Chapter 3 #3
I slip into the dress, step into heels that make my legs look great but will torture me by midnight, and answer the door.
My brain short-circuits.
Adrian stands in the hallway in a tailored black tuxedo.
The crisp white shirt makes his skin glow, the black bow tie sitting perfectly against his throat.
The jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. His hair is styled back from his forehead, the hint of silver at his temples catching the light.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He's always been attractive—I'm not blind—but this is weaponized. This isn't fair.
Adrian's eyes travel slowly from my face down the length of my body, lingering on the way the dress hugs my curves, then back up to meet my gaze. Something flashes in his eyes—something hot that makes my skin tingle.
"You look beautiful," his voice is deeper than usual.
I swallow hard. "You clean up okay, too."
Understatement of the century.
He waits as I grab my clutch and wrap, his eyes never leave me.
The walk down the stairs of my building feels like the longest of my life, acutely aware of him behind me, probably looking at my—Oh well, what's a girl to do?
I slow down, take deliberate steps, giving my hips every chance to go to work.
Focus, Emmy.
Outside, a black chauffeured car waits at the curb. Adrian opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, trying to look graceful despite the tight dress. He walks around to his side, and I watch the way the tuxedo moves with him, fitting him like a second skin.
When he settles, his leg is inches from mine. I feel heat radiating from him, and I have to force myself not to lean toward it like a cat seeking warmth. Wow, look at me being poetic and stuff. I pinch my thigh. Hard. Reminding myself this is fake. I repeat, fake.
Adrian's hands rest on his knees, his long fingers relaxed yet somehow still controlled.
I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like on my skin, and immediately try to divert my mind, forcing myself to think of anything but him—my taxes maybe, or my bills.
Ugh. This is fake. All of it. Just a business arrangement. Me to myself, 'calm the fuck down'.
As the driver weaves through the crazy traffic, Adrian's hand begins to hover near my upper arm, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the phantom pressure. The almost-contact is somehow more distracting than actual touching.
"Are you ready, Em?"
I nod, unable to find words.
"Let's review once more. We've been dating for six weeks, even before I read the will.
That's why you were so shocked. You were angry I kept it from you, but confidentiality is part of my job.
We kept running into each other—the coffee shop, the firm lobby, the bookstore.
Coffee became lunch, lunch became dinner, and neither of us could stay away despite our professional conflicts. "
"Very Pride and Prejudice of us."
His lips twitch. "Less bonnets, I suppose?"
"Sadly."
The car pulls up to the venue—a historic private club with marble columns and gold-trimmed doors. Adrian steps out first, then turns to offer his hand. As I emerge, his hand finally settles on my lower back—five points of contact, fingers spread wide, exactly how a real boyfriend would touch.
The contact burns through the silk of my dress. I've been touched like this by men I've dated, but never has it felt so electric. I have to force myself to smile at the greeters, to remember my own name when Adrian introduces me. All my focus narrows to his hand on my back.
"Adrian!" A woman in her sixties approaches, elegant in navy blue, her silver hair twisted in a perfect chignon. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
Adrian's hand tenses when he presses against my back. "Judith. Good evening."
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" Judith's sharp blue eyes assess me thoroughly, taking in every detail.
"Of course." Adrian's voice remains calm, but I feel the tension radiating from him. "Judith Morrison, this is Emmy Blake. Emmy, Judith is the managing partner at Morrison & Hale."
"Your girlfriend, I presume?" Judith raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Adrian doesn't usually bring plus ones to these functions."
I smile warmly, leaning slightly into Adrian's side. "I'm lucky he made an exception."
"How did you two meet?" Judith's gaze is piercing. "Adrian hasn't mentioned you."
"We kept running into each other," I say smoothly. "The coffee shop by my apartment, the firm lobby when I visited during my grandmother's estate issues. Eventually, he asked me to dinner."
"And what do you do, Emmy?"
"I'm a novelist." I watch her eyebrows rise. "Contemporary fiction."
"How long have you been together?"
"Six weeks." I look up at Adrian with practiced affection. "Though it feels longer, doesn't it?"
