Chapter 3 #2
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Says the woman who just confessed she's terrified of wasting her life."
"At least I have fun while allegedly wasting it."
"Is that what you call working yourself to exhaustion at a job that doesn't appreciate you?"
"Mika appreciates me."
"Mika is your coworker. When was the last time you took a vacation?"
"When was the last time you smiled?"
"I smile."
"That thing you do with your mouth doesn't count."
"What thing?"
"That." I pointed at his face, where the corner of his mouth had curved up. "That's not smiling. That's your face malfunctioning."
"This is why our arrangement will work. We already know how to push each other's buttons."
I shook my head with a wry grin. "That's not romantic."
"It's not supposed to be. Besides, most couples lie to each other constantly."
"That's a terribly pessimistic view on love."
He quipped with a sardonic lift of his brow. "I think it's pretty accurate."
I laughed despite myself. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." He stood, came around the desk. "We need to practice."
"Practice what?"
"Being comfortable with each other. Physically." He extended his hand. "Stand up."
"Don't be so bossy," I grumbled as I stood, aware of how much taller he was. How close. How his cologne—expensive and cedar-scented—made me want to lean in.
"If we're dating," he said, "I'll touch you. Casually, constantly. Hand on your back, arm around your waist, fingers brushing yours. People will expect it."
"Okay."
"So we need to practice until it feels natural." He placed his hand on my lower back, and heat shot through me. "This is how I'll guide you through a room."
I couldn't breathe. His palm was warm through my cardigan, solid and possessive. "That feels... natural."
"You're rigid."
"I'm not rigid."
"You're holding your breath."
I exhaled, tried to relax. His hand stayed put, anchoring me.
"Better," he murmured. "Now you."
"Me what?"
"Touch me. However you'd touch a boyfriend."
I reached up, hesitated. This was insane. This was Callum Hayes, the man who made me want to throw hot coffee at him on a regular basis.
I touched his hair. Ran my fingers through silver-streaked strands that were softer than they looked.
He went absolutely still.
"Is that okay?" I asked.
"No." His voice roughened. "That's... good. Natural."
My fingers were still in his hair. His hand was still on my back. We stood there, breathing each other's air, and I understood with startling clarity that every rule we'd established might be meaningless if this was the level of chemistry that immediately kindled between us.
“Oh, um, we should establish more rules," I said, not moving. “I think…just to be on the safe side.”
“Such as?” the low timbre of his voice caused goosebumps to riot along my skin.
"No kissing unless absolutely necessary."
"Define necessary."
"If a person's watching and expecting it."
"That could be interpreted broadly."
"Then interpret it narrowly."
His hand moved, almost imperceptibly, fingers spreading against my spine. "What else?"
“No sleepovers. No, uh, cuddling or Netflix and chill.”
"Anything else?"
"No falling in love."
Those four words hung between us, loaded with implication. His gray eyes searched mine, and I saw the same fear I felt reflected back.
"That one's non-negotiable," he said.
"Good."
"Excellent."
Neither of us moved.
A knock on the door made us spring apart.
A man in his forties poked his head in, startling when he saw Callum wasn’t alone.
“Oh, sorry man, I didn’t realize you were with someone.
I can come back later.” But even as the man made the offer, he purposefully lingered, waiting for Callum to make introductions, which Callum did only grudgingly.
“Graham, this is my…girlfriend, Willow Monroe.”
“I…I’m sorry, did you say, girlfriend?” Graham did a double take before good manners could stop him. His gaze flew to Callum’s questioning and confused. “I didn’t realize you were dating anyone.”
Callum shrugged. “I’m a private person.”
“That you are.” Graham bobbed his head in a slow nod toward me. “Nice to meet you, Willow.” To Callum, he gave him a look that practically screamed, ‘I’ll be expecting details later…’ and made his exit.
I turned back to Callum. "He seems nice."
“He’s a nosy, pain-in-the-ass.”
“Are you…friends?”
“Partners. We started the firm together.”
“Are you going to tell him the truth about us? It might be only fair that you get to tell someone in your inner circle, since I have Mika.”
“Undecided.”
"Right, so, back to the quiz. What else?"
But his energy had shifted. The hairs on my arm stood on end with unexpected awareness. "Come here," he gestured. "We were interrupted."
"I think we get the idea—"
"I prefer to be prepared," he returned, his gaze holding mine.
"Has anyone ever told you you're impossibly bossy?" I grumbled as I followed his command.
