12. Juno
CHAPTER 12
JUNO
Do I see a hint of that dimple? That should probably also go on the no-no list—especially if keeping things platonic is important to him.
To take my mind off the urge to lick said dimple, I shake the paperwork. “Can you explain this in plain English? Translate from the legalese for me.”
He does so as we devour the penis-like clam dish and the next course—a ridiculously delicious plate of wagyu beef. Basically, I just have to keep my mouth shut about our arrangement to everyone, even my family. Which, for the money he’s paying, I’m happy to do.
“That all sounds as reasonable as such things could,” I say when he’s done talking. I spear the last bit of the beef, already mourning its absence. “Now, tell me why.”
He pours us both more wine. “Why what?”
I shrug, unsure of where to start. “Why me? Why not get a real girlfriend? Why would you fake a relationship? Why?—”
The waitress returns, so I stop my torrent of questions.
“Crab meatball soup,” she announces and scurries away.
Lucius grabs a spoon. “You must try this.”
The soup smells divine, but I don’t let that distract me. “You really like to change the subject.”
His Adam’s apple bobs—temptingly, I might add. “What subject am I changing?”
“Why me?” I repeat, then grab my spoon and fill my mouth with some broth and meatball. Maybe if I’m quiet, he’ll feel the need to fill the silence.
Nope. He just joins me in eating. Ass.
I judged too soon, though. After swallowing, he surprises me by saying, “The ‘why you?’ is very simple. You are the person the gossip articles shipped me with.”
Oh, yeah. He even started this whole thing by asking if I’ve read the gossip about us. I feel so special now. My girlfriend qualifications seem to be: has a head and was at the wrong place at the wrong time. And who knows, maybe the head bit was optional.
If the meatballs weren’t so delicious, I’d throw one at his face—to show my appreciation for his candor.
Whatever. My other questions shouldn’t be as damaging to my self-esteem. Though who knows with this guy? Regardless, I ask, “Why not get a real girlfriend?”
“I don’t do girlfriends.”
I snort. “A charmer like you? What a loss for womankind.”
I think I catch him wincing, but it must be either my imagination or one of those micro-expressions that are gone in an eyeblink. Have I gone overboard?
His expression now unreadable, he asks, “You realize I’m only answering your questions because I’m trying to be civil, right?”
This is him being civil? I’d hate to vex this guy.
“Fine,” I say. “I withdraw my statement. Plenty of women would be happy to date you.” Ever since Fifty Shades of Grey , masochism among women has surely been on the rise.
“I know you’re being snide, but it’s true. Many women want to date me… well, my money.”
I nearly choke on my soup. “Am I supposed to feel bad for the poor billionaire ? Most people would kill to have your gold-digger problem.”
“And they’d regret it,” he says, unblinking. “If the gold-diggers stop sniffing around me for the duration of our arrangement, that itself will almost make this all worth it.”
“Almost… so that’s not your main reason,” I say. “What is?”
He nods at the papers by my elbow. “Sign the NDA, and I’ll think about telling you.”
Grr. “Why can’t you just tell me now?”
He smirks. “Because I want the paperwork settled, and I bet you’re curious enough to sign here and now.”
“Maybe I am curious,” I admit. “Would it get me killed if I were a cat?”
“If you were a cat, I’d probably die of allergies,” he says, deadpan. “So it would be a murder-suicide situation.”
Saguaro damn it. The proverbial cat died of wanting to know, and I feel like I might die if I don’t find out right this second. And let’s be honest, was I really going to get a lawyer?
I take the papers and skim them as thoroughly as I can considering my dyslexia and the fact that the closest I’ve gotten to law school is watching Legally Blonde . When I’m done, I think it’s possible, even likely, that it all matches what Lucius has said. Then again, if it turns out I’m agreeing to do naughty pony play whenever he wishes, I won’t be all that surprised either.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask grudgingly.
To his credit, he doesn’t gloat. Instead, he simply pulls out a pen from his pocket and hands it to me.
Huh. The thing is heavy and very fancy-looking. Must be one of those Montblanc ones that cost thousands.
“I sign this and you tell me,” I say. “None of that ‘I’ll think about it’ bullshit.”
“Deal.” He sips his wine.
With a big sigh, I initial and sign the stupid papers, then push the stack toward him. “Talk.”
He pockets the papers and the pen. “My grandmother has never been happy with my lack of dating. When she saw the article, she was so happy I didn’t want to take it away from her.”
I gape at him, waiting for a punchline.
He just finishes his soup and sips his wine.
He has a grandmother? I mean, obviously—I know he isn’t a clone grown in an underground lab, and thus must have parents who also have parents and all that. He just doesn’t strike me as someone who cares about making anyone else happy, grandmothers included.
“Oysters Rockefeller,” the waitress/hostess says, startling me.
I wait for her to set down the plates and leave before whispering, “Is it me, or did she appear out of nowhere?”
Lucius flashes his dimple. “The staff in this restaurant attend ninja school.”
Grinning, I taste the new entree—and this time, a moan does escape my lips.
Crap. Given how wide Lucius’s eyes are, he heard that. Must change the topic, quickly. Thankfully, that part is easy. “Let’s discuss the logistics of our fake relationship.”
He scans the empty restaurant. “Given the ninja staff and all that, how about we just call it ‘our relationship’ going forward?”
“Hmm. That might be confusing. We need a word—and it can be a secret one—for when we want to emphasize the fakeness of it all.”
“If you insist.” He thinks about it for a beat. “How about fartlek ?”
I suppress a groan. “Do we need to bring bodily functions into it?”
His lips flatten. “Don’t be a child. Fartlek means ‘speed play’ in Swedish. It’s a type of workout that’s similar to interval training—you run fast, then you run slow, then fast again.”
I roll my eyes. “I take it you like to fartlek?” Maybe after consuming large quantities of legumes?
“Sure. Fartlek strengthens willpower and endurance.”
Endurance? Should I tell him that’s not something we need for our fake relationship—sorry, our fartlek ? Fighting a grin, I say, “Okay, what are our next steps… for the fartlek?”
He decimates an oyster as he considers my question. “How about we get to know each other?”
“Each other? I thought you knew all about me from your snooping.”
He shakes his head. “I know useless information, like your credit score. I need to know things a boyfriend would know… especially what Gram thinks a boyfriend would know.”
“Such as?”
He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the thick strands in a strangely adorable way. “I don't know. I don’t do girlfriends.”
I grab another oyster. “So... I’m to teach you how to do a girlfriend?”
He frowns. “There is no doing you, contractually.” He pauses. “Having said that, Gram isn’t good with boundaries, so why don't we start there.” He looks me in the eyes. “What do you like?”
I flush, my mind returning to all my inappropriate fantasies. “Umm…” I know he doesn’t mean what it sounds like, but?—
“Sexually,” he clarifies.
I drop the oyster.