Chapter 7
Seven
NIX
Twenty minutes later, I’m sporting a pink apron that says “I’m SEW Hot Right Now” across the front, white satin gloves to my elbows, and a big grin.
Turns out playing dress up is fun.
So much fun it makes me wish my little sister, Beatrice, had been into dolls as a kid. We had a good time with Lego sets and art projects every Christmas, but spiffing up a few dolls might have actually been a good time. I’m certainly having a blast this afternoon.
But then, almost everything is a blast with Charlotte.
And we’re a good team. We established a rhythm early on—I hold up the dresses while she steams, sparing me from being hissed at by her machine, which decided it hated me at first touch.
Then, she guides the dresses into place, I pin them to the straw, and we both decide on which wig is the most flattering for our scarecrow’s facial structure.
Transforming our plain straw canvases into only slightly creepy works of art is satisfying. Nearly as satisfying as all the excuses Charlotte finds to touch me as we work…
She fondles my forearms every chance she gets, wraps an arm around my waist as we evaluate wig colors, and presses a long, lingering kiss to my cheek when we finally break for water.
“Okay, now we need to decide on tiaras and crowns,” Charlotte says, screwing the lid back on her bottle. “Where do you want to start?”
“With Princess Belle, obviously,” I say, nodding toward the third scarecrow down, the one we decked out in a yellow dress and brunette wig. “Girls who read are the hottest.”
Charlotte hums. “Oh, yeah? Do you really think that? Or are you just kissing up to me because you know I’m in three book clubs?”
“I didn’t know you were in three book clubs,” I say, my voice dropping to a growl as I aim my lips at hers. “But now I’m even hotter for you than I was before.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice chirps from a few feet away. “But I was wondering if I could ask you two a few questions for the local news? I’m Hannah Provost with Channel 6.”
Charlotte and I pull apart with matching “no problem” grins.
“Of course,” I say, smiling at the reporter, a cute redhead in her late-twenties beside an older man with a large camera. “Where would you like us?”
“In front of those scarecrows in pink would be great, the light is perfect over there.” She moves with us, mic in hand, and the operator close on her heels.
After she has us state our names and affiliations—Gathering and Grace Events for Charlotte, the NOLA Voodoo for me—the cameraman flips on a light at the front of his setup, and Hannah asks, “Ready?”
“Ready,” Charlotte says.
“Ready,” I confirm, grateful for the “you’ve got this” nod she sends my way.
I do “got this.” And if I don’t, I’ll keep my mouth shut and let my very capable fake girlfriend do the talking.
Hannah extends her microphone, slipping into a fuller-sounding “reporter voice” as she asks, “So what brings you two out to volunteer? Why are the Harvest Princess Charity Ball and the cause it supports important to you?”
I know Charlotte is ready to jump in, if needed, but this is the kind of question I feel okay to handle, so I say, “Domestic violence is a problem we should have solved a long time ago as a society. Everyone should feel safe at home. I can’t imagine how scary it must be to be in a situation where your home is unsafe, let alone so dangerous, you have no choice but to leave, especially as a kid.
Anything I can do to make that even a tiny bit easier for NOLA kids in that situation is important to me. ”
“What he said,” Charlotte agrees.
I glance down to see her beaming at me with admiration that I wish were real. I want Charlotte to admire me, I realize. I want that as much as I want management off my ass and this PR crisis behind me.
Maybe even more.
Hannah makes an approving noise. “And are you two planning to attend?”
“Sadly, no,” Charlotte says, turning back to the camera. “We have work conflicts, but we’re so glad we were able to be here this afternoon.”
As we banter through a few more softball questions, Charlotte’s hand comes to rest on my back, steady and warm. I loop an arm around her waist, my fingers curled around her hip.
Being close to her feels natural. Right.
So right that when Hannah and her camera operator step away, it isn’t easy to let her go…
Thankfully, I have another excuse to get close a few minutes later, wrapping my arms around her from behind to hold “Belle’s” bodice in place as Charlotte adds straw to her bosom to keep the dress from sagging in front.
