s been about an hour since I left Stacey in her room, and I can’t get her off my mind. I came down to my home office to try to get some work done since dinner isn’t for a few hours, but the only thing I can think about is her—brown hair with caramel highlights, the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, curves for goddamn days. Fuck, and those plump red lips that I can’t help but imagine wrapped around my cock. Cliché maybe, but I’m still a red-blooded male with fantasies, and my newest one is of her marking me with those red fucking lips.
“If she is, I’m so distracted by how gorgeous she is that she’d probably get away with murdering me,” I murmur, making Ryder chuckle.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“Dinner tonight, taking the boat out tomorrow. Maybe we’ll go to brunch at the country club on Sunday.”
“Wow, look at you. You’re like the welcoming committee.”
“Shut up,” I groan. “This is so weird. I’ve lived on my own for the past twenty years, and suddenly, I’m sharing my home with a gorgeous stranger, who’s supposed to be my fiancée. I’m in over my head here.”
“Breathe,” Ryder says. “She knows the score and will be compensated well for it. Just take it one day at a time. Get to know her, and once you guys are comfortable around each other, introduce her to Samuel to get the ball rolling. Once he sees you’re in a committed relationship, he’ll have no choice but to take you into consideration for the CEO position. You were already his best candidate before he went soft.”
“True,” I agree, taking a deep breath.
“Hey, we should go on a double date,” Ryder suggests, making me laugh. “I bet the women would hit it off.”
I think back to the way Stacey presented herself. On the phone, she sounded a lot like Nora, Ryder’s fiancée, and I was mentally prepared to have to deal with a woman like that for the next year. But then she got out of the car, and it was as if she was a completely different person. She was sweet and witty and not the least bit annoying, like I’d expected her to be. I laugh to myself, remembering her comment about skinny-dipping. I don’t know why, but something is telling me there’s more to her than what meets the eye.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say noncommittally, needing to spend some time with Stacey to get a better grasp on the type of woman she is.
I could be wrong, but from our brief interaction today, she didn’t come across like the typical trophy wife. But maybe she was just nervous, and her true personality will come out the more time we spend together.
I spend the next couple of hours getting a few things done and then head upstairs to shower and get dressed for dinner. I didn’t tell Stacey where we were going or the dress code, so I’m about to walk across the hall to let her know that it’s an upscale restaurant so she can dress accordingly, but then she steps out of the room.
Unlike earlier, where her hair was up in a loose ponytail, it’s down and straight, framing her beautifully done-up face. She’s donning a maroon dress that’s short in the front and longer in the back, accentuating her creamy thighs. It dips low up top, showing off the swells of her breasts. And when my eyes land on her black stilettos with the red soles that match the color of her lips, my first thought is that I want to say fuck it to dinner and take her against the wall while she digs her heels into my back.
“I wasn’t sure where we were going or how to dress,” she says.
“You look perfect,” I tell her, closing the gap between us. “I was going to wait until dinner to give you this, but I would love it if you wore it now.”
I reach into my suit pocket and pull out a black box. “I know what’s between us isn’t real,” I say, snapping the box open. “But while you’re living here, I have every intention of treating you like I would my fiancée—with respect and loyalty.”
I take the engagement ring out of the box that I picked out earlier this week. I wasn’t sure what to go with since Nora has a huge rock on her finger, and I imagined most trophy wives would prefer something similar, but when I got to the store, I ended up going with something I would want my fiancée to wear. It’s not big or flashy, but …
“It’s beautiful,” Stacey breathes as I take her delicate left hand in mine and slide the ring onto her finger. “I’ll take good care of it.” She admires the ring for several moments and then glances up at me. “I know this isn’t real, but you can expect the same from me.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Taking her arm in mine, I guide her down the stairs and out to the garage. Since this is Texas, I have two vehicles—a truck and a sports car. Tonight calls for the sports car.
“May I?” she asks when my phone connects to the Bluetooth and my playlist pops up.
“Sure.”
She takes my phone and scrolls through the playlist, stopping on “Blank Space” by Taylor Swift, and clicks play.
“So, you’re a Swiftie, huh?” she says with a laugh that goes straight to my cock.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “That would be my little sister, Jessika. I swear she listened to this shit on repeat when it first came out.”
“I did too,” she admits, reminding me that she’s a good ten years younger than me. “Are you guys close?”