He flashed that infuriating glint of a sexy smile. "Yes... mostly by you."
There went that electric zip through my nerve endings again.
"You're a beautiful woman," he murmured, almost as if that fact irritated him. He reached up to push a strand of loose hair from my face. “There’s no sense in pretending otherwise.”
I sucked in a tight breath. This felt as if we were already breaking our own rules, but I didn't mind.
"Fake or not, I'll be touching you for three months. Taking you to dinners and galas and firm events. Introducing you as my girlfriend. And I need you to understand that while the relationship is fake, my attraction to you isn't."
Oof. Callum Hayes just admitted he was attracted to me. For real, not just as part of our wildly inappropriate fake dating situation. There should've been a klaxon alarm going off in my head... oddly all I heard was my thundering pulse.
“Why you telling me this?” I managed.
“Because I want there to be no lies between us. I am attracted to you, Willow. As I suspect you are attracted to me as well.”
I stammered, prepared to lie but my mouth snapped shut because it was true. I nodded, not trusting what might drop from my lips.
“I think if we are aware of potential problems, we’ll be better suited to handle any complications.”
“Complications such as…”
“Such as taking things too far when we know this is fake and will end,” he answered.
“Oh, right, of course,” I said, hating that his answer felt like a wet blanket thrown between us. “Makes sense to be aware.”
But he remained too close to me, in my personal space, as if he was reluctant to follow his own advice. “To that end, we should practice our kiss.”
Somehow, I nodded in agreement but it felt more like my head wobbling on my neck.
His lips brushed mine in a soft, tender press that immediately stole my breath. It was everything we were technically agreeing to — no tongue, no obscene show of lusty promise — but hot damn, it carried a punch that went straight to my pelvis.
I’m talking, permission-granted to take my clothes off right now and fuck me against your fancy desk while your secretary covers her ears against the primal grunts and groans that follow.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it, going for another pass as I leaned into him. It buzzed again, insistent.
I felt his irritation as he he pulled it out, glance at the screen, and his energy shifted—the moment popped as if we'd been standing in a bubble that burst. "I think we've covered most of the bases for now. Guessing by your current wardrobe, you’re going to need a dress for the gala.”
"Are you saying this isn't good enough?" I teased, twirling in my Target dress. I kicked out my foot, showing off my worn sneakers. "How about these kicks? I call it thrift store chic."
"Richard Ashford's charity gala is black-tie. You'll need appropriate attire." He pulled out his wallet, extracted a credit card. "Go to Nordstrom. Buy whatever you need."
I stared at the card. Did not expect that. "I can't use your credit card."
"Why not?"
"I'm not your real girlfriend. Accepting money from you crosses a line. And—"
"You're proud and stubborn and would rather wear a Target dress to a gala than accept help." He pressed the card into my hand. "This is part of the arrangement. You're doing me a favor. Let me return it."
The card felt dangerous. As if accepting it meant accepting more than money.
"One dress," I said.
"Whatever you need,” he corrected sternly. “It's more efficient if you have what you need when I need you to have them."
"Callum—"
"Three months, Willow. Three months of pretending we're a thing. The least I can do is make sure you're dressed appropriately for what I’m requiring.”
“Um, I don’t know. I’ll need to pay you back for whatever you spend.”
"Don't be ridiculous. You don't have the salary for that kind of offer—I don't need a thirty-year payment plan for a few articles of clothing."
"Okay, ouch." I glowered at him even as I flipped the card between my fingers, trying not to feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. "So, you're cool if I just throw everything in my closet away and start fresh from bras to shoes?"
"I'd prefer it." He nodded, stepped back, and I felt the loss of his heat as a physical chill. "I'll pick you up Friday at six. The gala starts at seven."
Well, then. Guess who's going shopping.
“You can pick me up at my apartment but only if you promise not to pass judgment on where I live. As you like pointing out…I’m not exactly pulling six figures.”
He chuckled with wry amusement. “I’ll keep my judgment to myself.”
“Ten bucks says you can’t keep that promise,” I quipped as I left his office.
Three months of pretending. Three months of touching and lying and maintaining boundaries that already felt flimsy.
I looked down at the credit card in my hand and wondered which would be harder: finding a wardrobe that fit Callum's world, or surviving three months of pretending I didn't want him to touch me for real.
Oof, girl. You really know how to create your own problems. Go big or go home, I guess.