We turn out to be so skilled at straw princess breast augmentation that we’re christened the “designated boob squad” by the other volunteers.
We round out the afternoon posing for a photo with Belle for the New Orleans Alive!
blog and giving another short interview to a NOLA social media influencer who swears she already has “fantastic B-roll” on us.
Whatever that means. I decide to take the “fantastic” part at face value and roll with it.
By the time we finish adjusting the last bodice and sliding the final crown into place, the sun is sinking behind the browning corn stalks, and the other volunteers have beat us to the parking lot.
Charlotte peels off her gloves with a happy sigh as we wander toward the barn. “Well, I think we can declare that an unqualified success.”
“Thanks to you,” I say, passing my gloves over when she holds out a hand.
“No way,” she says, tucking them into her purse. “You were amazing. Honestly. I was sweating for a second there, thinking I was an asshole for not prepping you for the interview questions in advance, but you came through with flying colors. Your answer couldn’t have been more perfect.”
“It was the truth.” I pause by the open barn doors, waiting until she turns to me to add, “I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I promise.”
Her gaze softens. “I know. Obviously. I could tell you were being sincere.”
“Good,” I say, my chest warming as she gifts me with a tender smile, one I haven’t seen before. “That’s…good.”
“It is,” she murmurs. “You’re really kind of a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
“When I’m not punching people,” I say, not willing to let myself off the hook.
She tips her head thoughtfully to one side. “To be fair, you don’t punch people. You punch men. Usually, men who are hurting women. Would you say that’s an accurate characterization?”
I nod, growing uncomfortable with this conversation for reasons I can’t quite name.
“Okay, so why?” she asks. “Why the punching? When it’s obvious, you’re usually the kind of person who would rather fight with your words, not your fists.”
My shoulders hunch. “Because some men deserve a punching?” When that answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her, I add, “Because… I don’t know… Because Fanon said colonialism only loosens its grip when there’s a knife at its throat, and that felt true when I read it, so…”
“Okay.” Her brows pinch closer as she mulls that over for a moment.
“So, you’re saying you think violence against women is a form of colonization?
Like, the fear of it lives rent-free in women’s heads?
Doing damage even when they aren’t in immediate danger?
And the only way to disrupt that is with some punching now and then? ”
I blink. “I wish I’d thought about it that deeply. I just think violence is necessary to force shit to change more often than people like to believe.” My lips curve as I exhale a soft laugh. “But your answer is better. I’m impressed. I like our conversations.”
“I do, too.” She shakes her head. “You surprise me, Baylor Nix.”
“You surprise me, too. I like it.” I step in, bracing a hand on the doorframe above her. “I like you, Charlotte. A lot.”
Her lips part on a sigh. “Is it wrong that I love the way you say my name?”
That sigh…
That’s it, the straw that breaks the self-control camel’s back.
We surge together, our polite veneers disintegrating in the heat that’s always just beneath the surface with us.
Our tongues tangle, then spar, then dance as our hands begin to wander.
She tastes like dopamine and adrenaline, like a long-awaited finish line, finally in sight, and a dare I can’t wait to take.
Her fingers dig into my neck, my back, urging me closer. I slide my hand higher on the wood as I obey. The rough doorframe pricks at my palm, biting into my skin, but I barely feel it.
I’m too lost in the way her hips rock against me through our clothes, circling, teasing, until I’m so hard it hurts.
But it’s a good hurt.
Damn, it’s good.
So good…
I fist my hand in the thin denim at the base of her spine, urging her even closer, groaning into her mouth as she wraps a leg around my hips. She grinds harder, faster, and I swear, I can feel her heat through my jeans.
I can also feel how quickly this could turn into another scandal if we’re not actually alone…
I pull back with a sharp inhale, cupping her jaw in one hand as I fight for control.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her lips swollen, and a “need you inside me” look in her eyes that has my balls dragging between my thighs.