“Yeah, we are. Despite the fourteen-year age difference and her being a pain in the ass most days, she’s one of my best friends.”
I notice in my peripheral vision that Stacey’s eyes go wide. “Wow, that’s a huge age gap.”
“Mom had me at sixteen, and my sperm donor wanted nothing to do with us. So, for years, it was just the two of us. When I was twelve, she met my stepdad, Frank. They fell in love and got married, and a couple of years later, Jessika came along.”
I smile to myself, remembering how much I loved her from the moment I met her. She was just this perfect little thing that wanted to be loved.
“Does your family live here too?” she asks.
“Yeah, Frank runs a luxury auto garage downtown called Prestige Auto, and my mom helps him run it. My sister is in law school.”
Since my parents technically make too much for financial aid, but not enough to pay for her schooling, I pay for it, not wanting her to graduate with loans.
“That’s awesome,” Stacey says. “What kind of lawyer does she want to be?”
“Nonprofit,” I groan. “She’s all about volunteering and helping others. She wants to assist organizations who need it and people who need legal assistance but can’t afford it.”
“And I take it, you don’t agree with that concentration?”
“Corporate law would be?—”
“Boring as hell,” she finishes. “Why would anyone who enjoys helping others want to be stuck in an office all day, drawing up contracts for million-dollar corporations that are demanding, selfish, and full of themselves? Arguing with megalomaniacs about the laws and regulations? The hours are long and stressful.”
She shakes her head, and I take my eyes off the road to stare at her, shocked that she knows so much about corporate law. If I were having this conversation with Nora, the only point she’d be able to make was which one brought in more money.
When Stacey catches me looking at her, her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, and she clears her throat. “Anyway, I think she should follow her passion.”
She tries to play it off, but it’s too late. I see her—the real her. This woman is a paradox, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Did you go to college?” I ask casually, noting the way she momentarily tenses up before relaxing. If I wasn’t paying attention, I would’ve missed it, but something is off here, and I’m on high alert now.
I’m not concerned about the legalities of our agreement. Everything was done on the up-and-up. But something isn’t adding up. Stacey hasn’t been given a dime yet, but she’s wearing designer clothes, telling me she has her own money. On top of that, she speaks properly and knows about law.
“I did,” she says, answering my question without giving shit away.
“I’m assuming you didn’t major in corporate law?” I joke.
She laughs, but it sounds off compared to her natural, light laugh I’ve heard several times already.
“No,” she says, still refusing to give anything away.
I consider pushing the subject, but we arrive at 365—the restaurant we’re eating dinner at—and need to get out so the valet can park the car. With her on my arm, I lead us inside, and we’re shown to our table on the terrace.
The waiter introduces himself, lists the specials, and then asks what we would like to drink.
“I’ll have a scotch, neat,” I tell him. “Kingston Gold Label, if you have it.”
The waiter nods, but Stacey looks at me like I’ve grown two heads, and I briefly wonder if she’s not a drinker.
Until she clears her throat and plasters on a smile, barely glancing at the wine list before she says, “I’ll have a glass of 2003 Marcassin pinot noir.”
“We only serve that by the bottle,” the waiter states.
“That’s fine,” she says just before she looks back down at the list, her eyes going wide. “Oh, um, actually …” Her gaze flits to me and then the waiter. “I’ll have?—”
“We’ll take the bottle,” I tell the waiter. “Thank you.”
As a man who’s worked for a liquor company half my life, I think what a person orders says a lot about them. I always order Kingston because I’m loyal to the company that’s given me the life I live. This woman sitting in front of me just ordered a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. The price isn’t what has my attention though. It’s the fact that she knew what to order without thought. She not only knows her wines, but she also knows the good shit, and she didn’t consider the price until it was brought to her attention.
She’s either a seasoned gold digger, which doesn’t fit the woman I’ve gotten to know thus far, or she’s been around good alcohol. But here’s the thing: why the hell would somebody apply to become a trophy wife for the pay, yet be accustomed to ordering expensive alcohol?
I could argue that she did it because I’m footing the bill, yet she ordered before she looked at the price, and once she realized how expensive it was, she backtracked.
There’s a chance I’m overthinking this, but I didn’t get to where I am without being scrupulous.
“You know your wines,” I say once the waiter has retreated.
“I spent some time in Europe. It’s pretty much a staple there,” she says with a light laugh. “You can’t eat out without learning which wines are better than others.”