Adrian's eyes meet mine, and something real flickers there—something that makes my chest tighten. "It does."
Judith watches this exchange carefully. "Well. This is unexpected." She turns to Adrian. "Remember what we discussed about mixing personal and professional matters."
After she walks away, Adrian releases a breath. "You were perfect."
"I write fiction for a living. Lying should come naturally." But my heart is pounding, and not from the lie.
Adrian's hand returns to my back, guiding me deeper into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd, the classical music ensemble plays, and waiters circulate with champagne.
"Would you like to dance?"
I look up in surprise.
"You dance?"
"Mandatory at boarding school." He leads me to the dance floor, his hand spanning my waist, the other taking mine.
We move together, and I'm startled by how well we fit. His hand is firm against my back, guiding without forcing. I follow instinctively, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels natural, as though we've done this a hundred times before.
"I wouldn't have guessed you could dance like this."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." His voice is low, his eyes never leaving mine.
The room seems to fade around us—the music, the other couples, the glittering lights—until there's only Adrian. His thumb traces small circles on my waist, a movement so subtle I doubt he's even aware of it. My breath catches in my throat.
Adrian's gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there before returning to my eyes. Heat radiates from where we touch—his hand in mine, his palm against my back, occasionally our legs brush as we move. There's a different kind of tension between us now.
The song ends, but neither of us moves. We stand on the dance floor, still holding each other, both breathing harder than the dancing warrants.
Someone bumps against me, breaking the spell.
"Drink?"
His voice is rough and quiet. I barely hear him.
I can only nod.
We spend the rest of the evening in this strange, charged awareness.
Every touch feels magnified—his hand returns to my back as we navigate the crowd, my fingers on his arm as I laugh at something he says, his palm briefly touches my waist as he helps me into my seat for dinner.
I want him to speak again. I need his voice.
His tone vibrates through me. Distracts me. Unhinges me.
We play our parts perfectly—the new couple, still in that honeymoon phase. But something has changed, and we both know it. When our eyes meet across the table during dinner, when his fingers brush mine as he reaches for the water glass, it no longer feels like acting.
By the time we escape to the taxi, I'm vibrating with unspent energy.
The whole drive back to my apartment, we sit carefully on opposite sides of the back seat, both staring out our respective windows like we're afraid of what might happen if we look at each other.
But I can feel him there, aware of every breath, every shift.
The driver's oblivious chatter about the weather fills the silence we're both too wired to break.
Like an invisible, tenuous thread is stretched between us.
When Adrian mentions Victoria's birthday dinner—three days away—I just nod. We need to be ready. We need to be convincing.
"We should practice."
My head whips around. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's something in his eyes. Something that makes my pulse jump.
"Physical affection," he clarifies. "Before Victoria's dinner."
"Makes sense. When?"
"Tonight?"
My throat involuntarily swells. My nostrils fill with a long intake. Panic and excitement mix. I know I want this.
This is much harder off the page. My mind imagines writing this scene.
Just so much easier, cleaner, neater. Real life just gatecrashed my fictional world?
My hormones and biology don't live in my Kindle.
I might be chronically single, but I write steamy sex scenes for a living.
And I am not a virgin, no matter how much I feel like one right now. Fake, huh! OK, let's go!
The car pulls up outside my building. I invite him up for coffee, and we both know it's not coffee that's bringing him inside.
I move around making coffee, hyperaware of Adrian leaning against the counter, watching me. His bow tie is loosened, hanging untied around his neck. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing the hollow of his throat. I nearly spill coffee grounds trying not to stare.
He breaks the silence.
"Victoria's birthday dinner is in three days."
"I know." I'm trying to stop my hands from trembling as I measure coffee.
"She's going to be impossible."
"I've handled worse."
We move to the living room, string lights casting a soft glow across the space. We sit on the couch, a careful distance between us, both holding coffee mugs like shields. The silence stretches.
"We should discuss one thing."
I look over at him. "And that would be...?"
"We haven't kissed yet."
"W-what?"