“Nothing. Not one fucking thing.” I hold her gaze, willing her to see how dumb it is to keep pretending this connection is fake. “Come home with me. Let me show you what I can do to you in an actual bed for once.”
She bites her bottom lip, her forehead furrowing.
“Stop,” I say, prying it free with a gentle tug of my thumb. “There’s nothing to stress about. Just come home with me. Let me make you come and bring you coffee in bed in the morning before I leave for practice. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Or weird. I promise.”
“I can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Boundaries. We set boundaries.” She swallows, her throat working as she nods. “And I think we should stick to them. At least for now.”
“For now?” I probe.
“Until we both get what we came for,” she says, a pleading note creeping into her voice as she adds, “I can’t afford for you to decide you’re done with this before the wedding, Baylor. I really can’t.”
“Charlotte, I would never—”
“I know you probably wouldn’t,” she says, ducking out from under my arm.
“I’m probably being stupid, but three more friends sent me that article today and…
” She paces away, shaking her hands at her sides like she’s trying to fling something unpleasant from her fingers.
“I can’t stand it. I really can’t. I can’t stand being the cliché, the pathetic middle-aged loser tossed aside for a younger woman and left to rot like some…
Like a pumpkin in the Louisiana heat. All saggy and rotten, with a puckered old lady mouth that will never smile again. ”
I laugh, then wince, the suffering of my cock forgotten as I realize she isn’t kidding. Not really.
“You can’t let this get in your head like that, Charlotte,” I say. “It’s not true, and he doesn’t deserve that kind of power over you.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not old. Or a lady.
” She turns back to me, her hands threading into her hair to form twin fists.
“It sucks, Nix. It sucks more than I ever thought it would. I always thought that I didn’t care all that much about getting older, and I certainly wouldn’t let anyone else make me care.
But now…” She exhales a ragged breath. “When everyone treats you a certain way. When society, your friends, your ex, a lifestyle magazine, and everyone else and their mother have decided you are a thing—isn’t it crazy to insist you’re something else?
” She presses her lips together for a beat before she whispers, “Am I crazy?”
Aching for her, I shake my head. “No, you aren’t. You’re just different. And smart. Two things it’s really hard to be sometimes.”
“Yeah. It is.” She sniffs, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand before her arms drop limply to her sides. “Thanks for listening. I feel better.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.”
“But I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” she says, her eyes narrowing on my face. “No matter how perfect you’re being. No more rushing into hot, spontaneous, mind-blowing sex.”
Fighting a smile, I nod. “You’re right. From now on, we should only have cold, scheduled, mind-torturing sex.”
She huffs out a laugh.
I wink.
She rolls her eyes.
I shoot her my best “you know you want to fuck me again” grin.
“Impossible! You’re impossible.” She sticks her tongue out, a childish response I find ridiculously cute, before pointing a finger toward the Range Rover. “Go. In the vehicle. Now. I have to get home and eat leftover salmon quinoa and consider the consequences of my actions.”
“Sounds exciting,” I say, leading the way across the lot. “Way better than orgasms and pizza from Gianna’s in my bed.”
She moans, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Oh my God, Gianna’s. I haven’t had their pizza in years. Is it still slap-your-grandma good?”
“It’s slap-your-grandma-and-two-rescue-puppies good. They added new sauces for the breadsticks.”
She curses colorfully, making me grin as I climb into the passenger’s side.
She’s weakening.
No, she’s awakening, and it’s only a matter of time before she admits she doesn’t want to fake this, either.
Forty-five minutes later, I stand in the empty stadium lot, hands shoved in my pockets as I watch her taillights disappear, refusing to take this as anything but a win. We had an amazing time together today, and she wanted to say yes.
She will say yes.
I’m sure of it.
I remain sure until Thursday night, when the universe decides to do its fucking best to ensure my fake girlfriend never wants to see my face again.