Chapter 13
Love Is a Hell of a Drug
Max
Eli storms off down a path beyond his driveway, leaving me and Drake just standing there blinking.
And that's when I remember I am still basically half-naked, wearing Eli’s shirt, minus a few buttons, and my leggings. No bra.
Zero dignity.
Also no orgasm.
“Okay,” I say, inching away from the door. “I'm going to go get changed. And when I come back, you're going to tell me what the hell is up with him and Vanessa. I mean, that's only fair since you’re taking me hostage now, right?”
Drake gives me the kind of smile that says he lives for drama. “I’ll tell you what I can, but the rest will have to come from the big man.”
I stare at him deadpan. “You mean the big man-child?”
Drake chuckles. “You're right. I like that one better.”
I laugh, shake my head, and run back to the guest wing to make myself presentable—tank top under the flannel, leggings, sneakers. Less ‘oops I nearly mounted your lumberjack best friend’ and more ‘plausible deniability.’
When I return, the front of the house is suspiciously quiet.
“Drake?”
“In the kitchen!”
When I get to the kitchen, I catch him red-handed—mouth full, my precious pancakes halfway demolished.
“What the hell? Those were mine!”
“And left unattended,” he says, completely unbothered. “Me and Eli live by a finders-keepers rule.”
He pauses mid-chew to give me a once-over. “And all I'm sayin' is, he’s lucky he found you first.”
Eww!
“Ugh. Please don’t ever refer to me like I’m a piece of property. Or food.”
I smirk despite myself, heat crawling up my neck at the memory of Eli’s mouth on me. The man licked me like he was starving and I was the only thing on the menu.
“Whatever. These pancakes are fire,” Drake says around another bite.
“Thank you,” I say, blushing.
I plate a small stack for myself, making sure to leave the last five pancakes for Eli. Because I’m a generous goddess—and maybe, just maybe, because I’m hoping he’ll come back, eat them, and thank me by finishing what he started on this counter.
“So, Vanessa,” I say, stabbing a pancake. “What's the deal with her?”
Drake’s face shifts faster than a TikTok filter. “I don’t say this lightly, and I genuinely respect women. But Vanessa Stanton is a first-class, Grade-A bitch.”
“I gathered,” I say. “Why does she get under Eli's skin so much? You mentioned something about his brother?”
Drake exhales like he’s tired of holding it in. “Vanessa and Eli used to be business partners. But she had visions of building an empire based on greed, and Eli stopped trusting her motives. When he started shutting her out, she found a way to undercut him.”
“His brother,” I guess.
Drake nods grimly. “Eli and Elliot were inseparable once upon a time. Ride or die. Vanessa knew that and exploited it. She used Elliot to get to Eli’s trade secrets and eventually built a rival company using everything she stole from him.”
“And his brother is still with her? Even after seeing what she is?”
“The man thinks he’s in love,” Drake says with a weary sigh.
“Love is a hell of a drug.”
Drake’s expression tightens, his voice dropping an octave. “Eli’s a solid guy. One of the best men I’ve ever known. If his own brother won’t protect him, I will. That’s where you come in.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Okay. And how exactly is this supposed to work?”
He leans in as if he’s about to spill classified intel. “It’s about weaponizing curiosity. Once the speculation starts, people won't stop talking. They’ll start researching the company, learning about the mission, and driving up the kind of interest money can't buy.”
“Okay. I think I’m following.”
“There’s a gala tied to the pitch,” he continues. “It would be the perfect place for you to make an appearance. I’ll strategically leak stories to the press so that every headline about your relationship points right back to the summit and the business.”
“Wow. You really have thought of everything.”
He laughs, rubbing his chin. “I mean. That little lie of yours about you being his girlfriend just made this plan ten times better.”
I blink at him. Drake smiles wider.
I wasn’t plotting anything strategic when I said Eli was my boyfriend. I just wanted to verbally slap that hoe without actually catching an assault charge in a country that hates me.
“Problem,” I say, crossing my arms. “I packed for a romance conference. Not a ‘take down your fake boyfriend’s evil ex-partner’ gala.”
Drake grins. “Don’t worry,” he says, waving a hand. “Eli will take care of you.”
Even after just one night, I know that much about Eli. But it’s in the way Drake says it, that makes me realize Eli taking care of me isn't a special favor. It's simply who he is.
Still, I arch a skeptical brow. “You sure he’s going to be ok with all this? Because right now, I’m not even convinced he’s coming back.”
And with the way my so-called fake boyfriend has been brooding like he’s paid by the scowl, I’m only half-joking.
You’d think after everything we just started in his kitchen, he’d be a little more eager to have me around.
But no.
Instead, I’m standing here wondering if I imagined it all.
“He'll be fine,” Drake says, casually pushing his empty plate away. “He just needs time to let the idea settle. I’ll email him, lay it out like I did for you.”
“If you say so.”
Drake sticks out his hand, that same mischievous grin tugging at his mouth. “Thanks for doing this. I think it’s gonna be good for the team.”
“Happy to help,” I reply automatically, though my eyes flick back toward the trail Eli disappeared down.
“You think he’ll be back soon?”
“I'm sure. Probably off doing something in his greenhouse. It’s what he does when he’s stressed.”
I cough. Baffled. “He gardens. In a greenhouse?”
“Anything outdoors brings him peace,” Drake says with a shrug. “It’s what brought him here.”
“I see.”
Drake points toward the trail leading away from the house. “Follow the path and the yellow rope. It’ll take you straight to his greenhouse.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“No, thank you. It’s silly, but it means a lot.”
“Speak for yourself. Not so sure about your buddy out there.”
Drake just laughs and hops in his truck. Once he disappears down the driveway, I stare at the trail like it's the gateway to another dimension.
Then, taking a deep breath and gathering every ounce of courage I have left, I start down the path toward my very sexy, very fake boyfriend.
But first? Instant regret.
The cold hits my face so hard it feels like Canada just bitch-slapped me for showing up unprepared.
The trail is packed down with snow and glazed over with ice, and I’m instantly reminded why Black girls and winter don’t have a standing relationship.
My sneakers sink, slip, and soak through within seconds, turning every step into a careful negotiation between staying upright and preserving what little dignity I have left.
I gasp, then shout, “Why the fuck is it so cold out here?!”
My breath puffs out in thick white clouds, my nose already burning as I waddle forward anyway, arms slightly out for balance like I’m auditioning for a very sexy penguin documentary.
I am wildly underdressed, wildly underprepared, and still somehow committed to seeing this nonsense through.
Because if I’m going to freeze to death in Canada, it might as well be while marching toward the sexy bear I’ve apparently claimed for the week and decided is mine.