"Victoria will expect physical affection." His voice is calm, logical, but his eyes are anything but. "It needs to look natural."
"So, you want to ... practice... here, now?"
"It would be prudent."
I can't help but laugh at his word choice. "Prudent. You want to prudently kiss me?"
"I want us to be prepared." His clinical language doesn't match the heat in his eyes.
I set my coffee down, hoping he doesn't notice how my hand shakes. "Okay. Prudent practice kissing. Sure. Why not?"
Adrian stands, offers his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. We're standing in my living room, string lights twinkling above us, soft music still playing from earlier. My heart pounds against my ribs.
"This is just practice," I say, not sure who I'm trying to convince.
"Just practice."
His thumb strokes my knuckles—an unconscious gesture that sends shivers up my arm. I step closer, tilting my face up to his.
Adrian cups my face with both hands, the touch surprisingly gentle for someone usually so in control. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and my eyes flutter then close briefly.
This is fake, this is fake, this is—F...
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, but I don't. His lips touch mine—soft at first, tentative, testing. Warm, firm, careful. My eyes close. The kiss is sweet, almost chaste.
Then his hand slides into my hair, cradles the back of my head, and everything changes. My fingers grip his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. The kiss deepens, shifts. Nothing tentative anymore.
His other hand moves to my waist, pulls me closer. I make a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper that I couldn't control if I tried. His grip tightens in response.
I part my lips, and he takes the invitation. The kiss becomes consuming, dizzying, completely unexpected. My back hits the wall—when did we move?— how?— and his body presses against mine, solid, warm, and real. Every point of contact burns.
His hand in my hair, his chest against mine, his thigh between my legs—it's overwhelming in the best possible way. My hands slide up his chest, around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. It's softer than I imagined.
He makes a sound now—low, rough—and time ceases to exist. There's only his mouth, his hands, his body.
The way he tastes—coffee and mint. The way he touches me—his hands, those hands, are everywhere, burning my body with each touch.
Rough. He touches like he's been thinking about this.
The way my body responds—like it's been waiting. Wanting.
Eventually—seconds? minutes? hours?—We break apart, both breathing hard. Our foreheads touch. Neither moves away. My fingers remain tangled in his hair, his hand still cradles my head. Our hearts pound in sync. I can feel his pulse jumping in his throat.
Adrian speaks first, his voice rough treacle. "That should ... that should be convincing."
I can't speak. My lips are swollen, sensitive. I can still taste him. My eyes are not sure where to focus.
Adrian steps back, physically separating us. The immediate loss of warmth is almost painful. His hair is messed up from my hands, his bow tie completely askew, shirt partially untucked. Unbuttoned. He straightens his tie with shaking hands, not meeting my eyes.
"I should go."
"Yeah. Probably." My voice sounds wrecked.
He moves to the door, movements unsteady. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looks back over his shoulder. Something in his expression—want, regret, confusion, all of it.
"Goodnight, Emmy."
"Goodnight, Adrian."
The door closes, and I stand in my living room, fingers pressed to my lips, which are still tingling from his kiss. I lick them, savoring the hint of him still there.
That wasn't practice.
That was—dizzying, yes. But a line has been crossed...a...
I don't let myself finish the thought. If I name it, if I admit what that felt like, everything changes.
The careful lines we've drawn, the boundaries we've set, the clean thirty-day timeline to comply with the Will, plus an extra thirty days to show authenticity. Such a neat endpoint—all of it becomes complicated.
I turn off the string lights and head to my bedroom, trying not to think about the way Adrian's hands felt in my hair. The sound he made against my mouth. How my body fit against his like we were designed to slot together. Two flesh-and-blood puzzle pieces.
Trying not to think about how much I want him to come back. How, if he knocked on my door right now, I'd let him in without hesitation.
Trying, unsuccessfully, to convince myself this is still just pretend.
Because if it's not pretend—if what I felt in that kiss was real—then I'm in serious trouble.
And judging by the way Adrian looked at me before he left, the way his hands shook, the roughness in his voice…
He might be in trouble, too.
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