Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Rhett
One of the first things I noticed about her is how she blushes.
It’s no delicate little pink tinge. It’s a full-on, all or nothing flush that starts up as twin points in her cheeks and spreads across her skin like wildfire, betraying every ounce of what she’s feeling even when she’s frantically trying to look nonchalant or brush it off with sarcasm.
She’s doing it now, after I tell her the wedding is in New York.
To cover it she starts laughing and shaking her head.
Her fiery hair catches the low amber lights from the bar.
And fuck me, my blood rushes south and I pop wood right there, all over again for Mrs. Jessica Rabbit. I’m no novice; I’ve had more than my share of women, but this one I can’t take my eyes off. That sinful mouth. That fine ass. That banging body hidden away under layers of unnecessary clothes.
I normally wouldn’t have bothered with a woman on a prank dare. What can you expect other than awkwardness and hostility from a situation like that? A woman, albeit a very fuckable one, humiliating herself for a stupid forfeit, counting down the minutes until she can escape.
But there’s something about her.
Something unusual.
Something I couldn’t resist gripped me. My cock stirred.
Desire hissed and swirled in my gut. Even the hostility and awkwardness might be worth it.
And now I find myself sitting across from someone who keeps surprising me.
Pippa has this way of being sharp and funny, and even when she’s talking about another man being her soulmate, my interest did not wither away.
From what she’s said about George so far, he sounds like a right tool. I can’t wrap my head around how anyone could fail to appreciate what a treasure she is.
“It’s settled then,” she says, tilting her glass toward me. “Let’s drink to our deal. We’ll go together to the opera for my George and to the wedding for your clingy ex?”
I nod slowly, but a cunning plan has already formed in the back of my mind. “Almost settled…”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. I like that about her. How she doesn’t just roll over and agree to things. “Almost? What’s missing?”
“If we’re going to pull this off,” I say, leaning forward, lowering my voice a little like I’m letting her in on a conspiracy. “We need to act like a couple. If we don’t, George is going to take one look at us and know that it’s fake.”
She snorts. “George is a dependable poppet of a man, but he hasn’t a clue when it comes to reading relationships.”
“Maybe not,” I agree silkily. “But if he’s truly your soulmate, then I guarantee he knows you well enough to notice when you’re faking it. And for sure, my ex will sniff us out instantly. Which means …”
“We need to get to know each other,” she finishes for me.
“Yes. Do we have a deal?”
She tilts her head and regards me speculatively for a few seconds.
Then she throws her head back and laughs, a proper laugh, the sound ringing out over the background chatter.
I stare at the creamy curve of her throat and feel quite pleased with myself.
She’s taken the bait. She’s in. I take a sip of my gin with dark berries and hide my smile.
“Yes, we have a deal,” she says, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “How do you suggest we do this? Do we need to take a crash course in each other’s lives? Play something like twenty questions?”
I shake my head. “Nah. That will be too much like work. All we need is a bit of time together so we’ll get comfortable in each other’s company and look relaxed together. Maybe you can show me around London or something …”
Her lips purse like she’s considering it. “I could take Friday off work, I guess. We could … I don’t know, do something touristy. I could show you some of the sights.”
“Really? You can take Friday off just like that?”
She shrugs casually, though I don’t miss the flicker of worry in her eyes. “Well, if I’m going to make George jealous, I should do it properly. Besides, it’s not like freelance clients keep time clocks. As long as I hit deadlines, I can shuffle things around. Unless you can’t take Friday off …”
“Friday it is, then,” I say, offering her my hand across the table.
She hesitates for half a beat before sliding her hand into mine. Her skin is warm and soft, but her grip is quite firm. And for just a second, it feels like more than a deal, but then she pulls her hand back, laughing nervously.
“Alright, Mr. Fake Boyfriend, what kind of sightseeing are we talking about? The London Eye? The London Dungeon? Fish and chips in Leicester Square?”
“You’re the local. You decide.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Careful what you wish for. I might drag you around every single tourist trap in the city just to see you suffer.”
“I can take it,” I reply easily. “But you must promise to narrate like a tour guide. With obscure facts and everything.”
“Obscure facts, huh?” She leans her chin on her hand, her eyes lively. “Like how many pigeons live in Trafalgar Square or how many times Big Ben has been used in Doctor Who?”
“Exactly.”
She laughs, and I realize how invested I have become in this woman. A recipe for disaster since she’s clearly pining over some other guy. I’m only here because of a crazy forfeit, but I have somehow morphed myself into becoming her wingman.
The rest of the evening slips by faster than I expect. She tells me about her work and entertains me with tales of her nightmare clients. I don’t tell her about mine. I can’t make the endless travel, the late meetings across time zones sound interesting.
She’s witty and sharp, but too often self-deprecating in a way that makes me want to tell her that she is underselling herself. Every so often, she catches me staring at her, and I have to mask it with a smirk or another sip of my drink.
When the evening winds down, she gathers her purse and her jacket. Her cheeks are flushed from laughter and maybe the third round of drinks.
“Well,” she says, standing up and slipping into her jacket. “This has been surprisingly tolerable.”
“High praise,” I reply, getting to my feet too.
She grins. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
We step out into the cool night air together, and for a moment, I think about walking her home. But she waves me off, saying she’ll grab a cab. Before she does, she pauses, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“Don’t forget,” she says. “Friday. I’m sacrificing a precious day off for this charade.”
“I wouldn’t dream of forgetting.”
She raises her right hand in a little wave, then disappears into the night, flagging down a cab easily enough. She gets in, and I watch until her cab pulls away before I pull out my cell phone.
I type out a quick text to my assistant.
Book two seats for Madame Butterfly on Saturday. Best view in the house.
When the confirmation buzzes back a minute later, I slide my cell phone back into my pocket and smile to myself.
London just got very interesting.