I remember that she’s from Europe and mentally chastise myself. Of course she knows her wines. I’m being ridiculous, and if I’m honest, I think I might be looking for something to be off with her because so far, I can’t find a single damn thing wrong with her. I was expecting a brainless bimbo, but instead got a smart, witty, beautiful woman.
I think a part of me is wondering why someone like her is here when she could easily land any man she wants. And that makes me wonder if maybe she’s in some kind of trouble and she needs the payout. I want to ask, but it would sound accusatory, so instead, I push it aside. If something’s wrong and she needs help, eventually, it will come out.
The waiter brings us our drinks of choice, and then we order our dinner. The rest of the meal goes well. We keep shit light, talking about places we’ve visited, our favorite hobbies and books and shows. She admits she hasn’t been on a boat in years and is excited for tomorrow, and despite knowing this is all fake, I really enjoy her company. Stacey is easy to talk to, and if the circumstances were different, she’s someone I would actually consider getting to know better—for real.
After dinner, I drive us home and walk her to her door. She doesn’t open it though, instead turning around and facing me.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says. “The food and wine were delicious, and the conversation was wonderful. It was probably one of the best fake dates I’ve been on in a long time.”
Her eyes, filled with mirth, connect with mine, and I lean in to kiss her cheek good night.
My lips brush her soft skin, and I whisper against her ear, “I had a great night,” before I back up, wishing the night weren’t coming to an end.
As if she’s having the same thought as me, she says, “So, tomorrow?”
“Be ready to go bright and early.” I lean back in and kiss the corner of her mouth this time, before I retreat to my room, where I spend the next twenty minutes jacking off while I think about my new fake fiancée.
“You’re spoiling me,”Stacey moans as I rub sunscreen along her shoulders and back. “Keep it up, and I’m going to expect delicious, fancy dinners and day trips on your boat every weekend.”
I chuckle, moving my way down to the backs of her thighs while trying like hell to keep my cock from getting hard. But it’s hard to do when the sexy woman in front of me is dressed in a string bikini that could be used to floss my teeth.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
I finish applying the sunscreen and then climb over her, kissing her neck before I hop up. But before I make it far, she turns over and grabs the edge of my shorts.
“Can you do my front, please?” She playfully bats her lashes. “I don’t want to get it all over my hands.”
I internally groan, knowing my restraint is running thin and if I have to apply sunscreen to her breasts, I just might snap. She’s been like this all day since the moment we woke up—touching and flirting. Walking around in her tiny bikini. Thank God it’s just the two of us on the boat, or I might’ve lost my shit with jealousy. And I’m not usually a jealous guy.
“If you want me to touch you, all you have to do is say so,” I flirt back because my fiancée might be fake, but the way I want to fuck her in every goddamn hole is real.
She doesn’t reply. Instead, she lies back and closes her eyes, waiting for me to massage the sunscreen onto her. I squirt some in my hands and then start with her arms, where it’s safe, then work my way to her breasts. When I massage circles into the swells of her breasts that aren’t covered by the tiny, thin material, she releases a soft moan that goes straight to my cock.
“Fuck, woman, you’re killing me.” I rub the lotion into her smooth, flat stomach and then finish with her thighs and calves. Once I’m done, I get up, needing a drink to cool down.
I’m standing in the kitchen, drinking a beer, when I hear footsteps coming down. I turn around and find Stacey standing in front of me.
“I’m thirsty,” she murmurs, taking my beer from me and slowly, seductively bringing it to her lips. “Mmm,” she moans after she takes a sip and hands it back to me. “That tastes good.”
Without taking my eyes off her, I set the beer on the counter and then hook my arm around her torso, pulling her toward me.
“I want to taste you,” I murmur once our faces are only inches apart.
“So, do it.”
Leaning in, I start with a kiss to her cheek, my lips relishing in her creamy skin. I take a moment to inhale her scent, and even with the fragrance of lotion on her, her smell is still intoxicating. I trail kisses along her jawline and over to her pouty mouth, which is void of her red lipstick today. I brush my lips against hers, first the bottom, then the top, taking a moment to memorize how soft her lips are.
I’m prepared to end it there, but before I break the kiss, she parts her lips, welcoming me in, and I slide my tongue inside, coaxing hers, reveling in the sweet taste. A sexy little moan comes from her, and I deepen the kiss. She sighs into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, and I force myself to step back before I take her right here against the counter.
When I look down at her bee-stung lips that have formed the sexiest fucking pout, I take another step back, needing to distance myself before I do something I’m not sure I’ll regret.
“I’m sorry,” she says, misunderstanding.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I kissed you.”
“I told you to. And then I kissed you back.”
“And if I didn’t stop it, I’d be fucking you right now,” I admit.
“I wouldn’t be opposed,” she states shyly.
“Is that what you want?” I ask, closing the distance I just put between us. I cup the side of her face and use my thumb to lift her chin to look at me. “Is that what you want?” I repeat. “For me to fuck you?”
“That’s up to you,” she murmurs. “You’re in charge here, Ian, not me.”
Her words are like ice-cold water being poured down my swim trunks. Is that why she’s been flirting with me all day? Does she think that’s what’s expected of her? And is that what I want? To fuck someone who is doing it because they’re being paid to do so?
The answer is no … hell no. I want to fuck her because I’m attracted to her, because she’s the first woman in … well, forever that I’m wanting to get to know better, wanting to spend more time with. For the first time, I can see myself spending the night with a woman and not wanting to kick her out in the morning.
And I want her to want to fuck me. But with her words, I’m reminded that she isn’t here for me. Our chemistry might be off the charts. Sure, we can hold a conversation easily, and fuck if being with her doesn’t feel as natural as breathing, but at the end of the day, she’s here for the paycheck. The ring on her finger wasn’t put there out of love. It’s a possession to seal the deal, to make it look legit.
Before she arrived, I thought about this, figured if neither one of us wanted to go a year without sex and she was down, I’d throw it out there that I was down to fuck. But what I didn’t consider was that I would be so damn attracted to her that I wouldn’t look at having sex with her as a chore.
And as I stare at this woman who has me feeling so much in such a short time, I wonder why the hell I couldn’t have met her at a bar or a club and gotten to know her. Because then we’d both be here with the same goal in mind. But life doesn’t work that way, and she’s here for the money, which means if I fuck her right now, it’s as if I’m paying her to do so.
But then an idea hits me. One I can’t believe I’m even considering. What if we get to know each other and give this whole thing between us a real go? Fuck, the idea is crazy, borderline insane, but what if she’s the one? Maybe my conversation with Samuel is getting to my head and making me soft. But it’s something I need to figure out before we take things any further.
And so, instead of doing what my cock wants me to do—lift her by her ass and set her on the counter so I can fuck her seven ways to Sunday—I think with my head and heart and take a step back.
“I want you,” I tell her truthfully. “But I think we should take things slow.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, her brows furrowing together in confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” I shake my head, feeling like I’m fucking this all up, which doesn’t surprise me since I’ve never been in this situation before. “It’s just that every woman in my life has always been nothing more than a one-night stand, and for the first time, I think I want something more with you.”
Her eyes go as wide as saucers, and she jumps off the counter, putting distance between us. “More, as in wanting a fake fiancée, right?”
I’m not even sure what the hell she’s asking, but the panic in her voice has me taking a step back. This is too soon. She’s not there yet, which makes sense since we’ve only known each other for a fucking minute and I’m acting crazy.
I blame Samuel completely for this. Before our stupid talk, I was doing just fine. But then he had to go and point out how I’m getting older, and I haven’t started a family yet. And how great it is to be in love and that he wants that for everyone. And now, here I am, losing my damn mind over the first woman I’ve been attracted to on a deeper level.
“Ian,” Stacey says, “when you said you want more, you meant that you want me as your fake fiancée and not a one-night stand, right?”
This time, she words the question so I understand what she’s asking and silently not saying—this can’t be anything more than a fake engagement.
“Yeah,” I choke out, backtracking. “I just meant that we should take things slow because we’re going to be spending a lot of time together and we don’t want to rush into shit. You know?”
“Yeah.” She nods slowly. “That’s what I thought you meant.” She steps toward me and places her hand on my bicep. “But if you change your mind … regarding sex, I’m here.”
And with those parting words, she saunters away, leaving me wondering if there’s something in my drink because if I didn’t know better, I would think I’m drunk on this fucking woman. I’ve known her for two damn days, and I was ready to profess … what, my love for her?
Thank God at least one of us is sober enough to think straight.